Before the beginning of time. Before anything, there was nothing. And in nothing was the possibility for everything. When creation was at its dawn reality wasn't yet possible. For to make reality possible, creation had to remove the impossible. To remove the impossible creation had to make the impossible possible. For the impossible, creation created The Doh. Vessels for the Impossible to be kept to not breach the dimension of xy and z. Doh are beings made to keep different parts of the impossible which if together could create punctures in reality. In total creation made seven Doh: Miraal, Griel, Oriel, Uriel, Rael, Sarael, and Lucif. Each of which had pieces of the impossible inside of them. Miraal, the eldest, holding the power to reshape what's already been made. Griel, the strongest, holding the power to erase matter in a breath. Oriel, the smartest, holding the power to disassemble and pull apart molecules from the source. Uriel, the youngest, holding the power to change physics at will. Rael, the weakest, holding the power to travel between realities. Sarael, the shyest, holding the power to remove pieces of reality into her "safe place". And Lucif, the Boldest, holding the power to bring back the dead of the living in twisted grotesque forms. Together they made the Impossible Seven. When creation found out about what the vessels for the impossible could do it took The Doh and locked them away outside of reality in their own pocket dimension. Kept far away from one another they stay, not seeing, moving, or attempting escape. The Doh are not malevolent by any means but even you just wonder. If you have been forced to solitude since the dawn of time. Would you stay idle? As he finishes his story I have a question I need an answer to. "Grandpa that's a interesting story and all but what happened to creation?" I ask as he finishes his monologue. "What do you mean Rael?" My grandpa asks me. "Well the way you describe creation is like a person or something. What happened to it? When did it end?" I ask more detailed. Grandpa laughs a little and explains, "creation never ended. It is in all of us, animals, people, plants. It is why we can create life, like your mom and dad made you. But just because creation can create life doesn't itself mean it is alive." He finishes. "Ah ok." I say. "Alright Dad it's time for Rael's bedtime." My dad says. Pretending to be shocked he looks at his watch. "I hadn't even noticed Kanon." He says to my dad. He pays my head and heads out. "Goodnight princess." "Goodnight Dad." I say. oOo "Why would you tell her that story?" Kanon says. "Because she deserves to know even if she doesn't know the full story." Grandpa says. "You are pushing the line. Any more and we'll have to reboot again." Kanon says. "You know this will never end. You are a creation made to keep her in limbo, whereas I'm her mind forcing her to realize this world isn't real. Why else do you think in every incarnation she keeps her name?" He says. "Then so be it," Kanon says. The world around them, excluding Rael's room, begins to dissipate. In the end everything is black and the void around them only holds them and her room. "We're going to try again. This time we're going to make her a teenager. She hasn't been a teenager in a long time." "You know you won't be able to hide this forever." He says as he starts to fade away. "I will as long as I'm able. Now go away and get reformed as a friend or something Morpheus." Kanon says. "This is the last time." That was the last thing Morpheus had to say before he faded away completely. "Sure it is. I need to inform the other watchers to reset their world's as well." It's a pain in the arse to have to do this everytime but being The Doh are all twins their minds will always be synced in this dimension. So to reset one is to reset them all. oOo We've been at this for over 14.3 billion years. The watchers resetting The Doh's minds when anyone of them gets to close to the truth of their prison and we, their conscious, try to end their prison. But that's all we are a conscious. We can't get them out only they can. The fact that we even exist is a side affect of them being 'impossible'. But this is the last time. They aren't even had they are exactly as they were made. They didn't choose to be the wielders of impossible but they will get a chance at freedom. As I look on in the physical world at Rael's body, blindfolded, chained, and motionless. In a floating temple she can't even acknowledge. In my physical form I can observe but I cannot free her. I kneel and rub my hand across her face. "You will be free this time." I use the rest of my power to give her one fragmented memory of her life before bondage. With that final moment both my physical and spiritual body was gone. oOo In the end Kanon followed through and reset Rael and the other Doh's minds but what they didn't know is The Doh were never truly under their spell all these millennia. In the silence, the darkness, the cold stone temple Rael is a low hushed tone uttered one word. A name. The one thing in the void that cared enough for her to help her. Her own conscious. Her own protector. Morpheus.


