Jay stared at the illustrious NY Times Crossword Puzzle. Besting one of these bad boys brings all the glory, gold, and girls that should come with such an accomplishment, and Jay was especially interested in the lady part (and their lady parts). Of course, using pencil is what the lesser heroes did. Finishing a genuine NY Time Crossword Puzzle with all the smudges of hundreds of mistakes and second thoughts smeared across every square, garnered no respect whatsoever. Jay would be spit on, literally by the Spit Brigade, if he were to finish such a glorious and powerful etymological challenge like the NY Times Crossword Puzzle using something as pathetic and limp dicked as a pencil. It makes me want to spit just thinking about a man, or someone who dares to call himself a man, to actually go through with such an act. Disgusting coward. Pitiful wretch. Imprudent rat. That's why Jay uncapped his good pen, the pen gifted to him by his grandfather for his timely passing into the afterlife. Oh, Jay's Grandfather, completer of over twenty NY Times Crossword Puzzles in pen, and boldly, a few of those puzzled were marked with perfection with an ultrafine tip Sharpie marker in the devious shade of crimson twilight. Yes, Jay's Grandfather was lauded for that accomplishment. In his hometown, he never had to pay for another spaghetti dinner again, a perk passed down to his progeny. Jay's belly was freshly full of spaghetti, grandfather earned spaghetti, as he inhaled deeply the still potent fumes of that crimson twilight ultrafine tip Sharpie marker. A giddiness washed over him, and he couldn't help but giggle with boyish excitement. The rush of adrenaline filled his loins like a spilled bowl of spicy chili soaking into a pair of grey sweatpants. He gathered himself with a sharp exhale of pure focus, whistling slightly. *Mathematical relation like 2:1 or 4:3* "Ratio" *Growing older* "Aging" *Small, to the French* "Petit" With each correct answer, Jay became more confident. He was standing now, hunched over his kitchen table with his shirt unbuttoned. The clues were practically solving themselves now. He felt like a genius savant with some sort of divine birthright to solve and conquer any and all NY Times Crossword Puzzles with ease. Unbridled laughter escaped his open mouth and wide grin. *Framework of wood strips* "LATTICE!" *View from Toledo (2 wds.)* "LAKEERIE!!" *Political cartoon, often* "SATIRE!!!" Jay was feeling bold now with so many clues solved. He recklessly picked and chose clues at random without even considering acrosses and downs and the relationships between. There was no need for other clues to help with future clues. Jay could solve this entire puzzle completely uncrossed. The dark red ink soaked into the paper page as if each word were a blood pact made by Jay. A pact, perhaps, that wagered his very soul for the glory of completion. In his fervor, Jay completely tore loose his shirt and discarded it in the trash where it belonged. The sleeves only restricting his possessed arm. Sweat glistened on his increasingly more toned and muscled body. Was this the rush his Grandfather felt each time? Was this what it felt like to be a God amongst mere mortals? Yes, it had to be. The powerful, knobby knuckles of his Grandfather’s ghost hands cupped Jay’s burgeoning shoulders, squeezing with them with an ethereal strength of familial pride. He had left a VIP Heaven Party to descend into the mortal realm in this incorporeal form to watch his grandson, the boy he left behind, no, not a boy anymore, but a full grown man, burly in intellect and whip quick of hand. Yes, Jay’s grandfather smiled and whispered encouraging vapors into Jay’s burning ears. Jay hardly gave pause to the next clue. *Kitchen item* "PAN!!!!" As he stroked the last vertical line of the "N", something didn't feel right. Jay quickly scanned the other clues. His stomach dropped. "If 46 across is *One who gives up* 'QUITTER' then that means the kitchen item can't be 'PAN'... No... no, no, no..." Jay's knees gave way and buckled. The weight of the moment quite literally got to him. He collapsed onto the cold, so much colder than he remembered, tile floor of the kitchen. He stammered to himself, "I should have put 'POT'... I should have... I... No... I couldn't have..." His grandfather's pen capped itself in a sudden show of sentience. Obviously, Jay was deemed unworthy, unfit, downright undeserving of wielding such a relic. The kitchen rumbled and hissed. The table legs exploded, sending wooden shrapnel in every direction. Jay shielded his eyes, but his shirtless body caught a bevy of splinters. They sunk into his skin, stinging mockingly. The puzzle itself glowed harshly and emitted a high-pitched alarm. Jay held his ears in pain until eventually the blaring was enough to destroy his ability to perceive that particular pitch ever again. Just moments ago, he felt fit and strong, but now his muscles ached and weakened. The kitchen fell silent aside from the clattering of dishes from the rumbling. The friendly apparition of the Grandfather himself then twisted into that of an agonized demon and was swiftly ripped to hell, but not before cursing Jay with vile inhuman speech in tongues unknown, in which he made sure Jay’s final image of his own highly-regarded, well-celebrated hero of a Grandfather was that of one of pure contempt and hatred for the boy, a man no more. Encumbered by the weight of his own hubris having fallen so far, sunk so low, Jay crawled out of the kitchen. He apologized to his grandfather, to his father, to any all generations that may follow him. He made a mistake. He foolishly played with forces he could not control. The sirens were outside and fast approaching his abode. The NY Times Crossword Puzzle Police Force. The death squad smashed open Jay's front door, sending more splinters into Jay's naked and withering body. Their stately dress of corduroys and cardigans betrayed their cruel and relentless nature. Their punishment for incorrectly answering clues in pen in their puzzle was swift, vicious, and absolute. Before the tip of Jay's crimson twilight ultrafine tip Sharpie marker even finished Jay's foolhardy answer, the death squad was already gearing up. A large slab of beef, a man as thick and imposing as they come, adjusted his thick turquoise shell glasses so that the glare obscured his cruel eyes. He raised a very clean shotgun to Jay’s pallid, scared face and boomed a statement. "Citizen 06191114: JAY, For the reprehensible and audacious act of attempting to complete a NY Times Crossword Puzzle using a Class 1C writing utensil, and for committing such act with egregious error in answer, we, with the power bestowed upon us by Supreme Emperor of the NY Times, sentence you to death, effective immediately. You may scrawl your last words here before execution." The leader of the death squad tossed a simple sheet of copy paper and a newly sharpened pencil at Jay, who was kneeling pathetically on his knees. His head was hung low. The execution may very well have been a welcome release from the shame and misery his wallowed in. Jay feebly grasped the pencil which snapped under even the slightest of pressure. The death squad opened fire on Jay, relentlessly emptying every shotgun shell in their fully loaded guns into his wilting body. His flesh and bones and face and limbs were blown away utterly and completely. With their work done, the NY Times Crossword Puzzle Police Force marched out Jay's home and back into their tank. A peaceful breeze blew the unmarked sheet of paper over the pulpy remains of Jay. Such is the risk we all take when we do the NY Times Crossword Puzzle in Pen.


