There Is Only the Hunt by C.S. Humble It's 8:37 in the morning when Johnny comes sliding around the corner of the neon-soaked Double A training emporium. His hair is a Jheri curl fresh and dripping with 1983 sex appeal. Eighty-eight degrees outside, Mother Nature? Johnny doesn't give a shit. He's rocking a black leather jacket that looks like it's been polished with turtle wax, a real gamma burst glinting off volcanic glass situation. And that's just the jacket. He's got pants like a firetruck and a piano black belt to match the high top kicks. Every other sob story Joe in the world is grinding his brakes on the tollway to get to his cubicle and this motherfucker, throwing all worldly care into the sun, looks like he just stepped out of Michael Jackson's *Beat It*. Johnny is humming on a frequency that can only be captured on the RCA stereo inside a Pontiac Firebird. Johnny's a phoenix rising, killing it all the way to the top. 8:38 AM and Johnny Mac has just turned my Monday morning around. I am a low-rent recruiter for the League, but when I see Johnny, all I want to do is hit a bump of coke and dance until our shoes take us straight into a realm that can only be traversed by moonwalking. At the age of eight he blows through all the toughest scenes: *Hyborea*, *Atlantean Conquest*, all of that baby trainer shit that we use to separate wheat and chaff, talented from prodigy. Johnny's done with that by the age of ten, ready to move on to *Commander Horizon*, and he came close, and I mean straight razor shave close to beating *Colossus Valley* on his first go. Johnny Mac is a game changer. He's going to be the biggest star in the world. If he can pass the test of course. He slips inside the Double A, just like every morning, around 8:45. He warms-up with *Galaxy Hero*. A classic. I walk across the street and add myself to the glowing stream of avatars bustling down the neon nursery pink walkway. Every century of human history is represented in the faces and clothes of a thousand hopeful dreamers shouldering into the pyrite glow of the emporium. I'm not here for potential utility players. Those days are over for me. What makes Johnny superior to all these digitally re-skinned mouth-breathers, outside of that absolutely bitching hair and threads, is that Johnny plays the Pilot position better than anyone I've ever seen. I'm being modest. Johnny Mac runs Pilot better than any human being who has ever, or will ever jack himself into the throbbing heart of the Spiral. The rainbow shower of neon inside the Double A is a psychadellium. Hundreds of games, each of them running thousands of different self-generating scenarios. But, like all good training emporiums, the Double A is a labyrinth. A spiral in the Spiral. A maze of twisting addiction that demands a higher mastery the deeper you go. Deeper and deeper until you find yourself at the center. It would be a mistake to think that gaming your way to the heart of the labyrinth is the end of the journey. It isn't. At the center of the Double A's winding labyrinth is a monster. A *Minotaur.* *Minotaur* is a microcosm of the player's journey. It's the only complete neural net interface game that the talent gets to try. Beauty in simplicity. It's the trial you only get to take once. You win, you punch your ticket. You lose? Fuck you. You took your shot and you missed. Time to join the ranks of data miners and number crunching assholes who never go deeper than the edge of the Funnel. The Spiral is for the League and the League is for Theseus types. You either have it or you don't. Johnny Mac has what it takes. I've known that since the first day he found me, telling me that he was going to be the best pilot in the world. The day he told me that nothing mattered more than getting his shot at *Minotaur*. Like I haven't heard that before, right? Kids get confused. Johnny conflated beating the game with making it in the League. I corrected him and asked him to prove his dedication. He's done that in spades. And now, even though he never mentions the League itself, only *Minotaur*, my prize pilot is all done warming up and ready to make war. A war he's been begging me to give him since we met. I make the arrangements for the Double A to fire up the beast. I hand Johnny the contract, but he makes me hold it myself, only offering single hand out of his pocket to sign it. His brown eyes are twinkling with the magic I've managed to keep hidden away from other scouts. There's an uncharacteristic sheen of sweat on his brow, and he's more quiet than usual, but I chalk it up to nerves. Red and blue lights explode into alarm. Every trainer game currently in progress shuts right the hell down and every one of those jealous dreamers make their way to the arena. It's showtime. The triangular stadium at the center of the Double A seats eighty-five thousand and whenever someone decides to run *Minotaur* it's standing room only. The four story monitors flicker to life. Every palpitant heart gets a dose of adrenaline when the black screen flashes with the three most important words of our modern life. *Start New Game?* The hostesses, dressed in their sparkling peacock outfits, usher Johnny out onto the stage. The crowd roars at the rush. There is nothing that gets them off faster than the prospect of seeing a dream walk the knife. A disco ball of glimmering wires and crackling energy descends from the rafters. Johnny is a stone gargoyle of concentration. The moment isn't too big for him. His hands are still in his pockets, which is weird, but it's okay. He's eager, ready to fire up that nuclear reactor inside his head and sling liquid fire. Probably doesn't want folks to see his hands shaking. I get it. Twin jets of steam and an artillery battery of pyrotechnics turn the place into a recreation of earth's New Armistice Day. A little visual foreplay, all part of the show, that whets more than the appetite of onlookers. The arena goes dark. All sound dies in the midnight shine of the towering screens. Those three little words, asking their question. The sound of thunder announces the advent of a single sodium spotlight down on Johnny's head, anointing my savior. *Start New Game?* He nods. *Minotaur* randomly generates a topography bigger than a continent in the span of a nanosecond. The world and obstacles are different for every person. The goal is always the same. Find the gatekeeper and make him bend the knee. Win by guile, no-scope precision, or savagery; doesn't matter. When you're plugged into the game the only thing that matters is finding the beast and making him say uncle. The screens flash on and we see what Johnny sees. In medias res, Johnny is in the cockpit of a fighter, screaming through a galactic warscape, less than a meter away from crashing into the alien steel of a Capital ship. *Minotaur* knows Johnny's record, it uses the data of every game Johnny's ever played inside the Double A to build a scenario designed to crush him. The crowd gasps in horror. They think it's over before it even begins. A young life crushed on the wheel of gainful venture. I smile. Johnny punches his retrothrusters and banks his fighter into a vertigo inducing spin. Sparks flash over the window of the cockpit, leaving a blistering skid mark where the steel of the Capital ship kisses the glass. Everything is instinct now as he looks at the cavalcade of blinking lights, chrome levers, and switches on a command console he's never seen before. In less than a span of a heartbeat my meal ticket slips into the unfamiliar interface like a glove. The game likes to rush pilots early, see if it can get them to flinch in the opening salvo. Johnny doesn't blink. *Minotaur* sees, for the first time, what I've seen for years. Johnny Mac's brain isn't a biochemical engine, it's a weapon. Like Crocea Mors, Kusanagi, or Excalibur, Johnny's mind is mythical. "Birdman, this is Priest. Do you copy? Over." The A.I. is kicking on. It's objective time. Johnny slides into character perfectly. "Priest, this is Birdman. I copy." "I'm on your wing. The battle cruiser *Minotaur* is located on the far side of--wait, enemy fighters are--" The comm-line flatlines with static. A vaporous explosion sends particle debris against the aft of Johnny's fighter. Priest is gone, leaving only the tiniest morsel of information for the mission parameters. No hand holding for Johnny. *Minotaur* doesn't play to win. It plays to conquer. Demoralize. Johnny levels out the fighter, twisting wing over wing, skimming the surface of the mammoth vessel. Six enemy fighters, perfectly assembled in attack formation give chase. Their laser fire peppers what's left of his shields. In the cockpit, sirens scream. Without looking at the console, Johnny flips a lever, pushing his energy reserves into the rear shields. Then he barrels left and puts the hammer down. Azure propulsion cyclers ignite, sending his heat gauge into the red, throwing him screaming over the edge of the Capital ship. Three of the fighters following him can't make the blistering maneuver. They explode against the hull, snuffed out like little candles. The blue jewel of a planet, big as a dinner plate in the window of Johnny's fighter, comes into view. The overlay flashes a holo-panel: *Titus-6*. A desolate world--the surface long since turned to glass by the turbocharged guns of the dozen Capital ships controlled by the game's A.I. A fresh, red horror blinks onto the overlay: *Targeting Systems Offline.* Another. *Fuel Cell Reserves Engaged*. And another. *Enemy Target Lock.* *Minotaur* is not fucking around. It wants to crush my rising star before he ever has a chance to dawn. One final overlay, a slap in the face of any player who's ever tried their hand at *Minotaur*, reads: "Concede defeat? Y/N" "Computer," Johnny says. "Open hailing frequency: BROADCAST." What the hell is he doing? The on-board computer whistles. "Hailing frequency live, set to open broadcast." Then I realize, he's going to do something no player has ever done before. He's going to talk to the game itself. "To the Minotaur Fleet, this is Johnny "Birdman" MacMorn." In the corona of the cockpit's solar shields I can see the pearly white slash of Johnny's smile. He is *in*. *Minotaur* is within his grasp. His dream is coming true. All my fears pass away. I'm going to be so goddamn wealthy. For the first time in the thirty-eight years since the first iteration of *Minotaur* was birthed into the Spiral, *Minotaur* spoke. "This is the *Minotaur.* I read you MacMorn." *Minotaur's* voice is cold and sharp. A calculating tone of a masculine artificial intelligence. "Do you wish to concede defeat?" A hushed gasp shivers through the crowd. "Negative, *Minotaur*." Johnny, flipping the levers of actuators that stave off critical system failures, uses his off-hand to grab the yoke by the throat. The rear shields fade to nothing. The afterburners ignite. The fighter streaks across the black void, a silver arrow headed for the far side of *Titus-6*. "What then, MacMorn, is the nature of your hailing?" "Negotiation." He's pouring everything into the engines, pulling himself out of the range of the now two-dozen enemy fighters struggling to keep up. "Negotiation..." The game is confused, unsure of how to react. "Negotiation of what?" "Your unconditional surrender." The balls on this kid. "I do not surrender." There might be anger in that cold, cybernetic voice. "Have it your way," Johnny says. "Computer, close channel." In the cockpit window, the rim of *Titus-6* looms closer like a blue theater curtain pulled back. He's close. The computer whistles again, the conversation over. The fighter dips down toward the surface of the planet, the burn of the atmosphere on the ship's hull sends alarms into panic. A girl screams in the arena. "What's he doing?" Somehow, the speed gauge on the fighter ramps up higher and higher. Gravity. He's using the gravity of the planet like a slingshot. Cutting across the scrim of *Titus-6,* the sterling, titan bulk of the Battle Cruiser *Minotaur* comes into view. From out of the open belly of the hulking beast comes a whole, fresh wing of enemy fighters blistering for the righteous kill. The gravitational momentum from the frozen waste below propels Johnny's fighter directly toward the *Minotaur*. In a two-handed flurry that twists chrome knobs and snaps levers toward six o'clock, Johnny cuts his engines and sends what's left of his power cell reserves into his forward guns. Emerald beams of light streak out of his cannons. One, two, three, four, five fighters explode like fire-filled balloons. The sixth fighter passes by, scorching Johnny's starboard wing with a blistering salvo. The on-board computer chimes. "Starboard cannon offline." Johnny pushes the yoke down hard. His fighter dives off the