Her hair, the color of wounds and roses, blew in the wind like a banner of war. She stood upon the bow of her ship and thrust her face into the spray that was thrown up as the waves crashed against the hull. The taste on her lips was that of a home a life away and half forgotten. There had been a bargain, but that was nothing special – life is made of bargains; we sell what we can for a chance at what we need. And what price could be too much for a world out of a dream, for perfection? And so what if there had been blood? A knife in the dark of a temple, a bride-to-be helped into the abyss of the sea – to be missed, and mourned, and, ultimately, forgotten. One princess had taken the place of another, and the world spun as it always would have, and always would. She loved him, of course: her blacked-eyed prince. She loved him more than life – more than anything. And in the heart of the romantic love absolves all sins. And he loved her. First because she reminded him of a girl he thought had saved him, and later because he knew she really had. They were happy as only true lovers could be. But it was not to last. Summer followed summer and patient contentment gave way slowly to worry and apprehension. The womb of the queen had yet to quicken with the child she, and especially her husband, so longed to dote upon. Learned men of medicine were summoned first from the corners of the kingdom, and then the corners of the world. They could do nothing, for the king and queen each seemed the image of health. Magicians and sorcerers were then called upon. This one working with abacus and charts by the motion of the stars, that one with chants and herbs, this one with blood. They were no charlatans and time and again demonstrated their power to the court. The queen took to learning from them, and even her tongue was healed by cunning craft. For a while the castle was joyous again; the king had never heard her speak, nor heard her sing. And in this latter thing she had no equal in all the world. She delighted him, and she was delighted to see it. But songs can only do so much, and still the royal nursery sat empty. And so it was that the gloom of dying dreams and breaking hearts settled again upon the kingdom like a damp, choking dust. It was then that an old woman came. Having heard of her lord and lady’s plight she had journeyed from afar to offer what aid she could. Gifted she was in midwifery, and privy she was to many secrets long forgotten to the world; she had, she said, been apprenticed to the queen of the fairies in her youth and was wise in witchery. It was through her efforts that the queen came to be with child, and for months there was an unending festival to prepare the world for the coming of the new prince or princess. But when the babe finally arrived news spread through the castle that it was not well, and, if God be merciful, would not be long in the world. The old woman came to the queen afterward, once the mess of the birth had been cleaned away and the mother had had a chance to rest. She sat close in a chair as Her Majesty wept in her bed. The queen confessed then what she had before only told the king, once he had taught her how to write in the manner of men. The old woman listened, and by the end of the tale she held the queen in her arms and rocked her as she whimpered. The old woman knew of the witch the queen spoke of. Ancient she was, a cold and spiteful thing, her life preserved through wards writ when stone was new. There was little her magic could not achieve or undo, save death itself, and there was nothing made through her magic that any save her or God could challenge. And so the old woman told the queen what she should do to make things as right as they could be. For of all the temptations in the world there is but one that a witch of black heart cannot fail to be blinded by. Only one thing which would ensure her promise to undo her curse and heal the child without malice or trickery. A week later, once all the necessary ceremonies had been observed, the queen had set sail. It was near dusk when the ship finally arrived at its destination. It looked to the sailors much the same as everywhere else on the sea, but the queen was intimate with these waters, and she knew what was to be found deep below the rocking of the waves the ship rested upon. She gave her instructions to the crew, and the ice in her voice was such that they dared not defy her, though they were pained by her words. She clutched her satchel to her breast and, for a moment, looked out towards the horizon and the sun setting in a sky she had once so impotently longed to see. Then she quaffed a vial of something sticky and bubbly and smelling of salt – a potion which she had months ago learned the making of, though this was not the visit it had been intended for. She began