He started to walk. The party he'd just visited must've bored him. He's too high brow for that sort of crowd. Not in a vain or superficial way, he's probably not aware he is, it's just in the way he *is*, you know? His nose carried him forward. Might be a posture thing. How some people don't have bad posture *per se* - ooh per se's fancy sounding, I'm remembering that one - anyway, you know how some people dont look like they have bad posture at a glance but the more you look at them you find they - through no fault of their own, mind you - have bits that stick out a bit more? That's his nose. He started carving a path through the air with it. He'd barely finished closing the front door behind him, stepping out onto the pavement and turning his collar up against the cold before he'd moved swiftly on. His trendy but thin grey winter coat went even further down him than just the collar though, in unison with his long streaks of jet black slightly curly hair, it flowed in the wind and flapped about like the ears of a basset hound walking at his heel. I think that's called a simile, what I just did. Very clever of me. He walked on. Making short lasting impressions in a thin layer of recent rainfall with heavy soled boots. He'd narrowly avoided the peak of the rain spout, and it had reduced to a light drizzle by the time he'd begun his journey. All's the better for it though, the rain might've ruined the view. Maybe he wanted to leave that party even earlier but stayed because it'd started to rain. That could be good for character development. His boots seemed to walk him, with each plod and splat - onomatopoeia, *very* nice - his stride dominated the ground on which he treaded. Is treaded a word? Trode? Just trod? Yeah that's right. His stride dominated the ground on which he *trod*. The night went on, and even further he walked. Walking as if there were a drumbeat in his head. Dancing to his own tune. The symphony of city sounds around him formed a chorus he could hear all together with perfect clarity. Wait no hold on, he's got earphones in. They were blending into that scarf. Erm... No car that churned passed, turning rainfall into tidal-waves on the side of the pavement, nor any rushing of precipitation into drains could penetrate the wall of sound he'd constructed around himself. Shutting himself away from it all? Possibly. But mostly tuning the world into his headspace. He saw music wherever he went - I'm guessing. It chorused in his ears, a symphony of - I wanna say...rock? Yeah, some indie-rock band probably. It's playing at that annoying level where it's loud enough to be heard by passers by but not loud enough to be distinguishable or enjoyable to the rest of us. With a hint of undue, charming self-consciousness, he stuffed his large but delicate manly hands into his coat pockets, becoming a sealed circuit of - now… what to put here. I've just used 'manly' but a sealed circuit of manliness is what he looks like. He stuffed his large but delicate *masculine* hands into his coat pockets, becoming a sealed circuit of manliness. That's good yeah. I'm really proud of that one actually, well done me. Onward he walked. Fighting effortlessly through bracing mild winds. An electric tang on the air reflected his zest for life, the way the puddles in the road also reflected his zest for life. His coy lips curled into a brief courteous smile as a woman walking a dog skulked past him. No don't stop and ask him the time he has places to be. Why are you humouring this woman she's walking her dog at like quarter-past nine when it's just about to start pissing it down with rain again. Why are you even bothering to take your earphones out to hear her, she probably has a shrill voice. Dog probably smells too. Of course you have to be kind, it's in your nature, but still. Ok, checking your watch - god, there are those hands again. Alright good, she's buggered off. Now we can continue with the story. He walked further still, onwardly. Baggy brown trousers - seeping with black at their base as small droplets of water kicked upwards onto them - swayed back and forth with every pace. Rotating around a circular axis made by his thin yet sturdy legs. Now made aware of the city sounds following the brief removal of his earphones, he scanned his surroundings as he went along, taking note of the road by which he walked. The cars that rushed past. The skyscrapers towering over him. The people shadowing lights from inside busy restaurants that glinted different shades in his blue - no, green eyes. The street before and behind him. The people walking behind him, and parallel to him on the adjacent side of the street. Following this, he once again retrieved his hands from his warm, tight pockets, and hurriedly - no scratch that, hurriedly suggests worry, or fear; he needs to be relaxed. *Hastily*, yes that's good - and hastily checked the time. He only just checked the time, that's weird. His pace began to quicken now, as he both onwardly and furtherly walked, though jogged would now be more accurate. Although he'd resumed listening, he no longer strutted in rhythm with his favourite little-known band, and his boots squelched on the- shit he saw me didn't he. It's this bloody tape-recorder isn't it. I've got to start doing this just mentally, they take longer to notice.


My life was so perfect yesterday. My wife and I were getting ready to celebrate our first Christmas as Husband and Wife in our first home that we purchased just this fall. My wife had decorated the tree, and I had put Christmas lights on the roof. We drank our eggnog and cider together while watching classic Christmas movies and talked about how next year we would hopefully have a baby to get presents for. Our happiness has now been shattered, thanks to the Christmas Carolers from Hell. It all happened last night, December 23rd, 2020. My beautiful wife was in our kitchen baking some sugar cookies for the neighbors while I wrapped some presents for our nieces and nephews. We listened to cliche Christmas music, smiling and laughing as I screwed up the wrapping and she burned the cookies. A knock on the door caught us both off guard. My wife and I looked at each other confused. It was about 9:30 PM, a little late for visitors. Perhaps it was another plate of baked goods from one of our generous neighbors. My wife opened up the door and we found 5 people, 3 female, and 2 male, all dressed identically. They wore plaid red shirts, with a green shawl and a red scarf. The men had bowties that matched the shirts, and all 5 of them wore green top hats and white gloves. Something about the way that they smiled was just, well, off-putting. They looked almost fake, like those wax figures you see in museums. They were all smiling, which didn’t necessarily seem like a bad thing, but they were smiling just a little too big. It seemed unnatural. “Merry Christmas,” one of the women said enthusiastically, “We’d like to sing you a couple of Christmas carols!” I felt a little bit uneasy about this, it was getting pretty late and I just had a very weird feeling about these people. I was about to politely decline, but my wife beat me to the punch. “Sure, we’d love to hear it.” She said, with a smile on her face. She was much better and being kind to strangers than I. “One, Two, Three!” The woman said, with that ridiculous smile still glued on her face. Immediately after three, the 5 people started singing an excellent rendition of, “We Wish You A Merry Christmas,” in unison. Honestly, the quality was amazing, too amazing. Although there were only 5 people, it sounded as if there was a 15 person choir at our doorstep. My wife and I listened, impressed until they finished. “Bravo!” My wife said cheerfully, “Thank you so much for singing to us.” “Oh, we actually have one more song we’d like to sing to you.” the Christmas Caroler said, only something about the way she said this was incredibly creepy. Instead of her cheerful tone from before, she spoke in a creepy monotone voice. That’s when I noticed their eyes, they were changing! All 5 of them were undergoing the same eyeball transformation in unison. The pupils started dilating, and they didn’t stop until the black covered their entire eyes, including the whites. “Babe,” I said, “close the door.” Only she didn’t close the door. She stood there, frozen, staring at these demented Carolers. I looked back at them to see that their mouths were all gaping open now, and then their jaws started to grow. Their chins lowered in unison as their jaws stretched in an inhuman way. I could hear the sounds of cracks and pops coming from their jaws as if the bones were breaking. Their chins stopped after their jaws had stretched some 8 inches or more, leaving these black-eyed carolers looking more terrifying than anything I’ve ever seen before. I took a few steps back and again told my wife to shut the door. Again, she didn’t move. That’s when the horrifying sound started. It started quietly, in a high pitched noise, but quickly rose in volume. I instinctively put my hands to my ears as the noise grew louder. Even with my ears plugged, the sound was horrifying and terribly painful. “CLOSE THE DOOR!” I yelled at my wife, but she just stood there as if hypnotized by the Christmas Carolers from Hell. The volume of the high pitched sound now felt like there was a Jet engine blasting on our doorstep. I looked at my wife to see blood coming from her ears. It started as a trickle, but in a matter of seconds escalated into a steady flow. Panicked, I hurried toward my wife. I removed my hand from my left ear to close the door. The sound was horribly painful, and my ear instantly felt the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life. I felt a pop and blood started trickling from my ear and down the side of my face. Those wide-mouthed, black-eyed, screaming monsters still stood there like statues emitting the supersonic noise. I slammed the door shut, and pulled my unmoving wife away from the door, still keeping my right hand over my ear. I pulled her downstairs as the windows on the front of the house shattered. Even in the basement, behind closed doors, it was still painfully loud. After another 30 or so seconds, it stopped abruptly. I looked down at my beloved bride to see that her eyes were open, but she didn’t move or speak a word. Blood still flowed freely from her ears, soaking into her white knitted sweater. I immediately called 9-11, but quickly realized that I could hear nothing from my bleeding left ear. I tried to describe to the operator what happened, but all I could manage was that my wife was hurt and her ears were bleeding. Even as the paramedics loaded her onto the stretcher, she remained completely catatonic with her eyes wide open, as if frozen in that horrifying moment. It’s the morning of Christmas Eve now. We’re still here in the hospital, and will be for some time. I’ve spoken with several police, doctors, and even a weird British man in a black suit, but it doesn’t seem like the authorities really believe me. The doctors are absolutely baffled, and are struggling to come up with any plausible explanation as to how we could have sustained these injuries. Apparently, they think I’ve just gone crazy from the trauma. I have been diagnosed with a moderate concussion, and am now completely deaf in my left ear. Physically, I'm relatively okay, but emotionally I am absolutely wrecked. My wife is in a far worse condition than I. Both of her ears are so far beyond damaged that it will be impossible for her to ever hear again. If she ever wakes up, that is. My wife slipped into a coma shortly after we arrived at the hospital. I’m sitting by her hospital bed now trying to make sense of what the hell happened to us. She has suffered a severe Subdural Hemorrhage, which means that her brain started bleeding. They’ve done emergency surgery to stop the bleeding, and had to remove part of her skull to alleviate the pressure. The doctors can’t yet say if she will have permanent brain damage or not. To make matters worse, the doctors told me that she has suffered a miscarriage as well. I didn’t even know that she was pregnant yet. I think she may have been waiting to surprise me for Christmas. I’m telling you this to warn you about these Christmas Carolers. I don’t know what the hell they are but they are NOT human. Whatever you do, if you see 5 matching Christmas Carolers standing on your porch, do not open your door lest you should suffer the same horrible fate as my wife. They are the Christmas Carolers from Hell.