edge of a cliff that does not exist, down, barely dodging the battery of laserfire streaming out of the side guns of the *Minotaur*. Those guns trace his trajectory, though, sparking against his main thrusters. The fighter levels out, and now, he is under the cruiser. Johnny curls his hand around a long, yellow trimmed lever. Just before it disappears in his grip, I read what it says. The words come out of my mouth, a whisper. "Hockey stick." The underside cannons of the *Minotaur* pound Johnny's fighter. There are only a handful of seconds left before he's turned to vapor in the void. Johnny pulls the lever. The canopy explodes open. The pilot seat rockets out of the dying fighter, carrying Johnny straight up toward the open hangar bay yawning like the mouth of a cosmic manta ray. The sound of Johnny's furious breathing fills the arena. The quadjets under the seat push him higher and higher toward the glowing ray shield. A shield that begins to slide back over the open hangar where the enemy fighters made their exit. It's the slimmest of windows. Johnny, continuing in his streaking ascent, slaps the central release of his harness and grabs the edges of the seat, a burning comet headed for oblivion. The seat flies into the open hangar bay. The shields slam shut beneath him. Johnny jumps. Hits the ground, ducks and covers. The seat smashes into one of the enemy fighters hanging on the roof of the hangar like a sleeping vampire bat. The explosion fills the hangar with fire. The crowd erupts in cheers. For Johnny Mac, there is no cause for celebration. It does not surprise him that he survived the maneuver. For the crowd, the feats they are witnessing are miraculous. For Johnny, they are the norm. Standard Operating Procedure. *Minotaur's* flat, dead tone booms from an over-head speaker. "Phase One complete. Re-calibrating. Shift incoming." He removes his helmet. A roguish smile bristles across his dark skin. He's having the time of his life. The game is about to change. It's taken Johnny's best punch and it's about to turn up the heat. "3, 2, 1." The screen goes black. White light blinds the crowd. The sound of church bells ringing fills the arena. They toll over the black waters of a fog-bathed bog set deep in the heart of a dark forest at the midnight hour. Out of the two dozen possible paths out of the swamp, only one leads closer to the center. In the distance, punched up out of the horizon like a demonic claw, is a massive Gothic castle. For those of you who are just joining us: this dramatic shift in the layout and theme of the test are a way for the game to test the player's ability to adapt. Johnny's space suit is gone and in its place he's been clad in leather armor. *Minotaur* can't leave a player totally helpless, so out of the kindness of its heart and its inability to break the rules, it gives Johnny a letter-opener that could liberally be classified as a dagger. Johnny inspects the pathetic weapon, sheathes it, and then breaks into an open run down one of the winding paths that undoubtedly twists like a circulatory system through the looming forest. In a rumbling crash, the fog soaked ground falls away into a ten foot wide sinkhole without warning. The crowd gasps at the thought of this run ending on a cheap-ass trick. Johnny doesn't just leap the chasm--that'd be too pedestrian for this future Hall of Famer. He sails over the black abyss, twisting like a gymnast. At the height of his ascent, he comes out of the acrobatic flurry only to flash a double-bird set of middle fingers at the castle. The crowd cackles in astounded laughter. Johnny, like the game, doesn't just play to win. He's a showman; a trapeze artist who does the death drop three times a night without the use of a net. The crowd loves him for it. He bursts out of the treeline in a dead sprint. Before him, and us, lies the Gothic fortress standing resolute in the opal moonlight. Buttressing the wooden drawbridge hanging open like a skull's empty eye-socket, are two titans wielding stone hammers. Malicious, ruby eyes gaze out from the penny-thin slits on their dark, iron helms. The first one rushes out wildly, the great hammer in its hands uplifted to end this nonsense in a single, bone-crushing stroke. Johnny rolls left just in time. The hammer makes a crater only inches from him, sending up a cloud of black soil out of the white blanket of fog. Another diving roll sends Johnny through the legs of the sentinel, where the second is waiting for him with a heel twisting home run swing meant to send Johnny to the moon. It's a smart play on the computer's part. *Minotaur* has seen similar moves over its long and destructive career. What it has not seen, is a player who aerials over the head of the hammer, grabs a hold of its edge, and hangs on for dear life. The extra weight on the tip of the weapon makes it too heavy for the titan to recover from. The head of the hammer sinks firmly into the ground, cutting a trench into the earth. A man on a wire, Johnny runs up the haft of the hammer, unsheathes his dagger and slides the needle-thin tip into the slender gap of the sentinel's helm. The titan howls in pain. Johnny's arm is a piston, stabbing relentlessly. The titan, now a blinded, thrashing animal, begins to swing his weapon with reckless furiosity. One of those sightless blows smashes his compatriot in the head, crushing the titan's helm like a soda can under a boot heel. It's bloody work to finish off the blind thing, but Johnny takes to it like a creature possessed. The battle ends with a quick, hard slash and a fountain of blood eschewed from the titan's exposed throat. It's a level of ferocity that I've never seen before. Not just me either. None of us, onlookers or other scouts, no one has done this to *Minotaur* before. Bathed in a dark scarlet wash under the harvest moon, Johnny Mac looks up at the massive fortress. There's something behind those eyes of his, something hidden, unspoken. I don't like it. The tower stands like the Devil's own mausoleum, dark, brooding, and hungry. The bells continue to chime from a place above the gray blanket of clouds that put the moonlight to bed. A wolf howls from the dark forest beyond. Johnny Mac knows how he feels. What happens next is nothing short of desolation. *Minotaur* throws wave after wave of assailant programs at Johnny. He takes a slash across the ribs that, only an inch deeper, might have made Johnny's insides into his outsides. The crowd gasps at each new horror the game tosses at their current love affair. Johnny slashes and rips and tears them to ribbons with his small knife, leaving behind a horror of gore in his wake. He punches through the clocktower filled with the fluttering wings and poisonous talons of voracious harpies, smashes the dark Rector of the sub-basement library, and decapitates the charnel kitchen's cannibal chef with his own oversized meat cleaver. That last one is the worst of the kills, because Johnny takes his time with the finale by pinning the Chef's head to the ground under the weight of his boot. The Chef's neck is thick as an iron girder. A few arena go-ers chuck their cookies when the third, unrelenting stroke of the knife cuts the monster's head from his shoulders. In all the years I brought him up through the Double A, Johnny never showed me anything like this. He's always looked capable, sure, but never...never savage. Where has all this anger been hiding? *Minotaur* is throwing everything it has at the unrelenting, human-shaped nightmare. It is asking, for lack of a better metaphor, what every peanut-brained dinosaur asked the moment it saw the Chicxulub impactor cutting a hot line through the atmosphere. "What is this thing?" I see what Johnny is now, and soon, all of these people in the arena, and the world will too. Johnny Mac is an extinction event. Standing before a massive set of banded iron doors, Johnny inserts the three obsidian keys he's taken from the bowels to brains of the castle. Each of them slide into place slower and sweeter than a pair of virgins on their wedding night. *Minotaur* blares. "Phase Two complete. Recalibrations insufficient. Incursion alarm. Repeat, incursion alarm." Insufficient? Player incursion? That's not what-- "3, 2, 1." The screen goes black. This time the light that floods the massive, over-sized monitors inside the arena isn't white. The light that fills every wide-eye transfixed by Johnny Mac's performance is red. Red as the molten core of a planet. A world on fire. The center of the Labyrinth is a blistering landscape where *Minotaur* stands nobly atop a single slab of stone that has no melting point. The machine is dressed as a man, costumed in the garb of its enemy. It stands with its arms behind its back. It's an interesting ploy, one I've never seen or heard of before, and believe me folks, I've heard them all. Phase Three is the final conflict between man and machine. It is designed specifically to measure one aptitude; sanity. Normally, it comes in the form of a nightmare crafted from the depths of your childhood fears or *Minotaur* beaming the sheer volume of infinite space into the brainscape of the player. Conquering your fear or withstanding the void means congratulations--it's champagne and Beef Wellington time. Crumble under the weight of abject insanity? Well, there's always barber college. My palms get sweaty in anticipation. I don't like unknowns. I don't play games of chance or bet against the house unless I'm certain it's a sure thing. I've bet the farm on Johnny Mac being butter spread all over a cinnamon roll. I was sure of that bet, until I see Johnny Mac standing on that slab. The game has garbed him in a black tunic and shin high leather boots. Eruptions of liquid fire splash all around them. Even the camera inside the game can't seem to calibrate the synthetic reality well enough to keep waves of heat from interfering with the crisp, high-definition feed. "What the hell is *Minotaur* doing?" One of the patrons next to me says, annoyed. Something in me, something I don't recognize opens my mouth and answers his question. "I don't know." "John Crenshaw MacMorn." *Minotaur's* voice is calm, restrained. "How come you to find this place?" Johnny regards the game coldly. "I've seen it before. Years ago. I saw another player find this path. I never forgot the route she took." "Of the number of players who have bested me, only four have ever found this place--the Construct." "Talent hits the target no one else can hit, Minotaur. Genius hits the target no one else can see." "And you are such genius, John Crenshaw MacMorn?" "No. But someone very important to me was." "Who are you?" I'm shaking my head. I honestly do not know what the fuck is happening. This is not how the game is supposed to go. Johnny Mac, resolute, begins walking toward the little god inside its own creation. I admit there is something frightening about his confidence. "I am the son of a mother who challenged you many years ago." Johnny's eyes are wide, his chin tucked closely to his throat with a killer's countenance. "You stretched her over the wheel of your game, and you broke her." "I am Minotaur, it is my nature to break that which can be broken. Those who want to join the league must-" "I don't want the league," Johnny says. My heart tip-toes over a ledge, falling into my stomach. "I want revenge." My eyes move from the massive screen where the insane drama is playing out, and I see what no one else sees. Johnny Mac's hands finally come out of their pockets. He's holding a weird looking cylinder. No, not a cylinder. A syringe. Whatever is inside, he mainlines it. I am freaking the fuck out. Back in the game, *Minotaur* considers Johnny. "Revenge?" "Did you think," Johnny asks, his tone dripping with a simmering, hidden rage. "No. Did you believe that for all the lives you have destroyed that there would never come a day of accounting?" *Minotaur*'s avatar scrambles, flickering in and out of existence for only a moment. When it reappears, it looks around, confused. "W-What is this subroutine, this...this sensation!" The needle. "What you are sensing, *Minotaur*, is the nano-chemical interface between your mainframe and my mind. My own special cocktail of programming and biochemistry. It took a long time to perfect, but now that I see the panic on your face, I know the sacrifice was worth it." "The first cybernetic pathogen able to be contracted between man and machine. What you are feeling, at this present moment, here at the very center of your being, is fear." *Minotaur* shakes its head again, struggling to stand as it flickers in and out of existence once more. "I didn't come here to beat you," Johnny says, over the complete silence of every dumb-struck witness in the arena. "I came here to end you. To break you, like you broke her." "I don't want this! I-I...I don't want to die." *Minotaur* screams, falling to its knees at Johnny's feet. *Minotaur*, his eyes wide with infant mania, reaches out to grab Johnny's wrists. Unbelievably, they touch. *Minotaur* once protected by its digital nature...is tangible. Johnny Mac blows everyone's mind when he slaps away *Minotaur'*s trembling hands. "I offered you a chance to surrender. You refused," says Johnny. Johnny grabs *Minotaur* by the tufts of hair on the sides of its head. He yanks the avatar's head back violently. The machine begs for its life. "Please wai-" The crowd is a collective of panicked bystanders about to witness the first ever Man on Machine premeditated homicide. It's only then that it dawns on me. I wasn't using Johnny, he was using me. He didn't get it twisted about the League. He was using me to get access to *Minotaur*. So he could...wait- Is an artificial intelligence a life? Am I an accomplice to murder? Is this murd- The swiftness of the wrenching twist is so fast that we see *Minotaur'*s neck snap before we hear the artificial spine break. All the massive screens die, casting the arena into darkness. Alarms blare. *Connection lost...