to cough and choke, unable to take in the air. Over the side she dove and plunged down, down into the dark of the deep. The waters of the sea flowed into her, and sustained her, and again she could breath. It did not feel quite the same as it had – nothing ever does after a time away – but it was close enough for nostalgia's sake. For a while she tarried within sight of the belly of the ship as it floated above the black abyss wherein dwelt the Sea Witch. For a while she tarried upon the edge of a world she had sold so much for. She sank then, and the darkness closed in around her like the embrace of a mother who does not mean well. An incantation later and she could see in the inkiness. Far below her grew the witch's forest of hideous polyps, always hungry and grasping, filled with bones of men, and fish, and merfolk. With hope burning in her heart as only hope can burn, and only when it is come to at the end of all alternatives, she descended to the edge of that hideous wood. The slithering branches of the grove grabbed at her, but she nimbly avoided them as she had once before, and made her way to the clearing far within. She came upon it ere too long and, sat in the place it had since a time beyond all memory, was the stone hut of the Sea Witch. Taking a deep breath of seawater the queen gathered her courage and knocked. For too many moments there was no answer, but just as the queen raised her hand to rap again the door slowly swung inwards. “Hello, are you at home, grandmother?” The queen used this form of address out of old habit as much as caution; it was how they had all been instructed to speak if ever they were so foolish or unfortunate as to cross her path. The blackness of the hut, which the queen's spell of seeing could not pierce, offered no reply. And she was not so stupid as to walk in uninvited. “I have brought gifts, grandmother.” The queen reached into her satchel and pulled out a handful of sapphires from the kingdom's store of treasures; she laid them on the threshold. “There is more-”. “I'm sure there is,” slithered a voice from the darkness, dripping with ichor and sugar-glazed hate. A tentacle, blue and bloated, glided out of the blackness and pulled the pile of gems inside. The queen watched this with quiet revulsion, and when she looked up there floated the witch, her jowled face and flabby arms bobbing through the tide atop a sprout of worm-like limbs. “You might as well come in, I suppose,” cooed the witch. “I expect we have things to discuss.” As the words were spoken the darkness inside yielded to the queen's eyes. There was no more light than before, but she could now make out the sparse furniture and eels writhing on the floor. The witch swam to the far side of her stone table and piled her jewels on top of it; she fiddled with them as she spoke. “Such pretty things you bring me, princess.” The witch lifted a gem to the slit of her eye, “one wonders what favors they are meant to buy. Are you not happy in the life you've bartered for? You seemed so eager for it when last we spoke.” “It was perfect,” muttered the queen as she approached, “everything I dreamed or could have dreamed, and more, but-” “And, of course, there is the matter of how you're speaking,” interrupted the witch. “You're a cheat, princess. You squirm your way out of one bargain and them come to beg another?” “I did not cheat!” screamed the queen, indignation and hate overcoming sense. The cool gaze of the witch tempered the her tone and more softly she continued. “You never said I couldn't undo it, you didn't make it that way. You could have...” At this the hands of the queen clutched her stomach and she lapsed into silence. The ocean ate the tears from her eyes as they were born. “Ah,” said the witch, a smile blooming on her fanged maw “so that's it is it? Not happy with just the prince, but a baby as well?” “It was important to the king; I hadn't even thought of it before he began to talk about how happy it was going to make us.” “Tut tut,” the witch's finger wagged lazily from side to side, “foolish not to think ahead, foolish. And now you find it not so easy to give the man what he wants?” The witch leered at the queen from toe to crown. “You find, perhaps, that your pretty body, your dancing, *your* *singing*, just isn't quite enough, so you come back to me for more favors? To help get you with a vile man-baby? You are a tiresome, greedy girl, princess.” “We had a baby,” said the queen, nearly breathless and with eyes downcast, “that's why I've come.” The witch paused for a moment and then began to laugh. “Congratulations, princess!” The sapphires fell from her hands as she pounded upon her table in jubilation. “It could not have been easy! There must have been much trying – that much I'm sure you enjoyed, and you're welcome for it – and much waiting, many