Once upon a time there was a dog. The dogs name was Rover, and the story is over. Be glad that is not our story, for you see, our story also starts with a dog. A little dog and a little girl. Ever since he could remember he was on the streets. He didn't remember much from his puppy years- only faint impressions of family and warmth remained in the deepest recesses of his memory. Cold winds and frigid rain devoured everything in their path- but he was safe... in a ramshackle cardboard box. He was safe in his little corner of alley, ignored by the hurried people with sharp voices and pounding footsteps. He didn't like people. Not those people anyway. When all he could see were their dangerous shoes and loping limbs, ignorant of an entire world of street dogs and cats that are eating street rats. They rushed away from the rain, business suits, raggedy coats and anything in between, empty streets they said- blind to life in between. In between meals, homes and danger, the only things as constant to him as his tail, the promise of a meal with the little girl and his name. "See you tomorrow!" Echoes in his ears again. He had just gotten a good meal, a soft pet and lots of love. The girl- a title which he thinks with all the adoration possible, because she's The Girl. The only human he thinks of as something other that 'giant', a generic title that stuck. The small dog scarcely remembers a time when he didn't come to The Girl everyday, didn't have a guaranteed meal and companionship for some time. She was always so nice, he tried to show her as much love as he could in return. Her soft voice was a melody in a world of screeches and anger. The only time he had ever heard her stern was when he nudged a cylinder of metal next of her- or the weird tubes that connected it to her face. She had gasped- shoving him away in her panic. But more than that, she was scared- and hurt, when he did that. He never did it again. Snapping back to reality on a gloomy day- a tad warmer than yesterday, he finished scarfing down his meal. A blend of something that tasted amazing and The Girl had gotten just for him. She looked back at him smiling softly. A voice called from her house. "I'll see you tomorrow." The way she said tomorrow- said it everyday was inflicted with so much emotion that even normal human hearing would be able to sense the difference. The terrier may not notice the small contortions of her expression of even emotions in her eyes, but what he did notice, sharper than any human- and more insightful was his own language. The slight tensing of muscles to form a 'fist' (Aggression? Determination?); A slight tilt of the head towards the tank; and a hopeful inflection on her tone. Naturally, he assumed she would say nothing else but his name with such emotion. The small terrier knew, like the sky is blue, that his name was Tomorrow. To him that was that. His little world summed up by noisy streets and summer heat, by little girls and cats that made him hurl, that even in the scary snow, devoid the chirp of a sparrow, his name was Tomorrow. There was a routine never broken. Bent in places, a little dented, but whole and unbroken. Until today. The little girl wasn't there. He always found her, always knew her, she had a distinct smell- that made some of his instincts think she was weak, but the rest to comfort her. But she, along with her strange tubes and tanks and half-smiles was gone. The last thing he remembered seeing yesterday, while he was halfway across the street, was a blaring alarm and a screeching van,(red? white?). She had said she'd see him. See Tomorrow. See him Tomorrow. He waited for hours. Sitting. Waiting. A car pulled up. He jumped up, tail wagging, ready to greet her. Two giants came out- the ones who sometimes called for her and watched her, one in tears and one shell shocked. Two giants, but no little Girl. A ramshackle cardboard box. That was where he sat. Despite the icy, frigid rain- the harsh unforgiving footsteps of the people, Tomorrow curled protectively around his memories of The Girl, her half hazy forgotten face, and the way she said his name. Determined to meet him. Determined to meet Tomorrow. Cold whispers brushed past him; Tomorrow felt warm.


Eli giggled madly to himself as he stacked the bear traps up in the trunk of his car. He had tried so many times... but he was confident about this year. Magic was a blight on the world, and one man had been using it with impunity. It was time to remove that threat from the world forever. "What are you doing?" Eli looked over his shoulder, slamming his trunk closed, "Nothing!" Rose Day, his assistant crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at him. The slowly-falling snow stuck to her dark hair as she walked over to him and pulled his trunk open. "Why do you have *bear traps* in your trunk?" "They're not *just* bear traps. There's a little mechanism in the teeth, you see, and when they clamp shut, that mechanism will explode and shoot the teeth into whatever it grips." "What the hell are you *hunting*!?" "It doesn't matter. Don't you have to go visit your family or something for Christmas?" "We save our Christmas gatherings for January." "Okay, so go bother Chase or something." "He's visiting his family in Massachusetts." "Well, go be where I am not." Eli rolled his eyes, "I don't need your condescension." "Eli, you're gearing up for what looks like a *war* on Christmas Eve. What the hell could you be going after *now* of all times? You agreed to wait to ambush Farmer until after Christmas. You can't leave Chase out of that." "I'm not going after Farmer today. Go on. There's no need for you to bother me here." "I'm a little worried about you." "I actually do not believe that." "You're not the worst person in the world. Just tell me." "Fine! I'm going to kill Santa Claus." Rose paused for a second as her mouth hung open. Eli nodded. Rose shook her head. Eli nodded. Rose slowly nodded. "Jesus Christ, Eli. Santa isn't even real. Why would you waste your time hunting him?" "He is a monster that lives far beyond the natural lifespan of any normal person. He changes his name and ethnicity to appeal to whatever nation he's in. He uses vast, dark magical powers to see all the actions of the people in this world, and has speed that carries him to all who believe in him. He is in a coma for three hundred sixty-five days and he punishes children who are on the naughty list. He is satiated only by adequate sacrifices of milk and cookies. He survives the Arctic wasteland with the only documented reason being that he lives in obscurity. He breaks into people's houses while they sleep and leaves items behind, and uses his magic to warp the minds of the nonbelievers to think that they themselves purchased those gifts." "What on Earth is the matter with you? You're a grown man. If he even exists, Santa Claus is benevolent." "Ah, but his power in the hands of a madman could be dangerous!" "*You* are a madman!" "You're damn right!" "Wouldn't this put you on the naughty list!?" "Nah. There's a whole new list for what I am." Eli motioned, "Go on. Leave me to my business." "Are you sure you're doing okay? Are you maybe a little lonely around the holidays?" "I have a dog. I am not lonely." "It's okay if you are." Rose rolled her eyes, "Fine. Is there anything I can do to help?" "If you're going to bother me about it, then yes. I'm getting explosive shotgun shells and a machine gun from Sam's guy." "Your neighbors must *love* you." "Oh, they never notice. He uses magic to induce sleep in people when he's in proximity." "So how do you plan to even be awake?" "I discovered a medicine I can take that makes me immune. I get a little drowsy, but that's why I have a cup of coffee at the ready. This is not my first go with the guy." "Right, right... so you've *fought* Santa Claus before?" "Yeah. Damn bastard is a lot tougher than you'd think." "You haven't tried shooting him?" "His red suit is bulletproof. That's why I'm getting the armor-piercing rounds for the machine gun and the exploding rounds for the shotgun. I've planned this out. I'm not deranged." "Are you sure about that?" "Oh, piss off, Rose." "Why don't I come with you? Help you prepare for your war, and we can watch some Christmas movies or something. It could be fun." "Fine. We'll watch movies while I work. I finally got my VHS player hooked up to my TV, so we can make this happen." "Your willful ignorance of technology truly astounds me." \*\*\*\*\*\* Eli set the box of shotgun shells on his kitchen table next to his shotgun. His living room was composed of three chairs and a coffee table. His kitchen