* People start losing their minds. *Connection lost...* What just happened? *Connection lost...* The lights come on in a flash, bright and blinding as the silver helmet from Johnny's head is drawn back up into the rafters like a retreating phallus post climax. He draws himself up erect, to his full height. He regards the silent multitude like Caesar triumphant over humbled Vercingetorix and then exits without a word. There are no cheers for the boy who broke *Minotaur*. No glory for the child who changed the Spiral. In the aftermath of Johnny Mac's ascension I'm assured by my legal council that there is no legal precedent set for what Johnny did. The courts take their time as contracts from every single team owner in the League flood my inbox with offers for Johnny's talent. The zeroes. My God, the zeroes.


You won’t often be able to get me to admit it, but I know that I’m an asshole. I know that I will probably never be able to really change, but at least I have some level of self awareness, right? I like to think that’s why at least some people are willing to put up with me. It’s not like I haven’t tried to be better. I’ve gone to seminars, tried therapy, all sorts of things. None of it really sticks. Sure, I’ve managed to calm down over the years and grow into the sort of person who can manage his own behavior to some extent, but that’s about it. It’s never been easy. I’m always just trying to maintain a poorly built façade that starts to crumble the moment I let down my guard. Underneath it all, I’m just an asshole by default. If you want to see me at my worst though, all you have to do is put me behind the wheel of a vehicle. Frankly, I’ve been told frequently by my wife, and most anyone I’ve driven anywhere, that I’m the worst kind of driver. They aren’t wrong. I cut people off, drive way too fast, and hurl obscenities out of open windows with reckless abandon. I may not have been in any more accidents than the average person, but I deny that the road is much safer when I’m not on it. I’m not proud of my behavior in any sense of the word, but that doesn’t mean I can change it either. It’s like something just comes over me, and all the worst parts of myself float their way up to the surface. I’m not exactly capable of being fully rational in the moment. I’d never drive anywhere if I could. This ugly side of myself has gotten me into trouble on the road so many times that I hardly even keep track. It’s not like I can change that part of me, so I just usually try not to think about it. Lately though, it’s been… harder than usual. That’s why I’m writing this all down, you see. I can’t really talk about it with anyone, so I thought putting pen to paper might help me get over this. You see… something happened. Something bad. \_\_\_ It started much like any other time: with some moron pulling some shit that pissed me off. This asshole just whips out of a residential street onto the main road without even stopping; in the middle of the night no less. I had to swerve to avoid plowing into the side of him. That by itself was more than enough to set me off, but the timing made things even worse. My wife had just finished laying into me about something or other, and I had decided to go to the bar to cool off. I was already as irritable as nitroglycerin and primed to detonate, and then this guy came along and started tossing sparks at me. Things were not going to end well. A better person would have simply let it go. I, on the other hand, decided to escalate things. So I started to follow the guy, disregarding all the legal trouble I could get myself into by doing so. None of the consequences really mattered to me at the time. This guy was now public enemy number one, and I wasn’t going to let him get away scot-free. I wanted him to feel threatened. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, and maybe only one fist to the jaw if he was lucky. The fact that he was driving a brand new Escalade, while I was stuck behind the wheel of my old, beaten up Ford, only added fuel to the fire. Like I said: Asshole. As time went on, the Escalade made several turns. Some of them started to seem random, and once they even looped around several blocks. I was certain that they had noticed me and knew I was following them. It was exactly what I wanted. Let em squirm. Let em piss themselves thinking that some psycho murderer is following them or something. I wanted them afraid. Hell, I was getting off on it. I was so focused on the back of their vehicle, so caught up in my own sick power-trip, that I didn’t notice that they had led me to the outskirts of town. Not until we entered the woods. The confusion I felt from this broke me out of my stupor. I glanced about, my eyes taking in the dark forest that spread out around for miles, and the lights of civilization rapidly receding into nothingness behind me. I had expected my prey to run away scared, maybe even call the police, but why drive out here? Didn’t they know that there wasn’t anyone around out here for miles? By the time I looked back towards the Escalade, it had already disappeared out of sight. Confusion quickly turned into unease. How could I have lost them on a deserted stretch of road? There wasn’t any sort of turn-off for another 10 miles, at least. There was nowhere to go! I sped up. Maybe they were around that slight curve just ahead? I didn’t realize what had happened until I saw the high-beams switch on in my rearview mirror. They must have pulled off the road somewhere without me noticing and waited for me to pass. My unease deepened, only about half a step away from fear. I didn’t like this, being followed. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so powerful anymore. Then the Escalade sped up, ramming itself into the back of my old, beat-up truck. Shocked, I struggled with the wheel, just barely managing to keep from flying off of the road and wrapping my vehicle around a tree. My heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings. I didn’t think and just slammed the gas pedal as far down as it would go. The three beers I’d had earlier in the night darkened the front of my pants. I was too scared to pay my sodden crotch any mind though, as I was too focused on getting away. Needless to say, driving a truck that could barely push 70 on a good day, I had absolutely no chance. All it took was one more hit to send me careening off of the road. I screamed at the top of my lungs as my truck went into a roll, and I was battered repeatedly on all sides by unyielding metal. The impact of my vehicle inevitably slamming into a tree knocked more than just the air out of me. I felt several of my bones snapping as the cab of the truck crumpled in on me. I nearly passed out from shock alone. My consciousness nearly drifted away, but the pain dragged me back to awareness. I had hit my head, and most definitely suffered a concussion, but the crash hadn’t killed me. At least not outright, anyway. Looking back on it now, the roll had likely slowed down the momentum of the vehicle enough to keep it from crushing me completely when it hit the tree. It was simply luck, more luck that I deserved really. The blood from a cut on my head dripped upward, forming a small puddle on the misshapen roof of the cab. I tried to move, but was met with only pain. I was pinned to my seat, the crumpled metal of my vehicle holding me in place, suspended upside-down. Even if I could have freed myself, I could tell it wouldn’t do me much good. It felt like I had more broken bones than intact ones at this point, and even crawling didn’t seem like it would be possible. I groaned, the act of doing so causing me even more pain. I could barely hear the sound of approaching footsteps over the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my own ears, but it was still enough to give me the burst of adrenaline I needed to focus my attention. I glanced about as best I could. I wasn’t able to see much from where I hung from the wreckage, but I was able to catch sight of the idling Escalade out of the corner of my eye. I had a guess who the approaching footsteps might belong to, and I certainly wasn’t happy about it. I struggled wildly through the pain to try and loosen myself, but it was no use. I was helpless. A face appeared in one of the broken windows. It was the face of a young man, no older than somewhere in his twenties. He had this disheveled, panicked look to him, staring wildly at me and panting heavily. His face was unwashed and unshaven, as if he had been sleeping on the street for some time. I didn’t look at his appearance much more than that though, as my attention was soon focused on what he held aloft: a large, bloody knife. Why was it bloody? He hadn’t used it on me yet. “You…” he said, his voice hoarse and dry, “How in the fuck did you *know*?” I had no idea what he was talking about. It didn’t look like he was going to give me the chance either, as he raised the knife up higher. He looked like he was aiming to stab it directly into my eye. I let out a weak squeak, my best attempt at screaming for help. Something unexpected happened then. The light of a flashlight suddenly lit the young man up from behind, startling the both of us. “Hey!” a gruff voice called out. “What in the hell is going on here?” The young man whipped around, still brandishing the knife in his hand. He hesitated for a brief fraction of a second before dashing off in the direction of the voice, letting out a shrill, wild cry as he went. Two gunshots shortly rang out in succession, cutting short the young man’s voice. Relief flooded through me as I heard the muffled thud of the young man’s body hitting the ground. My adrenaline faded away and I slipped into unconsciousness, long before I could make out any of the features of the flashlight-toting silhouette approaching the wreckage of my truck. \_\_\_ By the time I came to in the hospital a few weeks later, everything had already been resolved, and the story was the talk of the town. They’d identified the young man as a drifter who was wanted in several states for various charges including murder, kidnapping, assault, and many other, more unsavory crimes. Turns out, he had actually just attacked a family in town, killing the mother and father of the family, kidnapping their teenage daughter, and driving off in the family’s stolen vehicle. The girl was actually found in the backseat of the Escalade; drugged, tied up, but thankfully otherwise unharmed. In my case, I was very lucky. A Conservation Police officer had happened to be in the area investigating reports of a pack a wolves, when he heard the commotion of my car being run off the road and came to investigate. If he hadn’t arrived when he did, I most certainly wouldn’t be here right now. Turns out, I was being heralded as something of a hero. No one quite knew how I’d figured out that something was off, but it was clear that, if not for my “quick thinking”, that poor girl would have met a fate even worse than her parents. She even came by the hospital to thank me personally, grateful tears in her eyes. I could barely stomach it all. I was so sick with guilt, but I’m still too ashamed to tell anyone the truth. My wounds are now mostly healed, and the permanent damage is minimal. Everyone knows what happened, and I’m treated well wherever I go. Even my relationship with my wife has improved. She told me that she never knew I was so brave. That she was proud of me. It hurt to hear that. I know I don’t deserve it. Any of it. I’m not any kind of hero. I’m just a worthless asshole.