connected right to both the living room and the dining area. It wasn't much, but it was home. However... he did prefer to sleep at the office. "Powder room's down the hall on the left if you need it." Eli pulled his coat and hat off and hung them on the rack by the door, "Don't go right when you go down the hall. That's my room." "Can I have the grand tour?" "Yeah. Bathroom is down the hall on the left, my room is on the right, and my dining room, living room, and kitchen are basically one room." "You're no fun." "I have shit to do, Rose." Eli rolled his eyes, "He comes through that wall, so I'm going to need to set up the bear traps all around there." "Really?" "The one downside to his power is that he is obligated to visit the home of every person who believes in him. He always enters from that wall." "You know, you didn't believe in immortality before... but if Santa is real like you say, then he's immortal, right?" "No. It's a mantle passed down to whoever unlocks the power. He ages slowly, and is cursed to live only for two hundred years before someone new unlocks the power. The old Santa fades to dust and the new one takes his place. But the legend holds that if he is killed, the power of Santa Claus ceases to exist forever." "Eli, have you ever considered therapy?" Eli knelt in front of the wall, setting the bear traps in place, "No, why?" "No reason." Rose eyed the kitchen, "Do you have food in there?" "Of course I have food in there." "I'm going to make us something to eat." "Don't bother. I can cook." "I thought you had 'shit to do, Rose'." Rose rolled her eyes. "Fine. But something hearty. We've got a full night ahead of us, and I need to be at the top of my game." \*\*\*\*\*\* Eli hit stop and rewind on *It's a Wonderful Life* as the credits began to roll, "You've seriously never seen that before? I'm pretty sure people consider it a classic." "I don't watch many old movies." "Oh, man! Jimmy Stewart, Charlie Chaplin, Clark Gable, Fred Astaire, Katherine Hepburn... *Especially* Katherine Hepburn! They're the greatest of all time!" "Yeah, well... the movies of that time could sometimes be a little... prejudiced. I get it if you can separate the racism from the content, but I really can't." Rose motioned to her dark skin, "Because *obviously*." "Oh, yeah... That... that is problematic. Sorry... I... I was inconsiderate on my part." "Don't worry about it. I'm sure you didn't mean anything by it." "How about more eggnog?" "Can we actually put whiskey in it this time?" "I told you I don't like the taste of whiskey in eggnog and I need to be undeniably sober when that benevolent bastard breaks into my home." Eli stretched his left arm out and checked his watch, "Oh, we're getting close. He always shows up at one-thirty-seven. The sleep spell should hit us around one-fifteen... We should take that medicine now so it has a chance to set in before he gets here." "Ugh... *fine*." Eli walked over to the kitchen and pulled out the garlic, the eggs, and the toast. He mashed the garlic and eggs together and sprinkled in some sugar. He soaked the bread in the mix and threw it on a skillet. "The hell are you making in there?" "French toast with garlic." "*Why*?" "It makes you immune to the sleep spell! Are you in this with me or not?" "Ugh! Fine!" "Then belly up to the bar. First one is almost ready." Rose wandered hesitantly to the kitchen, her eyes showing pure disgust at what Eli was dropping on the plate in front of her, "Do you even have a plan for fighting your fake opponent?" "Yeah. I'm gonna deck him in the halls." "How long have you been waiting to use that one?" "Six months." "How's it feel?" Eli shrugged, "I've had better ones." \*\*\*\*\*\* Eli checked his watch. One-thirty-six. It was time. "Positions." Eli motioned toward the hallway, "He's going to come in shooting." "Why would Santa shoot at you?" "Because he knows I'm going to be shooting at him." Eli shrugged, "Have you been paying attention at all?" "Barely." "Well, eyes forward. He's coming." Eli lifted the shotgun toward the wall, "Brace yourself." "Eli, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Santa doesn't exist. Honestly, if you're lonely, you could have just asked me to hang out with you. Like I said, my family Christmas doesn't happen till January, so I'd be free, you know. We could make this a tradition. Watching Christmas movies, I mean. Eating garlic French toast isn't something anyone should do in their life. You don't have to put on some show about preparing for an ambush from *Santa Claus*. It's really not-" The wall turned to liquid in front of their eyes. The floor shook with each heavy bootstep. The jolly chuckle echoed down the hallways. Red hat, red coat, black boots, large bag of presents, braided white beard, red and green warpaint, shotgun painted like a candy cane... "Holy shit." Rose whispered, "He's real..." Eli jumped up from behind his cover, "Merry Christmas, *bitch*!" Santa reeled back as the shotgun shell detonated against his chest. Eli pumped another round and fired again. Santa stumbled into one of the bear traps, the loud *crack* shaking the building as the trap detonated. "Got 'im!" Eli strode forward, aiming his shotgun, "Ho ho ho, *bitch*! Any final words!?" "Elias..." Santa's mouth spread into a big smile, "You're never going to win this." "I'm sorry, but which one of us got his ass planted into the ground *this* year!? I win! Your reign of terror has come to a-" Eli crashed onto his back and as Santa's boot planted into his stomach. The shotgun clattered away from his hands. Five hundred pounds of pure muscle bore down on him, gouging and striking at his prone body. Eli extended the blade on his brace and drove it up into the jolly man's belly. Santa grunted in pain and grabbed Eli's neck, raising him up and slamming him down into the ground repeatedly. "Rose! Machine gun!" Eli shouted, "Do *anything*!" Santa lifted Eli up and hurled him at the other wall, denting the drywall. Eli slumped to the ground and drew his M1911, aiming for the nightmare's face. "You've tried that before, Elias." Santa rose to his feet, cracking his knuckles, "See what happens." Eli struggled to his feet, keeping the gun on Santa's face, "You... are the worst... person..." Santa grabbed Eli's wrist and twisted, wrenching the M1911 from his hand. The black glove slammed into Eli's sternum, throwing him to the ground once and for all. "Y-y-you're real..." Rose whispered. "Of course, Rosaline." Santa cracked his neck, "Are you helping Elias attack me?" "N-no..." Rose numbly shook her head, "I am so... so sorry... I didn't believe and... uh..." "Don't worry about it. Elias and I have been at this for a long time. I suspect I'll see him again next year. Unless someone takes my place. I've already beat down five other people, and I've got about seven more I'll have to put up with tonight. It's part of the job." Santa patted Rose's shoulder, "I'll leave your present at your apartment. Which reminds me! Elias!" Eli groaned. "I brought you something." Santa walked over to Eli. Eli's head rolled up to stare at the jolly son of a bitch, "What?" Santa set a bright green box in Eli's lap. Eli's hand slowly rose to remove the lid. The tissue paper fell away as he dug his hand into the heavy box. "New... revolver..." Eli muttered, "And several boxes of hollowpoints... you thoughtful son of a bitch..." "What do you say when you receive a give, Elias?" "Thank you, you big jolly asshole..." "Should I get him to a hospital?" Rose whispered. "Don't worry about it. He'll be right as rain once I leave." "Didn't he stab you?" "Tricks of the trade, Rosaline." Santa walked back toward the wall, "Merry Christmas to both of you." Rose waved weakly at Santa Claus and watched him melt back into the wall. She looked down at Eli in disbelief. Eli felt his bones and bruises heal slowly, relief washing over him. "Did that *really* just happen!?" "Yeah. Dammit. I thought I had him this year. I'm thinking more bear traps next year." Eli struggled to his feet, "Maybe a landmine... except that I'd like to not blow up my whole apartment. If I could get a claymore aimed at that wall... I might stand a chance. I'd just need to talk to the landlord about renovating or something first." "D-do you want to just watch another movie right now?" "Sounds good to me." Eli shrugged and dropped onto the couch, "And Rose?" "Yeah?" "Thanks for spending Christmas with me. It... It means a lot." ========================================== Feedback and whatnot are always appreciated! Also, Merry Christmas to All, and to All a good night! Or Happy Holidays if you don't celebrate Christmas.


First Time Poster! Think about it..don’t say a name but just think that one person, the one you would do anything for, the one you would give your life for, the one you would gladly jump in front of a bullet for. You have that person in your mind? Good, now imagine them holding the gun at you and you are powerless to do anything except hope and pray that they love you enough to not use that gun on you. This is my story, the story of the betrayal of the one I love more then anyone else, the one I thought loved me back but it turns out he didn’t love me enough to stop himself from trying to remove me from his life and everyone else's forever. Now I know what you may be thinking, how can you write this if he succeeded? Well he didn't because at the last moment something happened, will I tell you..., no, you are just going to have to sit and listen. It started in middle school, I was lucky enough to find the guy I could spend the rest of my life with that early. Micah was tall, beautiful brown eyes and curly brown hair. Of course it wasn’t a love at first sight thing and we definitely did not keep in touch over the years, in fact we regularly forgot about each other, we would move away from each other and end up back in the same place over and over. Sometimes we didn’t know we were in the same city, sometimes we did but we only really started to notice each other in a sense other than “cool their around again” was in senior year, the last time we were together in the same city for 3 years. Senior year was the highlight of high school and Micah did everything together we went to homecoming, we went to football games and swim meets and plays and choir performances, I went to all his baseball games and he came to all my recitals. We seemed to be the perfect couple. Prom night was the most magical, I was in a beautiful floor length gown that sparkled like the waves and he was wearing a suit with a blue bow tie to match. We knew that we were coming up on the end of us being together so we danced and took pictures and laughed the night away. The next morning we called each other and decided to meet up and we made a scrapbook of all the things we did at prom.I don’t know why but I felt as if I was riding on cloud nine. Unfortunately though all things have to come to an end even the most magical. We tried to keep our breakup with no tears and no drama but both of us sobbed for days and we would call each other crying. It wasn’t the best way to end a year of dating but we did what we had to do after all it was time for both of us to move for the last time before college. This was the biggest move we had ever gone through. Most of the time they were just a move from country to country state to state but this one was different. This wasn’t a big move location wise, we were just moving up to washington. It just felt different. This was my last move with my family and I was going to start college far away in georgia. Exactly 2,429 miles away from them and I had just lost Micah it seemed as if my world was crumbling down around me. The summer passed and then I had to leave. College was amazing, the years passed by quickly and I was top in everything I dated people and had fun but I never forgot about Micah, I saw the scrapbook everyday and I missed him more every time I looked at it. I couldn’t bring myself to put it away though, it was my one connection back to him. One day I was out with my boyfriend, I don’t need to say his name, he wasn’t important, and then I saw him. My Micah, the world seemed to stop and it was only me and him. I turned away from my boyfriend and I made eye contact with Micah and I couldn't help but smile, he looked at me and smiled and his face lit up like the stars in the night sky. I completely forgot about my boyfriend and ran into his arms laughing in delight. It seemed as if the world got brighter and the day became less stressful. “What are you doing here???” I exclaimed as I held him “We have never been this far away from each other for so long, I mean we’ve not noticed that we’ve been together in the same cities but I always felt like I knew you were there,” Micah looks at me as though the whole worlds issues have been solved just because he’s here with me again. I see my boyfriend walk over and I blush sheepishly “Micah I have to deal with him I…I may have dated him, I didn’t think I would ever get to see you again” ‘It’s fine, my love deal with him and then my lady may I take you out?” I smile and nod and then turn to face my boyfriend, I explain to him that someone I would never get to see came back to me and I needed to break up with him so I could fulfill my life dream with Micah. He was understandably devastated but he wished me the best because he knew how happy I had gotten as soon as I laid my eyes back on Micah. I turned around and finally got to be in Micah’s arms again. I pressed my lips to his quickly and then I smiled, “You ready to go?” I had been dying to say something to him since senior year “Hey Micah, can I tell you something I’ve been wanting to say for a long time?” “Of course, is everything alright?” “Yes, I just wanted to say, I love you.” He stopped and stared at me, “What did you say?” “I said I love you.” His face lit up like a kid on Christmas Eve, “I love you too.” We went out to dinner that night and it was the most wonderful night of my life. I didn’t think anything could go wrong and luckily nothing happened….that night. As the weeks went on me and him got closer, I didn’t think we could because I already knew everything about him but he opened up to me during those weeks. He talked about the move and about his family and how they didn’t even know he was at my college. He seemed broken but I loved him anyway I did everything I could for him to bring the smile back onto his face. I went to his favorite places, I did his favorite things, I made his favorite meals but it still seemed like something was worrying him. As it turns out there was still something he wasn’t telling me because he didn’t want to unlock the last bit of his soul to me, and for good reasons. His family was mad at him for ruining his chance at life by coming to see me(he finally told them) so he didn’t feel like he could trust me and with the secret he was holding he was right. That secret would tear anyone apart and we were about to be exhibit A. Life seemed to be passing by easily, the world seemed brighter everyday. I woke up with Micah by my side. If my life could be compared to anything it would be like floating on a donut in a chocolate river with no bumps in sight. Sounds amazing right? Well under every river is a current and this current was rapidly dragging me further and further into a dark forest with no way out. Micah got more and more quiet and seemed disappointed if I did something that didn’t make him happy, he never said anything to me so I never seemed to notice. Boy was that stupid. He wanted me to be his 18th century perfect obedient girlfriend. I tried to live up to his standards most of the time, however, I was only 23 I broke his rules and went out to party. In my eyes he wasn’t in charge of me, but in his eyes he was the one that was supposed to have control over me. He never got violent when I did something he didn’t enjoy. He just seemed sad and I could tell. It made me feel bad so when I broke his rules I was meek and perfect again for around a month or so until I had another girls night. Every girls night out I told myself I wouldn’t be stupid this time so that Micah would stay proud of me. I didn’t want to betray his confidence that I would make good choices, but no matter how hard I tried my girls always seemed to make me have fun. He got really upset one night I was out. I had gotten blackout drunk my first time ever doing that and the girls had to carry me inside to our apartment.The next morning was terrible. He was more angry than I had ever seen him and if I’m being completely honest I was scared. “What were you thinking? You could have gotten hurt or killed?!” “I.I’m sorry I wasn't thinking” “I KNOW YOU WEREN’T’ I flinched back and he lowered his voice ‘Honey I can’t live without you if you had gotten hurt I would have never forgiven myself” His voice broke off and he seemed like he was about to cry. “Micah, I promise that will never happen again, I love you” “I love you too” We changed the subject and he asked me to go out with him tonight. I was surprised, normally after a fight he wants me to leave him alone. It’s not a bad thing of course he's upset and has every right to be. That night we went out and I had the biggest surprise of my life. The love of my life proposed to me and I said yes.


I saw a homeless man outside of my local coffee shop, and I offered to buy him coffee. He appeared to be in his 60s, with frizzy white hair similar to what a mad scientist might don in an old black and white film. Winter was coming, and the chill air was a constant reminder of that. “On one condition,” the man replied, “I get to ask you a question, and you must answer it truthfully.” “Well… sure, what is it?” I said. “Not now. Let us first enjoy a warm drink”. And so we did. I bought us both coffees and we sat down at a table, where the baristas could not eavesdrop on us and where the icy air that rushed through the door could not reach us. The older man must have sensed my anticipation, as he spoke again. “Why did you buy me this coffee?” “Well…” I stammered “I suppose you looked like you were in need, so I wanted to help you out.” “Wrong answer.” And then the man stood up, and walked out the door. I dreamt that night of the universe and all the stars within it. I floated through the void, listening to the cacophony of screaming stars that I hoped would one day all make sense. I had this dream every night, and every night I hoped I was closer to understanding the lyrics of the stars’ song. My father told me once that my meaning is hidden in the stars, and I believe that if I can decipher the song, maybe I could finally understand my true purpose in this world. My walk to work was the next day nearly identical to the day prior; frigid air, a moody, overcast sky, and a homeless man outside our coffee shop. I approached him again, this time with an answer already in mind. The homeless man spoke to me before I had a chance to say anything. “You did not uphold your end of our bargain, friend,” he said, “you must answer truthfully this time.” And again I bought the man coffee, and again we sat down at a rustic wooden table away from peering eyes. “Why,” the man asked, “did you buy me this coffee?” “Buying you coffee makes me feel morally good. Helping others in need is something I strive to do, because it makes me a better person” I replied, confidently. “But I did not need this coffee. I could live on without it, so did you really help me? You would be the same person had you bought it or not. If you had chosen not to buy me it, that dialogue would have still run through your head, and maybe on a different day you would have chosen to do so. Buying me this coffee makes you no different; it may be a way to show your character to others, but you have done nothing to improve who you are. You are and always will be who you have been, and no human can escape that.” And with that, the man stood up, and left once again. I dreamt again of floating through space, and once again the agonizing screams of the stars pierced my ears. So long I had tried to decipher their song, all for naught. I did not need to decipher their song; I have always understood it. Once again I woke and left for work and once again the homeless man stood outside of the coffee shop. Once again I offered to buy him coffee, and once again he asked me a question. “Why did you buy me this coffee?” “There was no reason I bought you this coffee. I just did it because I wanted to do it” And with that the man smiled, thanked me for the coffee, and left me alone with my thoughts for the last time. When my father last spoke to me, he must have known that the stars don’t say anything.