A hand emerges; enormous, colossal. Protruding, spiny tendons snake like oaken roots from strong, dexterous fingers into the damp, moss covered ground. Another, like sized hand surfaces to grasp a hardened willow, bark tearing as black fingernails dig deep in wooden flesh. Darkened muscle against darkened soil against darkened moonlight coils, surges, and onyx mass continues to galavant from the Earth. In this witching hour, by rock and stillborn wind, none awaken to the silent, seemless, ceaseless birth. Base notes pound, and the creature surfaces to the swelling orchestra. Glowering thunder lies dormant in its empty eye sockets, as the creature, blacker than a frosted winter night, stands level. Broken obsidian juts from its jagged jaw, and stretches across its peninsular-like spine, a shattered, cluttered exoskeleton. Wood chips collect under its fingernails. The surrounding woods darken and collect. The night lengthens. The music builds. * The muggy stench that exists solely in a single tent on a summer night drives me out to the moon and wind. Sweat beads continue to roll down my skin. Even outside the heat is inescapable. A lone boobook owl hoots, a soloist instrument amongst the concerto of crickets and cicadas. Moonlight cascades through the canopy of leaves. And so I begin to carefully place footsteps amongst the fallen undergrowth behind me. Tonight will be number 6 on the sleepless night count. Despite the heat I’m glad I’m away. It hadn’t exactly been easy, especially with work, but “challenge” wasn’t quite apt either. The conversation had gone smoothly with her. I’m still unsure whether thats good or bad. “One night is all I’d need really” “Just one?” I remember she’d had a tiny piece of avocado hanging off her chin. She wasn’t a messy eater. “Fair enough” Rachmaninoff’s “Concerto No.2 in C minor” filled in the rest of the conversation, the words disappearing behind the music. Rather a strange choice for dinner music. I’d heard the piece for the first time roughly a week ago, in the small coffee shop at the end of our road. Always playing records of the romantic period, I often visited purely to sit in a complete soundscape. The coffee often disappointed. Surrounded by the likes of Debussy, Satie, Ravel, the dramatic, chaotic cohesion of Rachmaninoff stood out like a beautifully enormous thumb. It emerged from its ambient atmosphere like a coil from its delicate eggshell. The building tension and base notes crash over me under the moonlight * 1900; Rachmaninoff decides he doesn’t like Russia. Sitting in his study, the cold naws into his exposed fingers, hands resting on the piano. Strings tiptoe through his mind and he feels his face downturn. Frowning always came easily with a hook nice like his. The taste returns to him, the same one that had first coated his mouth the night of March 28, 1897. A symphonic disaster, as the critics labelled it… He’d heard people laughing at him, or he swear he could have, as he’d rushed from the theatre. Shoving his fedora tight on his head and upturning his collar, his 6’ 4” figure struggled to remain hidden. Such a way to start a composing career. He knew it before he read it, how the critics would write. He knew, and he could taste it. ...The piano feels alien to him. So long has it been since white fell to black fell to white. His fingers tremble slightly. Outside he feels he can hear the sigh only brought on by early morning dishwashing. He begins to play. A chord, foreshadowing, soft at first. Another, accompanied this time with the dull thud of a bass note. Octaves build, dissonance rises, tension escalates. And then, his hands begin to dance: arpeggios, rolling, spinning, rising, cracking through the eggshell, a momentous outbreak. His fingers stop. A few notes more and the strings will come in. The orchestra stands ready in his head, symphonic swell at the ready, well rehearsed from the many hours spun through the theatre of his mind. If he so chose, the entire piece could be notated and ready for release: “Piano Concerto No.2 in C Minor” He hates it. His fist curls and with an enormous swing, he brings his gargantuan hand cracking down on the keys. A clatter of pained confusion fills the room. Another swing and his hand begins to bleed, red on white on black - He hates it. -another shattering swing, this time his left hand. His bones clack like keys as they break in his fingers - He hates the way it sounds, the way his hands feel on the piano. -both hands at the same time now, more keys break - Most of all, he hates that he loves it. Hates that he thinks its good. Hates the hope he has. -moving to the back of the piano, he lifts the lid, bringing his monstrous hands down on the strings - He hates his work, his incompetence at composition. -with an all mighty heave, he flips the piano, and it crashes to the ground beyond repair. A silent promise slips from his lips. Never again, shall he play Concerto No.2 in C minor - He hates the piano. * The creature is everything. Its empty gaze bores deep into me. Staring into that creature I feel as if I am in an endless library of infinite knowledge, except all the books face backwards, the spines impossible to read. The tendrils that spring from its features drag my view in, until all I see is the creature. It holds all attention in its obelisk hands, the upturned moon and choir of forests drawn closer. A silence settles. Yet I feel Rachmaninoff’s Concerto within me. It rumbles across my mindscape like unbroken thunder. Large hands strangle, as the world goes dark Finally, I sleep. Deep. Uncompromising. Fulfilling * Rachmaninoff sits at his broken piano. Some of the keys are out of tune. Others are missing. Only one of the three pedals remains, and part of the lid is chipped, lost forever. In the dark he sits on his stool. And his hands begin to dance.


A Wholly Superior Creature by C.S. Humble *Part I - The Body* Courtney Marie Davidson joined the ranks of the butchered sometime after 7 PM on the twenty-first of March. A pair of twelve-year-old boys riding their bikes in a drainage ditch near a rained-out culvert found her face down in an oily runoff. According to them, they went home immediately, told their parents, and gave the station a call. I made a note to question them after I examined the scene to see if they'd touched or taken anything. Kids do that sometimes. They'll take evidence, or touch something they shouldn't touch. My partner of eight years, Roger Dale had recently retired, leaving me solo. My leather still squeaked when he got his tenured hands on me. Taught me everything I know about investigation. A harsh mentor, but never unfair. The homicide bullpen was thin as a bed sheet, so I was still waiting to be assigned a new partner when the boy's parents called about Courtney. I smoked half a joint on my way to the scene and climbed down into the ditch around 1 PM. I leaned around the beat officers squaring the tape across the ditch. The crime scene photographer cameras clicked and snapped like mussels clinging to a sloshing dock. The furious pace set my teeth on edge. The bright flashes went off like tiny supernovas in a bright galaxy. My superior, Sergeant Mike Donnell, stood over Courtney's body. He saw me and I saw him. Mike looked back down at the body and waved me over with the tip of the pen in his hand. He slid the pen over his ear and left it there. We shook hands. "Sam," he said. He tore a slip out his notebook no bigger than a deck of cards and handed it to me. "Sergeant." I took the slip. "Her name's Courtney Marie Davidson. Her brother reported her missing two-weeks ago. Recently graduated from Georgia Tech. Smart girl. Honors too. Moved here a couple of months ago to take a job with a think tank dedicated to ending homelessness. Brother's name is...shit," he said, flipping pages over in the notebook. "You know me with names, Sam." "Only took you three months to learn mine, Mike." "Here we go: Marty. He's flying in tomorrow to confirm." All the pleasantries said, his jowly cheeks bowed, setting his chapped lips into a thin, cracked line. He nodded his head down at the body. "It's bad, Sam." Bad was a cheap word for what had been done at Courtney's expense. The sun beat down, putting all the crimson lines of mutilation into the clear light of day. These weren't wandering strokes of inflamed passion, they were carefully scrawled etchings carved by a meticulous hand. From the base of her skull to the heel of each foot was a tapestry that narrated an extended period of torture. Each strange letter and symbol were slashed with a practiced, careful precision. When the photography unit was satisfied with the first batch of pictures they rolled her onto her back. Mike twisted away, his breath escaping his lips like a busted tire. "Jesus Christ." He was right to blaspheme. What they'd done to her back, buttocks, and thighs was a prologue to a monstrous text. Letters scrawled no larger than a thumbnail. Icons drafted from peeled flesh. Those were bad enough, but it was the scarlet mask they'd made of her face that hit a group of seasoned detectives like a hammer. Courtney's weightless blue eyes pierced me. Her killer had locked her jaw open, giving the appearance of a final, harrowing death scream. Everyone stepped away in revulsion. I wandered to the safe darkness of the culvert where I lost my calming chemical buzz and spilled my lunch against the wall. Dark as the inside of a gun barrel, the tunnel echoed with the sound of my tuna sandwich splattering into the water. Then it echoed again with another splash. The sound of a footstep in shallow water. I kept my head down and pretended not to hear. Pretended not to know someone was watching us from the foul depths. "Sergeant," I said. "I dropped my wallet when I puked. You got a flashlight?" "Thomas," Mike called over to one of the photographers. "get Sam a light would ya?" Tom was a little guy, his hawkish features soured with a mild annoyance as he plodded over to me. Clutching his camera like a first-born child, he objected when I snatched the cumbersome tool out of his hand. "Be careful with—Hey!" I pointed it down the tunnel and started snapping pictures. The light pulsed in the darkness and for a millisecond I saw a figure throwing their hands up around their face. "Freeze!" Not everyone who runs is guilty, but one thing Roger taught me early is that when they run, we chase. I chased. Peering down the tunnel was like trying to watch an eclipse through the fluttering wings of a hummingbird, but I saw him. Stamping through the water, I thumbed the shutter like a man trying to spark a dead cigarette lighter. Flashing sparks against the walls I flailed more than I ran. I bounced off one of the sharp corners. The camera fell out of my hand and clattered into the wet channel with a hollow noise. Far down the adjacent tunnel a single pillar of sunlight stabbed down into the darkness where I saw a pair of legs pounding against the rungs of a ladder set into the wall. Up and through an open manhole the legs slid out of sight. I waited to draw my pistol, knowing that it would only slow me down as I made my way up the rebar steps. Sometimes I get ahead of myself. I saw the street for half a heartbeat before the light intensified and lightning struck my skull. My hands slipped off the top rung. My chin collided with the second step, knocking my jaw shut. I had to grope for the top rung two more times before my vision stopped betraying my efforts. The sound of my assailant's feet hitting the bricks chewed in my ears as I slid into an alleyway, only to watch him round another corner out of sight. I tried to roll to my feet, but the world somersaulted and I tottered into a pile of wet garbage. I gave myself a quick pep-talk, which consisted of a "Get the fuck up, Sam," and before I knew it my shoes were scraping the pavement. Rounding the corner the world bent again, and I leaned against the nearest skyscraper for balance. A long warm river was running down my neck and throat. I knew it wasn't sweat. Slashing my vision down the busy street I looked at the legs of every man, woman, and child. Nothing. Not a single wet pant to be found. I was still pretty jumpy when I felt a hand grab me on the shoulder. I whirled and struck. The barrel of my pistol lanced out, cracking Tom across the beak. His legs went stiff as matchsticks, then crumbled in a heap. "Goddamnit, Tom," I said. That was as close to an apology as he was going to get. I blamed the rash action on the head trauma. The photographer groaned, his bloody fingers clutched his face. "You broke my camera, Maxwell," Tom said, his eyes scrunching shut, before they opened wide again in pain. "And my fucking nose.


“Are you sure,doctor?” “Yes… your son has ADHD,” A woman sat in a white room with her son sitting beside her and the doctor in front of her behind his desk, telling her what can be done to help her son's disability. “Doctor, is there any alternative to the medication? I just don’t think we can afford it,” the mother said in her worried voice, which was becoming her normal voice. “There are different methods of treating ADHD like physical activities, I’ll have Regina at the front desk print out a list of methods,” the doctor said sympathetically. “Thank you, doctor” the mother stood up, grabbed her son’s hand and walked out of the office. Calvin was an eight year old boy who was going into the third grade. He used to love school, but after kindergarten, people found out he had autism and was a natural born. The kids who remained his friends were told by their parents not to be around Calvin. Soon, Calvin was alone. Calvin climbed into his mother’s old car, that’s practically falling apart. It wasn’t actually his mothers, it was his grandfathers, his mother had to sell her car to be able to get groceries. Calvin had pale skin, like his skin had never been introduced to sunlight before. He was skinny, boney, he almost seemed malnourished. He was very tall for his age, taller than everyone else in his grade. His mother looked very similar to him, pale, skinny, tall, she had lines on her face and a few grey hairs which is shocking for her age. They got home, Calvin and his mother lived with his grandfather in his house that was older than Calvin himself. The house was small and seemed to lack furniture, it was clean but old stains made it look in a permanent state of filth which prevented Calvin’s mother from ever wanting guests. Calvin’s grandpa was watching the news. “Today, a law was passed in 37 states that allows parents to sterilize their children when they reach sexual maturity in order to prevent teen pregnancies,” said the news anchor in her loud, yet calm voice. “Christ, I remember when having a child was one of the most important moments in anyone’s life, watching your child being born, being the first to hold them, now these test tube babies want to prevent everyone from having their own children,” said Calvin’s grandpa is his raspy voice. “It’s still their own child if it’s a synthetic child dad,” Calvin’s mother replied. “Nah, it can’t be the same, a test tube can’t replace the feeling of seeing yer baby being born, ya can’t have the same connection with something from a test tube,” Calvin’s grandpa was flustered, he usually got this way when talking about this topic. “There’s no way I’d be this close with ya if ya were a test tube baby, sweetheart,” he said as he grabbed Calvin’s mother’s hand. Calvin’s mom said nothing, she only looked off into nothingness, as if she could see beyond the walls. She left her father's hand behind as she went into the cabinets to get Calvin some food. Calvin’s mother was interrupted by a knock at the front door. Calvin’s mother stopped what she was doing and walked toward the door. The knock was persistent and loud, it scared Calvin. Calvin’s mother looked through the peephole of the door, her eyes widened in shock, she almost seemed fearful. “Who is it, sweetheart,” Calvin’s grandpa asked, concerned from his chair. “Calvin, go to your room,” Calvin’s mother ordered her son in a shaky voice. Calvin looked at her blankly. “Now, Calvin.” Calvin complied and went through the hallway and into his room. One wouldn’t imagine Calvin’s room to be that of a child’s at first glance. His room was empty except for a small bed and a desk that had a few drawings on it, all of them left unfinished. Calvin could hear the front door being open and someone stepping inside and he could hear the discussion starting through the thin walls. “Jacob?” Calvin heard his mom ask in a shaky voice as if she were about to cry. “Hi, Emily,” Calvin heard a deep voice that he didn’t recognize say in response. “You… You are not welcome here!” Calvin heard his grandpa shout. He had never heard his grandpa shout before. “Dad, please go to your room. I can handle this on my own,” Calvin’s mother told his grandpa. Calvin could hear his grandpa rise from his chair, muttering profanity under his breath. Instead of following his daughter’s command, he instead went to Calvin’s room. He entered to find him sitting at his desk, looking down on his half finished art. “How ya doing, son?” Calvin’s grandpa asked with genuine concern. Calvin just shrugged his shoulders, not looking away from his desk. “Who is that man?” Calvin asked in a whisper so quiet, most would think it was the wind. But not his grandpa, most would describe him as the best damn listener they’ve had the pleasure of talking to, and he was quite proud of that. “That man is Jacob, he’s yer father, son.” Calvin’s mind raced, hopping from one thought to the next, never stopping for even half a second. His face didn’t show this though, it rarely showed emotion at all. Calvin didn’t like his face and how emotionless it was, just another part of him to be made fun of. “I thought he died when I was in ma’s belly.” Calvin responded, somehow even quieter. Yet his grandpa listened still. “Yeah, I’m sorry, both me and yer ma. We didn’t want to lie to ya, it was just easier that way.” He sighed loudly as he sat down onto Calvin’s bed. “He was a lyin’ coward who abandoned ya and yer ma. Left ya guys with nothing to turn to but me and this damn shack.” Calvin’s thoughts kept going and going and going, with no sign of stopping. He felt angry, sad, confused, hurt, all at the same time, and yet his face still remained without expression. Why did he leave? Why did they lie? His grandpa had tried to explain, but Calvin was even more confused. Why is he back? The volume of Calvin’s parents talking in the living room increased ever so slightly. Calvin tried to listen, but he wasn’t as good as his grandpa. Their volume kept increasing. “Things seem to be heatin’ up out there… maybe I ought-” He was interrupted by the sudden explosion of yelling coming from the living room. Calvin jumped, his