It was upon the shattered road from Murzil to Keta where the sage Parabrahma met Atenati. She was engulfed by the shadow of a sandstone pillar, lean, eaten away by the heat, and surrounded by a halo shaped by the glare of three suns. In defiance of the holy tenets of the battle phalanx, her shield was strapped to her right arm. Ruins of ancient gashes basked indolently upon her forehead. Her ears were bars of red, mangled flesh. Her nose was a haphazard reconstruction. The skin beneath her eyes was tormented. Yet it was her feet that stood out so visibly, untouched by scars, smooth and adolescent. Parabrahma did not notice her in the swirling desert heat. He was distracted, contemplating the rituals of the mirror cults of Murzil, and how they conflicted with the interpretations of the cultist pilgrims with whom he was travelling. Each pilgrim wore a face. A face far more intimate than flesh, rooted deeper than intellect, as stubborn as a misplaced emotion. The woman with long silken ribbons falling from earlobes to her footprints wore the face Yuchagri; an expression of witnessing an ageless injustice under the aegis of an unbreakable principle. The man with an abyss in his left arm wore the face Isseta; an expression of delirium moved by the presence of lovers from lives lived, unlived, and yet to live. The limping elder whose face was shrouded by the charred silver of sundried hair wore the face Shranate; an expression of colorless fear sung with tears as melodious as a lament of infant chords. They had witnessed these faces in the Great Mirror, but for Parabrahma. When he looked upon himself, he only saw his own reflection. Staid, immovable, rippled as if by an absolute lack of wind on water. Atenati watched sand spiral up from their march and raised her warspear. A sun spat brightness into the eyes of the foremost pilgrim. The pilgrim, a maiden, was shaken from her reverie and her face failed. She looked at Atenati and was afraid. The maiden spoke: *Our blood is metal, our skin is death, our flesh belongs to the infinite, and our soul is a thief. To slay us will bring no honor to the shamed, no wisdom to the maddened, no fulfillment to the primal, and no alacrity to the ensorcelled. We are pilgrims of the Mirror. We seek distinction from paradoxes, and so may you. Let us pass and determine what the heavens see reflected upon the world.* Atenati flashed. She raised her shield. At its center were the remains of the symbol of an eye jaundiced by the metal, with three pupils that danced in the light Parabrahma did not even realize when the fresh, sonorous lines of blood had spilled over it, for Atenati had moved beyond the seduction of comprehension. Her spear tasted veins before the skin sheathing them knew it was cut. She became a silhouette, a blur, bronze, and the pilgrims falling dead attested to her accuracy. Her aim was as absolute as the lust of true lovers in the moonlight. Parabrahma did not understand how she missed his neck by the distance of a moth’s wing. Terror had abdicated reason and his eyes were watered by a harvest of fear. He swerved and felt the drums of his heart desynchronize each time he saw a face falter, a body collapse, a rain of life. When the massacre ended, Atenati was behind him, spear pointed away, each drop of blood taking an eon to fall from it’s killing point. The famished earth drank each splash. Atenati turned in phases reminiscent of the moon. She spoke, and Parabrahma, silencing his soul, sat. ***** Like all free tribespeople of the Ketaoi, in my younger days I travelled. I joined the assassin tribes on their cattle raids. I was a mercenary with the Southern Cults and protected copies of their sacred texts, which they guard in mountain-holds like exiled child kings. I witnessed the three blessed rebirths of Mihgateranna, and the three damnations that ruined him. I did this because I adhered. The Ketaoi have custom that helps them shape their lives. When a woman is found to be with child, the shaman of her tribe gathers the elders and together, they breathe the waft of the crowflower. It is said that when the waft truly reaches a zenith, they can see the lifepath of the fetus in its entirety. After sensation returns, they write what they remember on eggshells and call it a prophecy. They always remember how and when the child is to die. And they enforce these prophecies, because prophecies are truth, and truth is divine. Therefore, to adhere to the prophecies is to adhere to the divine. There are Ketaoi colossi capable of slaying lions who are set to gather berries until the day they are expected to walk into swamps and contract plagues. Fragile cowards incapable of defying children are armored with precious steel and made to stand on the battlements and survive the loosening of bowels and an amputation of limbs. The Ketaoi adhere, for to do otherwise is to make liars of the shaman and their elders. Inadherence ruins clans. It rots teeth. It contracts diseases and enfeebles the cattle. The eggshells which bore my name said that I would die in a battle beneath the viridian moon, and so I sought to conquer battle dread to prepare for that day. In one of my journeys, I found myself in the Helsesshoi Phalanx on the newly inaugurated battlefield of Ikhuyeri. *Elelelele!*, went the battle-chant of the frontline. The enemy responded with their own chant. The ground between the two armies trembled under a cadence of heavy footsteps. In the rear thummed the great drums. Scattered gangs of lowbred slingers took aim and their lead bullets shrieked echoes above us. They struck shields like a multitude of gongs. The tremors gave depth and contrast to the all-encompassing noise. The armies closed in, nearer and nearer. And they met. But no weapons were raised, no skin torn, and death remained unfed. Shields pushed, shields resisted. The omens, you see. They weren’t right yet. We looked to the sky for the right signs. The heralds walked among us promising that once a dove tore apart a preybird and the solitary sun shied away behind the purda of an ashen cloud, we could begin the bloodletting. It would be a blessed bloodletting. The preybird was dead, but the sun yet shone. The armies grumbled. *Where are the idiot priests?* *Have them slaughter a goat to appease the gods!* *Have them slaughter goat-faced Achenji!* *You look more a goat than me, whore-son!* *Fuck the gods!* We grew impatient. We were, after all, on the precipice of glorious death. And we grew tired. Our chants began to falter. They became rasps, losing their fluidity and synchronization to ennui, and to monotony. The weakest among us began to whisper, mumble, and even hum. Such shameful impiety! Frontlines are never to be silent. The battle-chant must always be maintained. The legendary strategos Nin-Kuriltau had chanted throughout his rout at the gates of Siyoi. At the end, he was alone, bleeding, dying, and even with his death rattles, he chanted, chanted the holy chant. A true warrior. An exemplar! A silent frontline is more than dishonor. It is sacrilege. But even that seemed more preferable than this maddening pause. So we agreed that half of an omen is as worthy as an omen entire. Any remaining theological misgivings were soon sorted with military efficacy and the first enemy abdomen was soon torn apart in a berserk frenzy. The battle began. The chant was renewed. All was in perfect harmony. I remember only little. There was a beating heart that embraced my spear, which then bathed in the bile of an open abdomen. It hit a clavicle at an odd angle and an edge dulled. The iron became flesh. Vision clouded. Strength faltered. Words drooled. Battle dread blurred discipline, bred disorder. The rigidity of the frontline broke. Advances met retreats, retreats met challenges, challenges met bloodthirst, bloodthirst met advances. The solitary sun witnessed this, and was soon joined by its siblings. They grew tired of the massacre and retired early, inviting dusk to loom upon the world. The last of the frontliners were now dead or close to it. Their lips were foamed red, and spawned beads of blood and spit that released the names of wives and mothers in their disintegration. The earth was a miscegenation of shit, piss, and blood. The last of the suns crumbled into the universe. A fog descended upon the corpses. Nothing disturbed the wind traversing the pervading stench. I waited for the omens to signal the end of the battle. And then the viridian moon finally rose and I heard the souls of the dead sob as they transcended. They did not challenge me, and I witnessed their lament, and I broke. I fell into the viscera at my feet and a great madness overtook me. Night swayed through the fog. I heard footsteps as rumors of sunlight threatened the horizon. The shaman of my tribe walked on the dead and watched me with every one of its heads. *Maker of lies! Mocker of truth!*, it spat. And I realized this was truly the battle I was foretold to die in. *The fires went out in Keta last night*, it said, *and the lambs gave birth to bones.* *You are disenfranchised, Atenati Death-traitor! May the future you stole be grim and debased!* When the shaman vanished, I looted the bodies of the enemy strategoi. A pineal gland here, a metatarsal there, an occasional silver stud affixed to a broken spine elsewhere. When I returned to Helsessh, the acropolis honored my victory and the temples granted me any boon that I desired. I asked for the hand of Sijuwa the rope-dancer, who walked high above the city between the towers and the cliffs, tracing hieroglyphs in the air with torches. I imagined an act of balance between the earth and the sky to be close to battle dread. The boon was granted as the season of commerce began. We travelled with one of the Neutralist caravans. We sold stale gossip to provincial oafs. Sijuwa performed and I delighted. Up in the heavens, the stars were as mindless beasts in their haste to accelerate time. The season of commerce ended, and the boon expired, and Sijuwa prepared to depart with what remained of my joy. I asked Sijuwa to stop, to extend the boon, to be with me endlessly. *Only gods can claim to be endless, and the gods are jealous*, said Sijuwa. We wept as we parted and promised mutual death in our senility. I raged and took the road to Keta and my tribe. I had no great purpose, no shining banner for which I could do battle, so I made my own. I swore to fight the injustice of prenatal prophecies. Along my path I found a band of Surrealist zealots. I discovered disgust and caprice in their foolishness and imbalance. On whims, they dug wells and then filled them with the detritus of autumn. The built sturdy paths in untrammeled forests and then hid them with rumors of demons and thieves. They found whores to enlighten and then heresify. They stole from the rich and gave to the reasonably comfortable. They taught the poor to hate hunger and love starvation. They did not see my hatred, and they saw my realism as an act. They saw it as a stubborn loyalty to some form of anti-dogma, and they marveled. *What could be more surreal*, they questioned,* than a mask of realism?* They embraced what they deemed to be my mask. They became saints for the world, but to themselves remained contrarians. They smiled with glee and a smug, secret superiority. They grew terrified of being unmasked under the liberation of fermented drink, ignited herb, the company of warm flesh at night, and the soft luxury of silk and pillows. So they advocated celibacy and austerity as pillars of divinity. So it was that the zealots became demigods, which was when I slaughtered them. They laughed when I did so, and their eyes were wide mirrors that shone. ***** And saying so, Atenati sat on the ground in front of Parabrahma. The blood on the spear was dry and weevils sang beside the road. He spoke: *Is that why you killed these pilgrims? Because they wore masks reminiscent of the Surrealists?* Atenati stared at the dark clouds of the evening. *Do you notice the haze above the clouds?, she said, It was put there by our ancestors to protect us from the wages of an older heresy.* Parabrahma stared up with Atenati and did not see a haze. She did not look at him,* I am not yet senile, though I will be. You are the first to have looked into the Mirror and not be slaughtered after meeting me.* Parabrahma looked upon the symbol of the eye on her shield. The pupils did not dance under early starlight, as it turned out. *And will you tell me why the Mirror did not show me a mask?*, he asked. Her eyes pounced from the heavens to the earth, to the deadened, blunted face of Parabrahma. She whispered, her words almost fricatives, *Look into the sky and notice the haze.* And Parabrahma looked into the sky again, and there was still no haze. And he looked again, again, and the haze was veiled, veiled, until Atenati wailed. And the merest figment of a delusion stirred in the firmament, and it fell upon the eye on the shield, and the pupils danced again. *See, see!*, wailed Atenati, and Parabrahma did. It shimmered and cracked at its seams, and he saw great fires bloom beyond it. The rage of something ancient, with blood that flowed in veins weaved of hatred. And it was the antithesis of absence. And she whispered a question, and Parabrahma did not answer. He walked away, composing an uneven meter and an uneven rhythm and heard Atenati’s wails echo up towards the haze that he could now see.