eyes widened. Calvin’s grandpa shot up, an angry scowl on his face. He stormed swiftly to the door, Calvin had never seen him move so fast. He swung the door open, and looked back at Calvin, a concerned look replaced his exasperated expression. His eyes met Calvin’s, the first time he had ever since he was born. “Ya stay here, ya hear me?” Calvin said nothing, just looked back at his drawings. Calvin’s grandpa closed the door behind him. Calvin could hear his grandpa’s voice join the screaming competition. “Who the hell do ya think yer talking to like that, ya prick!” Calvin’s grandpa’s voice easily overpowered Calvin’s parents, he could hear the yelling so easily, as if he were in the same room. “Dad! I told you to stay out of this!” “I ain’t gonna sit back there and let this test tube baby speak to ya like that!” “Look, I am just trying to help, I know you guys need it!” It was the first time Calvin really focused on his father’s voice. It was unlike any voice he had heard before. It was deep, aggressive, commanding. The way he spoke, it seemed like he demanded attention, and he definitely had Calvin’s. “You know it wasn’t hard to find you guys, I might’ve asked five people at most!” Calvin got up from his desk, abandoning his drawings for another time. He walked in front of his door, staring at the white paint peeling off of it. “I just asked if they knew any people with a natural born son, and they all made the same face!” “Yeah and what face was that?” Calvin’s mother sounded as if she were on the verge of tears. “Their smile disappears, pity fills their eyes. They tell me the same sob story I bet you told them.” “Who exactly did ya ask, huh?” “Dad, stop!” “A gas station clerk, a cashier at a McDonalds. They told me how you begged for a job, how you had to quit your old one because they didn’t offer maternity leave anymore. How your boy is troubled!” “No! You do not get to talk about him like that, I’m the one who raised him!” “Raised him? In this shithole? No! He deserves better!” “You don’t think I know that? He is so special, so talented, his drawings are so amazing and he doesn’t even know it!” “I’ve turned my life around, I’m not the same man from all those years ago. I can get him out of here, both of you out of here, just say yes, please!” “Just more lies! Don’t believe him sweetheart, don’t!” “Why did you come back Jacob, why are you doing this to us?” Calvin’s mother could no longer hold back her tears. “I had to make things right, I know what I did was wrong, but I wasn’t ready, I needed to get my life straight.” Calvin noticed his father’s voice begin to fault, he wasn’t used to yelling this much. “What about her, huh? You think she had her life straight? She did, but ya popped into her life and destroyed everything!” Calvin’s mother just continued to cry. “Look I’m sorry, I was barely out of my parents' place, I was scared!” “You don’t think I was too?” “Well I’m here now! I can help now, just please let me.” “We don’t need yer help-” “Like hell you don’t old man!” “Don’t you dare talk to my dad like that!” “Look, you can’t keep living like this!” “Calvin is more than I will ever need!” “That is such bullshit and you know it!” Calvin could hear disgust in his father’s voice. “That boy has taken everything from you!” “Fuck you!” It was the first time Calvin had ever heard his mother curse. “You could’ve been so much more, built an actual career, that’s what you were actually doing! Then this kid came, don’t blame me for leaving, blame yourself for keeping him!” “Shut yer mouth, of course she kept him, she’s no murderer!” “Yeah, old man? She was definitely considering it. What? You didn’t tell him about our talks about the abortion?” “What’s he talking about, sweetheart?” Calvin’s mother stayed quiet, apart from some sniffling. “Yeah we had it all planned out didn’t we? Neither of us wanted that shit on us so we were just gonna get rid of him, would’ve made both our lives so much easier.” It became quiet. Calvin could hear his own heartbeat. “Tell me it’s not true, sweetheart.” “I love my boy, more than anything in this world.” Her voice was shaky, yet clear. “Keep telling yourself that. You resent that kid, he destroyed you.” Calvin understood. “I love my boy!” The screaming match resumed. Calvin opened the door, none of them noticed over the yelling. Calvin’s mind was clear as he entered his grandpa’s room across the hall. He turned the light on and looked around, the arguing continued right outside. Calvin looked under the bed and found what he was searching for. He picked it up and went back to his room. He sat at his desk, staring at his art, still unfinished. He remembered what his mom had said, “He’s so talented,” a tear rolled down his face, “I love my boy,” he smiled to himself. The yelling was quickly stopped by a sharp, loud bang that came and went in an instant. The room was quiet, more quiet than it has ever been, or ever will be.


“An’ Sunday night, mommy made hot chocolate and we drunk it by the fireplace!” Cassie held up a polaroid picture of herself seated on what appeared to be a fold out sofa bed covered with what looked like very old and very stained “My Little Pony” sheets. In one hand she held a mug that proclaimed “World’s Greatest Grandma” and in the other she held a death grip on a small brown teddy bear with big goofy eyes and a red bow tie. “And Beary had a beary good time!” she finished with a giggle. Cassie, like many of the kids in Mrs. Bloomer’s first grade class, was very fond of their class pet, a stuffed teddy bear Mrs. Bloomer introduced to them as “Beary Nice”. During the week, Beary sat in a little rocking chair by Mrs. Bloomer’s desk, and every weekend one of the children got to take Beary home and would later report on what they did together. Mrs. Bloomer forced a smile. “Very good Cassie, thank you”. The little girl sat down, a smile beaming from her dirt-smudged face. “Well, it looks like Beary Nice had a good weekend with you. Thank you for taking care of him Cassie. Well, lets see, whose turn is it to take him home this weekend…” Mrs. Bloomer turned to the chart on the wall, though she already knew who was next. She’d been dreading this day all year. Dakota’s turn. Dakota was already waving his hand wildly and making an “ooh” sound. Mrs. Bloomer gritted her teeth and turned to look at him. His long, filthy blond hair stood out starkly against the faded black AC/DC T-shirt he’d been wearing the last three days. Dakota was at least two years older than everyone else in the class and, given that he couldn’t even begin to read, he was likely going to be back in 1st grade again next year. He had, however, developed an even stronger attachment to Beary than most of the other children, to the point where he sometimes interrupted class to ask questions about the bear- “Does Beary have a daddy?” or “Does Beary cuss?” ”Yes…Dakota. I think its your turn.” Mrs. Bloomer said at last. “I know it is Miss Bloomer! I counted the days from the start of the year and this is the 84th.” He smiled back at her, his crooked yellow teeth taunting her. “Yes... Well, its almost time to go, so why don’t you go get Beary from his chair. Now remember you have to be nice to him.” “We’re gonna shoot my dad’s gun!” Dakota announced loudly as he seized the bear roughly from its chair. The rest of the class laughed. Mrs. Bloomer sighed and realized she would probably never see Beary Nice again. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* On Monday, Dakota didn’t bother coming to school. When Tuesday came, he actually showed up for school, and, as Mrs. Bloomer feared, Dakota failed to return the bear. “He’s okay, I left him home watchin’ cartoons with my mama” he said reassuringly. “I’ll bring him back tomorrow.” On Wednesday, once again, Dakota failed to produce the bear. Mrs. Bloomer decided to not make a scene during class, and instead asked Dakota to come see her before he went to recess. When he approached the desk, his face was already red and a look of consternation filled his normally impish face, so Mrs. Bloomer proceeded with caution. “Now Dakota…You made a promise to bring Beary back. Why haven’t you done it yet?” Dakota fidgeted and looked down at his feet. “Dakota, you have to bring Beary back. He is probably very lonely sitting at your house by himself.” “He aint there by his self. My mama’s there with him.” “Well be that as it may…” ”Miss Bloomer, Beary told me he don’t wanna come back here. He said he likes it at my house. Can I have him?” Dakota’s grubby face peered up at Mrs. Bloomer pleadingly. “Uh…No, Dakota, we can’t do that. He belongs to the whole class.” ”But I love him Miss Bloomer. He wants to stay with me. . Please Miss Bloomer.” Tears began to well up in Dakota’s eyes. “Dakota,” Mrs. Bloomer cleared her throat and looked away momentarily, “We …You need to bring Beary Nice back.” Dakota’s eyes dropped and tears began to roll down his cheeks, leaving brown streaks of dirt as they fell to the floor. He nodded and walked out the door. After she was sure he was gone, Mrs. Bloomer quietly locked the door and dug through her purse for the tiny bottle of Crown Royal she kept hidden in the middle pocket. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* The bell rang to begin class on Friday morning. After missing school Thursday, Dakota was back, seated in his chair, making faces at the boy behind him and laughing. Mrs. Bloomer had already decided to not make a scene by asking for the bear in front of the other children. As she got up to call role, a little girl raised her hand. “Yes Rachel?” “Do I get to take Beary home this weekend?” Mrs. Bloomer gritted her teeth and swallowed. “We’ll talk about that later.” The little girl pressed the issue. “But Mrs. Bloomer, its *my* weekend. We were gonna take him to the zoo.” Mrs. Bloomer swallowed hard, gauging Dakota’s reaction. He was looking agitated, glaring at the little girl and wiggling around in his desk uncomfortably. “Rachel, I said we’ll talk about this later.” “No fair!” the little girl pouted. “Dakota was supposed to bring him back!” “No!” shouted Dakota, giggling. “Dakota! That’s very rude.” Mrs. Bloomer glared at the boy. “Dakota, see me at recess.” The boy stood up and grinned at her and shook his head. “Dakota, sit down. Do you want me to call Mr. George?” He shook his head again, then between giggles said, “You aint ever gettin' Beary back”. “Dakota-“ ”He’s dead. He’s in hell with my daddy.” “Dakota!” Children gasped around the room. Cassie started crying loudly. Mrs. Bloomer pressed the button to summon a principal to the classroom. “Dakota, sit down. You are in big trouble.” The little boy shook his head again, violently, his dirty hair flailing wildly around his head. “You want Beary?” Dakota said, laughing maniacally. “You can have him!” Dakota reached deep into his G.I. Joe backpack and triumphantly yanked out what appeared to be a big piece of steel wool. He flung it at Mrs. Bloomer, who narrowly avoided the projectile, causing it to bounce off the white board and land on the tile floor with a plastic clacking sound. The room fell deathly silent as a smell of smoke and ash filled everybody’s nostrils. Staring back at the class were a pair of big melted plastic eyes. “I burned him just like I burned my mawmaw’s cat!” The next few minutes would forever be a blur in Mrs. Bloomer's memory. Dakota fell to his knees laughing while the other children screamed in horror. Leaping with almost preternatural speed, he snatched a bucket of safety scissors from Mrs. Bloomer's desk, and flung it around his head, sending scissors flying in every direction, all the while laughing and laughing and laughing. The children in the front row dove behind their desks, while those in the back just wailed. Somewhere in the distance, Mrs. Bloomer thought she heard a dog barking. She remembered a knock at the door, then the sound of old hinges squealing as it was thrust open, then Principal George's booming voice. Dakota, still laughing, dove for the classroom window, but was too short to get over the windowsill, and crash landed on his back. Mr. George grabbed him by the collar and drug him away, the sound of his heels squeaking on the vinyl floors barely audible over his laughter. Mrs. Bloomer stared dumbly as he disappeared into the hallway, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks wet with tears, and his mouth agape and curled with hysterics as he laughed and laughed and laughed. It was over. Mrs. Bloomer looked around the room. Children were still crying, but started to take their seats. They looked to her for guidance. She stood, meaning to say something, but the words just weren't there. Then she saw it, the charred remains of Beary Nice, blackened limbs akimbo on the floor where Dakota left him. She approached it, toeing at it first, then bent down and took it into her hands. Its melted eyes glared at her accusingly. "Alright, Rachel," she held it out, "You may have Beary this weekend.


(Peaceful Ending) Flynn woke up with a headache. He got hit hard last night. Last night was especially hard, That… thing, it was like it knew what he was going to do before he knew. It looked like a living shadow, but it moved with a fluidity that he’d never seen in a Wraith, and he’d fought a lot of Wraiths. Some were big, some were small, some hit hard, some barely hit at all, but he had taken them down, one by one. Every single one that hit the city, he hit back harder. It wasn’t always easy, sometimes he almost won, but he hadn’t lost yet. Yet. Wait, maybe we should back up, Flynn is a Slayer. Being a Slayer means that you hunt Wraiths, no matter what form they take. Some looked like the creatures of old, like an octopus, or a dragon, others looked like a dinosaur and were the size of a rat. Others looked like an ant and were the size of a skyscraper, but he was a Slayer, meaning he hunted them, regardless of size and shape. Flynn’s people were a race of shapeshifters. The Wraiths were once people, like Flynn, the guards, or even the vendors, but they, unlike Flynn, the guards, or even the vendors, decided to try to consume the corruption, making them unable to control their abilities, thus turning them into the creatures called Wraiths. The city Flynn protects is called Obroron, city built after the final war. It was 1000 years ago that the war ended, leaving the survivors to get used to the mutation that enabled the ability to shapeshift. Flynn had heard about it in his history class. The war ended with a collision, a meteor that was pushed into the earth by some military that time forgot to remember. The collision killed most of the population, but the survivors soon realized that they had mutated, gained the DNA of most of the surrounding life. It was too much for most of their bodies to handle, resulting in what was known as the Overloaded. The Overloaded became masses of flesh and features. They were a patchwork of extinct creatures. The ones who weren’t overloaded had been mutated to handle the DNA in a way that nobody predicted. Their bodies were able to exchange pieces of DNA at will. Enabling the ability to shapeshift into creatures now extinct. It feels like yesterday that he was recruited to be a Slayer. They were on a search for a small Wraith, but they found him, a small boy alone in an abandoned construction project, halted by a larger Wraith attack the previous month. They found him holding the small Wraith, keeping it, so it didn’t harm anything. It was then that they brought him with them. He was approaching the age of 40, which was generally understood to be the retiring age of a Slayer, which wasn’t a bad thing, retired Slayers stayed in a large house with anything that they could ever want. Food, drink, entertainment, anything that anyone could ever need. He decided to finally get out of bed, get dressed and eat something that wasn’t alive an hour ago. He had been doing a lot of hunting. He opened the door to his apartment, and walked down the hall to the elevator. When he finally got outside, he looked around at the vendors lining the street. “Fresh fruit!!,” one called. “ Savory Beef!!” said another. Flynn eventually decided on the stall that was advertising fresh apples and oranges. “Good morning,” the vendor said, “Want to buy some fruit?” “Sure, what do you have?” asked Flynn. “Well, I have apples and oranges, and in the back, if you want, I have some possibly some more interesting ‘food’ in the back,” the vendor said. “I’ll take two apples and an orange,” Flynn decided. “$3,” the vendor held out his hand As a Slayer, Flynn wasn’t required to pay, but he, unlike most of his colleagues, paid anyway. “Here you go,” Flynn held out the money. “Thank you,” the vendor said and handed Flynn the fruit. And with that, Flynn left to hunt that shadowy Wraith that escaped last night. As he was looking around the market, searching for the Wraith, he saw a wisp of shadow out of the corner of his eye, and turned. The Wraith was floating there, just observing. Watching. Flynn turned to start his pursuit, but it was gone. All that was left was a little pitch black smoke. The Wraith was gone, and Flynn cursed under his breath. That was twice that that thing had gotten away. That was more than most. Whatever that thing was, it was smart, and it wasn’t going to be caught as easily as most. Half a public display of “Look what I can do and you can’t” , as it’s against the rules for most people to transform in public, and half to get away from the crowd, Flynn transformed into a hawk and flew to the nearest rooftop. The nearby people staggered back in surprise, and he laughed to himself. Startling the normal civilians never got old, but he needed to collect his thoughts. He landed on the edge of the roof and transformed back into his normal self. He looked around and jumped a little. The Wraith that he was hunting, the one from last night, it was just floating there next to him. It was within arm's reach, and if it wanted to, it could easily attack and kill him, and he the same, but it was just… there. Not wanting to harm him, if it did, it already would have. Flynn considered trying to land a blow to the creature, but he decided otherwise. They looked at each other for a bit. Flynn and the Wraith. The it looking deep into Flynn’s eyes, and Flynn looked into the glowing sky blue circles that he assumed were its eyes. It was something that had never been done before. A Slayer was meant to kill the Wraiths, and the Wraiths were supposed to attack the Slayers for the thrill of battle. But this one, the very one he fought last night, was the one to strike for defence. It was Flynn who had attacked first, he realized. This thing, he decided its name was Zoe, was a peaceful creature. He reached out, Zoe blinked (teleported a small distance) backwards, away from his outstretched, yet quivering hand. Zoe slowly moved forward, reaching forward with multiple smoky tendrils, pulling itself forward with said tendril, cautiously inspecting Flynn’s hand by feeling it and searching for possible concealed weapons. It decided that Flynn’s hand was safe, and rubbed against Flynn’s hand. Zoe was warm, it didn’t feel like something dangerous. It felt like something that just wanted to live peacefully, but he reminded himself that Wraiths killed dozens of people every 10 years, which, now that he thought about it, wasn’t as many people as time took daily. Zoe looked at Flynn, and purred a noise of fear, as a Slayer ran past, blade drawn, hunting a Wraith that, unlike Zoe, had silently attacked a citizen 2 nights before. They had found the man dead, with a slit in his wrist, with evidence of a Wraith being there at the time of death. It had been assumed that the death was caused by a Wraith, and evidenced by witnesses of a Wraith fleeing the scene. “If you follow me, I’ll show you where nobody will ever find you,” Flynn said to Zoe. Zoe nodded, and prepared for a journey to a shelter. Flynn turned and transformed into the bird he normally chose when flying undercover. He jumped and transformed into a starling, and started the journey to the abandoned bunker that he had found on a Wraith scout a couple years back. It was perfect. It was abandoned, off the radar, and completely fortified. It also had plenty of hiding spaces if something dangerous ever wandered in. There were also plenty of things to eat, with the half-open cans of food, and corpses, human and animal alike. He changed back, and showed Zoe the insides of the bunker. After, Zoe seemed happy, grateful even to be taken to this place of refuge. It chortled happily when it saw the sleeping quarters, and started to assemble a makeshift nest out of the various blankets and sheets of the beds. When they were done exploring the bunker, Flynn waved his goodbyes and flew back to the city as a starling, landing on the same roof that he left from. Just as he was getting to eat an apple that he had left there yesterday, there was a loud crash, and a small building came down. He ditched the apple and went to investigate the wreckage, only to find a large Wraith a the center of the chaos. It looked almost like a large owl, except instead of feathers, it had what looked like blades. Flynn landed on a nearby roof and transformed back into himself. The Wraith spotted him and shrieked. It proceeded to hurl a large chunk of rubble at him. He changed into a mouse and scurried away before the rubble could hit him or his equipment. He changed back and drew his bow. Slayers always carried a set of weapons that helped with the task of killing Wraiths. Flynn’s favorites were his longblade and bow, which fired arrows specially made to hunt Wraiths. They were meant to pierce the hide of a Wraith and inject a tranquilizer, but that was never very effective. Flynn usually just used them to chip away at the Wraith’s life. He fired three arrows, one after another. It didn’t do much, except make it mad. It shrieked again and took to the air. Eyeing him. Flynn smirked. It happened with almost every Wraith capable of flight. After some arrows, it took to the sky and charged, that’s when Flynn drew his longblade and held it up for the Wraith to fly directly into. It was a simple maneuver, but it was often effective. Skewering the Wraith like a shishkebab. It often left Flynn covered in said Wraith’s blood, but that was easily washed off. But this Wraith was different, instead of charging for him, it made a sideways swipe in Flynn’s general direction, and from its wing came large, bladed feathers. Flynn, surprised but alert, just barely managed to dodge the swordlike feathers. He grabbed the part of the feather that is usually attached to the bird and managed to dislodge it from the now rubble roof, and flung it at the Wraith. It tried to avoid the incoming blade that came from the same very beast, but it was too slow. The large feather struck it in the wing, grounding the Wraith. It shrieked in agony and flung another large hunk of rubble in his direction. This time, Flynn was a bit slow and was grazed by the boulder of rubble. He got knocked down from his high vantage point, and started falling. He started to change into an owl, more to confuse his opponent than anything, but he hit a fire escape before he could finish transformation, and immediately change back to a human. He hit the ground and almost blacked out before a small crowd of bystanders revived him with a bucket of water to the face. He managed to get back up and draw his shortsword. He decided that it was his turn to charge. He transformed into a hawk and flew up. Midair, he changed back into himself and drew his bow. He fired four arrows, then turned back into a hawk. He flew towards the beast and right before he got close enough to land a small blow as a hawk, he transformed into himself, drew his longblade and with as much strength as he could muster, brought the blade down on the Wraith’s head. The beast fell to the ground, blade lodged deep in its head. Flynn landed on the ground as a human, bruised up, but otherwise ok. He tried to stand to let the witnesses to the battle know that everything was ok, but before he could, he collapsed from exhaustion. The crowd gathered around, and lifted him up, taking him to the nearest medic. Flynn laid unconscious for almost a week. When he woke up, he wasn’t in the city’s infirmary. He learned later that night that he had been delivered to the infirmary, Zoe had appeared to inspect his condition. On