My meeting with God went quite well actually. I partook in the usual small talk, asking about his son, how his sister-in-law was doing, what his friend, Nick, was up to, etc. etc. etc. Then the Jew came in and droned on and on about our numbers and figures and how we need to work harder before she finally left to go play online poker in her office. You get the picture. A normal Tuesday meeting. At approximately half past three, everything went to hell. You see, when God, an Atheist, and a Jew walk into a conference room, not much happens. But when you throw Satan into the mix, things get, shall we say, interesting. At approximately half past three on that otherwise uneventful Tuesday afternoon, Satan appeared in the conference room. It was supposed to be his day off, but as everyone already knows, Satan is not one to follow a schedule. The amount of times I’ve seen that man forget what time it is and work until 4 in the morning is astounding. And of course our boss, the Jew, goes on and on about how great Satan is and how much work he gets done and how we should all improve our work ethic to be like Satan and blah blah blah. And obviously God tries to suck up to our boss and he works a bit overtime, maybe until 10 or 11, but at some point even he just gets too tired. I go home at 5. I ain’t losing sleep for this hell-hole of a company. Where was I? Oh right, so Satan walked into the conference room. Now, a little thing to know about Satan. Basically he has this small but extremely inconvenient habit whereby anything he touches spontaneously combusts. We work at a paper company. Half of the reason I leave on time is because I’m not wasting my energy on a paper company. The other half is because I can’t bear to stand and watch in second hand embarrassment as the firefighters come in for the sixth time that day to hose the building down. The town has built a second fire station right next door to our building after we had 66 fires in six days. Anyway, Satan walked into the conference room, looking red as ever, half of him hidden underneath an unnecessarily long cloak. “How are you doing, Satan?” God asked. “Well… I uh… someone left some paper out… and I couldn’t find my gloves… and now –“ The smell of burning paper started to fill the room. “God damn you Satan!” I yelled, flashing a quick apologetic look at God. “Is that money I smell burning away?” Oh crap, our boss can smell it too. “No just the carpet!” we exclaimed in unison. Our boss’s voice grew louder: “If I open this door and see my merchandise on fire again, I swear to you Satan, I’m throwing you out!” Immediately, God grabbed his water bottle and sprinted out the conference room, throwing water over the burning papers. Just as the last flame died out, our boss swung open her door. “Satan! I hate to do this to you, but I swear to God, if you ––” She took a moment to look around the soggy room. “Where’s the fire?” “No fire, ma’am,” God replied, “Just spilled some water is all.” After taking another quick glance at all of our faces, the boss shut her door and continued playing her online poker game. I can’t stand to spend another 90 minutes with these people. About an hour later the fire department arrived for the fifth time that day. I decided to finish work early, partially because I was tired, partially because my boss fired me for throwing a lit match at one of her employees.


Hey. First post ever on Reddit, maybe you can relate. Non-native speaker...etc. etc. Edit: Changed some format stuff so it's easier to read... **Meeting with myself** Eyes. Open up. I can’t sleep. Get out. Coat, keys, phone, tying shoes, been quite a while since I’ve done that, takes me longer than most, tying a knot, loop and the other one. Could’ve learned that way sooner if some people cared. Thumb. Okay, I’m ready. Sorry to keep you waiting, please stay with me. I try going downstairs quietly and opening the door. Locked. Two times. Whoever does that is mad. Get out. I lock the door behind me. Good. Breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. I feel cold. I feel the cold air around my wrists and my legs. I get cold fast when I’m outside at night, but that’s okay. It’s good. Again. In and out. Stay calm. Isn’t even that difficult, is it? I still can not think clearly though. The sky looks nice. I see the stars. I don’t know what I should think about the stars. They look nice. Scary, too. Often I imagine how they explode. I really have no idea what’s wrong with me this time. Don’t forget to breathe slowly. You know, at some point it really sucks that you have to freeze yourself to death only to calm down. To stop the spasms, because your mind is too weak. And if you don’t even know what tipped you off this time again, I don’t know, sucks. I hate it. Okay, last time. Breathe in and out. Can’t go back yet. Down to the lake. Hey. Hey. What’s your name? Not in the mood, sorry. I’ll go soon enough anyways. Not in the mood, either. Just wanted to go breathing. Fag? I don’t smoke. Me neither. Only when I’m down. Almost tried though. My fingers are freezing, shit. Why didn't you? I thought you'd go soon anyways. Yea. So? Nevermind. Had a good help. Helped me out with a few things. Me too. Still went back. I know. We're having difficulties breathing, remember. What happened? Thought about love. Cute. Doesn’t matter. Yes it does. Else you wouldn’t sit here. You? Saw too much in someone. He doesn’t love you? Yea. He knows I do though. Again? Yea. Happens a lot to me, too. You seem like it. What’s your name? Elena. Chris. What is love? Baby don’t... What is love? I don’t know, okay. Why does nobody love us? Chance. Never. It is. Definitely not. Look, we are funny, we are emotional, we don’t look like complete shits, sure. So why does nobody love us? We need too much affection. Or it’s chance. Are you sure? No. It’s unfair. It is. But we don’t do very much against that, either. Stars are scary. Plus one. Romantic. We can’t. Don’t say things like that. We can’t. Why? You know. Too similar. Yes. Too similar. I just want someone I can love with all of my heart and someone who loves me back with all of his heart. Is it that difficult? What am I doing wrong? Why are all people getting the love I don’t get?! All of them are so happy without me. All of them know how to be happy. I’m not being loved. I could love you. We’ve been there already. Don’t you want to be loved? I do. But we can’t. I know. I. You okay now? My hands seem to be dead now. Thank you. Sorry. I wish I had someone like you. Me too. I do love you, okay, just not the way we need it. Me too. Thank you for staying with me. And tomorrow? Will you have one again tomorrow? What? Attack. I don’t know. Me neither. When does that ever happen? Happened tonight. Yea. But not again. Not at the same time. One can hope. Don’t. I don’t want to go. Me neither. So? Don’t stay longer than you have to. We are strong. I know. Breathe. Thank you. Thank you. Goodbye.