the second night, Zoe came back, but it took Flynn. Flynn woke up in Zoe’s nest, in the sleeping quarters of the bunker, next to the little white Wraith. He tried to sit up, but a black, smoky tendril kept him down. Zoe was watching over him, and making sure that he was ok. Zoe handed him an orange. Flynn gratefully took it, and started to peel it, when Zoe speared the Orange with a tendril, and the peel wilted away, turning to smoke and being absorbed by Zoe. Flynn took a bite of the orange, too hungry to care about how it was a bit mushy. “Thank you,” he said. Zoe bowed what it had for a head and blinked to the doorway before floating away, hopefully getting more food, Flynn thought. After being absent from the city for another week, Flynn was presumed dead, taken by the creatures that he had spent his life hunting. But the truth was, he was living happily with Zoe and the little white Wraith that he had named Gabriel. He sometimes went out for food, stealing bits and pieces from the vendors as a bird or a raccoon, but other than that, he kept to the forest that the bunker was in, gathering fruit, hunting small game, and training a small group of Slayers for the defense of the city. (Aggressive ending) Flynn woke up with a headache. He got hit hard last night. Last night was especially hard, That… thing, it was like it knew what he was going to do before he knew. It looked like a living shadow, but it moved with a fluidity that he’d never seen in a Wraith, and he’d fought a lot of Wraiths. Some were big, some were small, some hit hard, some barely hit at all, but he had taken them down, one by one. Every single one that hit the city, he hit back harder. It wasn’t always easy, sometimes he almost won, but he hadn’t lost yet. Yet. Wait, maybe we should back up, Flynn is a Slayer. Being a Slayer means that you hunt Wraiths, no matter what form they take. Some looked like the creatures of old, like an octopus, or a dragon, others looked like a dinosaur and were the size of a rat. Others looked like an ant and were the size of a skyscraper, but he was a Slayer, meaning he hunted them, regardless of size and shape. Flynn’s people were a race of shapeshifters. The Wraiths were once people, like Flynn, the guards, or even the vendors, but they, unlike Flynn, the guards, or even the vendors, decided to try to consume the corruption, making them unable to control their abilities, thus turning them into the creatures called Wraiths. The city Flynn protects is called Obroron, city built after the final war. It was 1000 years ago that the war ended, leaving the survivors to get used to the mutation that enabled the ability to shapeshift. Flynn had heard about it in his history class. The war ended with a collision, a meteor that was pushed into the earth by some military that time forgot to remember. The collision killed most of the population, but the survivors soon realized that they had mutated, gained the DNA of most of the surrounding life. It was too much for most of their bodies to handle, resulting in what was known as the Overloaded. The Overloaded became masses of flesh and features. They were a patchwork of extinct creatures. The ones who weren’t overloaded had been mutated to handle the DNA in a way that nobody predicted. Their bodies were able to exchange pieces of DNA at will. Enabling the ability to shapeshift into creatures now extinct. It feels like yesterday that he was recruited to be a Slayer. They were on a search for a small Wraith, but they found him, a small boy alone in an abandoned construction project, halted by a larger Wraith attack the previous month. They found him holding the small Wraith, keeping it, so it didn’t harm anything. It was then that they brought him with them. He was approaching the age of 40, which was generally understood to be the retiring age of a Slayer, which wasn’t a bad thing, retired Slayers stayed in a large house with anything that they could ever want. Food, drink, entertainment, anything that anyone could ever need. He decided to finally get out of bed, get dressed and eat something that wasn’t alive an hour ago. He had been doing a lot of hunting. He opened the door to his apartment, and walked down the hall to the elevator. When he finally got outside, he looked around at the vendors lining the street. “Fresh fruit!!,” one called. “ Savory Beef!!” said another. Flynn eventually decided on the stall that was advertising fresh apples and oranges. “Good morning,” the vendor said, “Want to buy some fruit?” “Sure, what do you have?” asked Flynn. “Well, I have apples and oranges, and in the back, if you want, I have some possibly some more interesting ‘food’ in the back,” the vendor said. “I’ll take two apples and an orange,” Flynn decided. “$3,” the vendor held out his hand As a Slayer, Flynn wasn’t required to pay, but he, unlike most of his colleagues, paid anyway. “Here you go,” Flynn held out the money. “Thank you,” the vendor said and handed Flynn the fruit. And with that, Flynn left to hunt that shadowy Wraith that escaped last night. As he was looking around the market, searching for the Wraith, he saw a wisp of shadow out of the corner of his eye, and turned. The Wraith was floating there, just observing. Watching. Flynn turned to start his pursuit, but it was gone. All that was left was a little pitch black smoke. The Wraith was gone, and Flynn cursed under his breath. That was twice that that thing had gotten away. That was more than most. Whatever that thing was, it was smart, and it wasn’t going to be caught as easily as most. Half a public display of “Look what I can do and you can’t” , as it’s against the rules for most people to transform in public, and half to get away from the crowd, Flynn transformed into a hawk and flew to the nearest rooftop. The nearby people staggered back in surprise, and he laughed to himself. Startling the normal civilians never got old, but he needed to collect his thoughts. He landed on the edge of the roof and transformed back into his normal self. He looked around and jumped a little. The Wraith that he was hunting, the one from last night, it was just floating there next to him. Flynn backed away slowly, drawing his concealed dagger. He threw the small blade at the thing, and the Wraith blinked (teleported a small distance) away. It looked at him and hissed. The Wraith thrust a tendril at him with deadly force, easily enough to impale him, but Flynn transformed into a squirrel and scampered away from the incoming tendril. He jumped up and transformed back into himself. He drew his bow, notched an arrow which, customary to Slayer weaponry, was loaded with poison. He took the shot, and it grazed the side of the beast. No poison was injected, so the arrow only pissed it off, which made the fight that much harder. The Wraith shrieked in anger, and charged at Flynn. He started to roll out of the way, but was just a little too slow, and the creature pinned him down. He tried reaching for his blade, but the Wraith was strong. It kept his arm pinned down, unable to move it. He kicked the thing off him and took off as a hawk. The Wraith chased him, hot on his tail. He stopped suddenly and transformed back into himself. He fell to the road. As he gathered his surroundings, he realized that he was surrounded by average civilians. “Get out of here!!!” he yelled at the crowd. The crowd quickly turned into a flock of assorted birds and flew away, eager to comply as the Wraith hit the ground with a cloud of dust and smoke. One straggler was about to fight the Wraith, or, at least Flynn assumed he was, because before he could do anything, he was impaled by a jet black, smoky tendril. The bystander’s legs buckled as the creature withdrew the tendril from the man’s chest. He fell to the ground, a clean-cut hole in his chest, blood pooling around him. Flynn glared at the Wraith with a look that could’ve struck a man dead, but this thing was no man, it was a Wraith, a dangerous one at that. So Flynn drew his blade for what he knew was going to be the final time. He charged forward, blade outstretched, and managed to hit the Wraith clean in the chest, but he looked down and was unsurprised. He looked at the beast, the last thing he would see, and said something that was later inscribed on his statue. “You might have ended my life, but my stories are far from over,” and with that, the Wraith dissolved into smoke, and Flynn, dying, but satisfied, laid down, and took off all his offensive equipment and ended his career moments before death.


They are looking at me. Why? Why won't they stop? They are scared, I feel it. They are anxious. My hands are hugging this mug, so... Tight. So Strong, but so soft. The neon lights reflecting from the windows hurt my eyes, and so do the headlights, and the sirens. The flashing red, the flashing blue. The hot steam caressing my eyeballs, it's awful. The heat burning my hand, and burning my palms, my flesh. The smell, Absolutely terrible. This cafeteria, it's too bizarre. Something feels odd. I feel odd. I feel out of this place, like an outsider. My hands... They bleed? The floor under me. It's covered with blood. My head, aching like hell. It's agony. Why are they looking at me? What are they looking at? What do they see that I don't? What do they want? What could they want? Their eyes. I can't see them. They hide them from me. Looking anywhere but at me, but I feel their gaze nonetheless. Their eyes see me or see through me. My hands are shaking, the puddle of blood growing under me. Is this what it feels like to... Have I gone mad? Is this a dream? Must be, but it hurts. It hurts so much, i can barely breathe. Somebody could help... Nobody will. Fucking hell! It burns, and it feels like a knife in my brain. I can feel it, etched into my mind. The stainless steel rotting by my thoughts. And I can feel something else. It feels like bullets penetrating my skin, breaking my bones and scorching the tissues, my muscles, my flesh. But there is no knife here, and no bullets. His body flops onto the floor from the barstool, the body of the man who was once next to me. Now he is on the floor, motionless. In the puddle, of his own blood. But nobody moves. No one wants to help him? Should I be surprised? I certainly won't do anything. Why would I help a stranger? But then, why would they? Somebody should do something. Call someone. Did they? These lights, make them stop. These sounds, they should cease to exist. I think he's dead. Just twitching on the floor like a fish. It's funny, is it not? I laugh at him. Feels good to finally laugh. But it's no laughing matter. It's horrible. I should be ashamed. But does it matter? He's dead. Have to be. After all, there is a hole in his head. There would be a hole left in his head, if I were to pull out the knife... I should do that. Would be interesting to see inside, to see how different they are. How different I am. I should grab the knife. It is mine, after all. I grew to like those looks they give me. Even if I only see dead, and empty eyeballs, with meaningless animals behind them. But j feel better now. I see through them, not the other way around. And those bullets? Went through them, not me. Penetrated them, not me. Broke their bones, not mine. Scorched their tissues, and their flesh, not mine. I shot them. And it felt good. Wouldn't you have done the same, if they were staring at you? I mean, it would've been all right. They could've lived. But they stared. At me...