(The following content contains actions of self-harm) *Character Identification*: Female, 9-14 *October 11, 2012* As I rounded the corner of my big house, I saw Shephia, my best friend for a few weeks now. She said that mommy and daddy couldn’t see her. She told me she was only visible to those who were vulnerable to the Astral Barrier. I don’t know what that means, though. Astral Barrier probably has something to do with the *Astral Plane* Shephia keeps talking about. I don’t know what *Astral* means, but I know what *plane* and *border* mean. Plane is an area... and border is something that can keep you from something... Shephia is taller than me. Almost as tall as my mom, but maybe... about six or seven inches shorter. She told me she’s fifteen, but she looks closer to eighteen. She acts really adult-like, telling me not to do risky things. But she’s fun to talk to. She told me about her ex-boyfriend. It’s a really nice story. Today, I asked her to tell it to me again. In her white-and-blue plaid shirt and ripped jeans, she sat on the air, a foot above the floor. “Okay, okay,” she said after I asked her for the sixth time in a row. “I met Slava when I was going to Russia, where my dad lived. Since they lived in different countries, I spent every other year with my dad. I went to a new school each time I switched countries, so I didn’t really get to know anyone well. “But, when I was fourteen, that changed. My mom got sick and was put in a hospital. So, I’d be staying with my dad for a bit longer. “I was starting my freshman year of high school. The school was grades six through twelve. I walked in, and I saw that most of the people in my class, save the three newer students, already had a group of their own. “When I first saw Slava, I didn’t think he was born in Russia, he had a darker, more soothing skin tone. But after first period, I went up to him and asked: ‘how are you doing?’ “He looked surprised. Apparently, due to my Caucasian American skin tone. I explained to him that I a was a native to both America and Russia, my parents were just from the two different countries. “He explained he was adopted by a nice family from St. Petersburg. He moved out to the country with his older brother, Sacsha. “After the school day was over, we decided to walk home together, our houses being in the same direction...” As I listened to the long story of her and Slava getting to know each other and ending up a couple until Shephia died, I was sidetracked by the sound of a car outside. When she was finished with the story, I walked up to the window to see my dad with two other men from his work. Mom probably wouldn’t be very happy about that. If she wasn’t at work herself right now. “Who is it,” Shephia asked with her soothing, genuinely curious tone. I looked at her and said, “it’s daddy. With friends.” “Okay. Would you like to meet your dad’s friends?” “Nope.” “Why not, Little Enne?” “Daddy’s probably just inviting them over to suck up to them.” “Tha—at’s not a very nice thing to say about your dad.” “Fiiiiiine. I’ll go meet them.” “I was just asking, you don’t actually have to. They might be nice.” “All of dad’s friends treat me like a little kid.” “To a lot of people, you *are* a little kid. They might be nervous around people they perceive as little kids.” I proceeded to go downstairs to talk to my dad. I had a fun time, talking to them about drawing and learning new art styles. They seemed more at ease with me after we had a long conversation about drawing. When the two men left, one said, “bye, Lenne, hope we see y’again!” I smiled at the kind words said by a person I’d never have met in different circumstances. Shephia had good ideas... why didn’t I listen to her? When I went back to my room, Shephia was there, sitting on the floor. *On the floor*. She was actually sitting on the floor. I didn’t know she could do that. She looked distracted. “What’s wrong,” I asked. “Nothing much,” she said back. “What are you thinking about?” “Hmm... I’m thinking about dying.” “Was it hard for you?” “... yes, it was. It was very hard.” I had the sense she was holding back tears and sobs, but I asked her another question. “How did you die?” She paused, eyes widened, and she had this look of... just being... overwhelmed by the question. Then she seemed to calm down and said, “maybe I’ll tell you when you’re older.” “Uhhh... okay, fine.” And with that, I had something strange to look forward to, in a few years. *September 14, 2017* I was fourteen when our parents called a friend of theirs who called herself a “*White Witch*” over to exorcise the house. I rolled my eyes. The only bad spirits were in the corner of the basement... and they mostly kept to themselves. She came over and introduced herself. Mom didn’t really believe in the supernatural or paranormal, but dad and I did. Well, I mean... I’ve been talking to a ghost for the better part of my life, so I’d have to believe in it. It’d be weird if I didn’t. “I’m Elizabeth, call me Liz. You must be Lenne,” she said to me. I nodded and replied, “yeah, that’s me. Lenne. You can also call me Enne.” “Okay, Enne. Nice to meet you. Do you believe in ghosts?” “Yup. Just don’t go to the northeast corner of the basement.” Her face turned from one of joy to one of terror. “Why, what’s down there?” she asked. “Hands.” Her face then morphed into one of confusion. She gave me a pebble, then handed my dad a pebble and we sat on the couch while she did her thing. When she came back a few minutes later, she was sweating and looked totally worn out. She gave my parents and I small corked vials filled with different things. *Protection jars*, she called them. “There was something in the basement I couldn’t completely get rid of. It’ll come back,” she said, looking at me. It seemed like she was trying to see past my soul and into my mind. “And there’s something around you... seemingly protecting you. It’s kind and soft, but... it’s something that could turn on you.” I wanted to correct her, to say that Shephia wasn’t an *it*, she was a *she*. But I could tell that Elizabeth could see Shephia, so I didn’t worry. Then Shephia’s voice spoke to her. That beautiful, soothing voice. “I’d never cross Little Enne. You may see how my past presence faded, but I can assure you I’m loyal.” I nodded, and Elizabeth realized I could see and hear her too. Elizabeth smiled, said her goodbyes, and left. I hid my relief that she left until Shephia and I got to my bedroom. “Thank god she left,” I sighed. Shephia looked worried. Her next words surprised me. “I think it’s about time...” her voice trailed off for a few minutes, but she managed to finish the sentence. “I think it’s about time... I told you *How* *I* *Died.*” I felt my eyes widen in surprise and confusion. “Okay, I’m listening,” I said to her. She told me the story of how she died. Her dad wasn’t paying a lot of attention to her, always by her mom’s side. She decided it’d be better for him if she did it. She told me she drove herself to her dad’s work, took the elevator to the roof, above the sixteenth floor, and took a pocket knife with her. She walked to the edge, stabbing herself so she would die for sure. Then she jumped off. Listening to her story, I was horrified. I never expected my best friend of five years... to have killed herself. She said that the house I lived in was her favorite house that her mom had owned. I felt tears on my face, and realized I was on the verge of sobbing. *September 20, 2017* Walking home from school, I was excited to bake cookies for late September, as I did every year, with my dad. Instead, I came home to my greatest fear. I got home from school to find my parents bleeding on the floor, black hands reaching out for them... And the hands had Shephia by her arms and legs and hair. Her mouth was covered by the hands, and I noticed my parents could hear her muffled screams and see the hands too. “Shephia!” I yelled, but she stopped screaming and opened her eyes to look at me. She smiled. And as I watched the hands push her into terror and darkness, I didn’t do anything. She wouldn’t have wanted me to grab her. She would have wanted me to help my parents. So I did. I helped my mom and dad to their feet. Dad was stabbed, somehow, but mom only had deep scratches on her limbs. She could still walk, though. Dad, however, was very badly injured. The *stab* wound was a few inches deep. Mom drove to the hospital. I was surprised she could still use the muscles in her legs enough to get us to the hospital, which was seventeen minutes away by car. When we got there, my mom and dad were immediately put into rooms, the hospital not being very busy. I went to a waiting room, alone. I didn’t know what to do, so I asked if I could borrow a pencil and some copy paper. On the paper, I drew my nine-year-old self sitting on my bedroom floor, back of my head facing the viewer. And above me, sitting on air, smiling while telling one of her favorite stories, was a long-dark-brown-haired girl with green hazel eyes wearing a white-and-blue plaid shirt and ripped jeans. On the right side of the drawing was my bed, and framing Shephia’s upper body and head was the window in my old bedroom. Next, I drew Shephia, pointing a knife to her heart on the top of a tall building, wind blowing in her hair, getting ready to glide off. Then I found myself drawing the hands, in the corner of the basement. I hadn’t even thought about what I drew, I just let the desire to move the pencil across the different sheets of paper guide my drawings. When I looked at them, I felt more tears fall down my face. Shephia... didn’t want to *leave* again. She loved me... like a guardian angel. *She was my guardian angel.* *And now I’ll never get to repay her for all the things she did for me.