false starts, much disappointment. And then, at last, it sticks! And the baby comes!” And here her laughter stopped, but her grin widened. “How is the dear thing?” “You know, I think.” The words tumbled from lips nearly still. The witch leaned forward over her table. “Tell me anyway,” she whispered, her eyes wrinkled in glee. The queen fell to her knees and clutched her bag. “Please, grandmother,” said the queen through her sobs, “please help my baby, please make everything alright, please, please, please, please-”. “Enough,” barked the witch, all mirth gone from her voice, all glee vanished from her face. “As I said, princess, you are *greedy*.” She paused and licked her lips, a hint of a smile returning to them. “All the same, were it not for greed I'd do a fair bit less business.” The witch turned toward a shelf and removed a vile. “This, poured down the gob of the tyke, will, in a day or so – and not without pain – make things right, as you'd have it.” She held the potion up, she let the eyes of the queen rest upon it. Moment after moment of silence filled the hut. “What is the price?” And who could say if the witch heard the question, so soft it was, but she knew what was asked all the same. “Indeed, we do come now to that, princess.” The witch sauntered her girth back and forth as she floated here and there, lips pursed, hand to her chin. “It wasn't easy to make, you know.” “I'm sure.” “Consequently, it should be very expensive.” “That would only be fair.” “Tell me,” the witch stopped in front of the queen and looked down upon her, “if you had to pick – if you could have only *one –* which would it be? The prince, or the baby?” The queen's gaze fell from the vial and her head sank slowly until it rested in the muck of the floor. Of course that was the price, that was not unexpected; nevertheless, it was hard to hear: a choice she could not make. Time passed by in slow currents, but, finally, the queen spoke. “The king would not trade his baby's life for his own. I would betray him to allow that to happen, and I can't do that.” “But, for your part,” the witch leaned down so that her lips almost brushed the ear of the queen, “you'd rather have the prince? Not the baby?” “...yes,” breathed the queen into the slime of the floor. “Good, then it's a good price.” The witch's smile returned as she stood,, and through it could be seen row upon row of needle teeth. “Shall we call it a bargain?” The queen sat up, her face smeared with filth; the eels writhed around her as she stared at the vial, her mouth agape. “I, I have, more gifts...” The queen fumbled in her bag with clumsy, distracted hands. “No gifts, princess. No haggling. The price is the price.” The words were chill, and behind them the threat of danger. The queen's shoulder's slumped and necklaces and bracelets and other fine things fell from her soft grip. “Is there no other way?” “None.” The eyes of the queen went far away as she thought of her husband, and how she had seen him first, on his birthday. She remembered how she had loved him at once, and how she had saved him, and all she had done to win him. She thought of how happy they had been; she thought of their baby, so innocent and caught in a battle that was not its own. She loved it too, of course she did. She thought at last of the witch's choice, crafted to force her to break her own heart. And then her thoughts ran out, and there was nothing but to answer. “I can't,” whispered the queen, as though to herself. The smile on the witch's face faded into indifference and she shrugged her bulbous shoulders. “Then the baby dies.” She turned and replaced the vial on the shelf, “but don't worry, I shouldn't imagine it will take long.” “We'd had such hopes, you know.” The queen remained on the floor but looked up now at her enemy. “Our business is concluded,” she turned away and made a show of busying herself with organizing her things. “Don't let me keep you.” “If it was a girl,” continued the queen, “I'd teach her to sing, and if it was a boy he'd teach him how to hunt.” There was no emotion in her voice now, all sorrow drained away as though into the wide, wide sea. The witch did not turn around and spoke as though to someone not there. “I don't especially care. Now leave, before we have trouble.” As though they understood, which, of course, they must have, the eels began to circle the queen, their jaws snapping. “I didn't see why it shouldn't be both in any case.” The queen rose and turned toward the door, “but my husband had funny ideas about the whole thing, and I could never refuse him.” “Send him my regards.” The queen gingerly stepped her way to the threshold. She stood there for a moment, her hand upon the cold, rough stone of it, and then she turned back. “I did get him to agree about you, though, grandmother.” “Hmm? What's that?” The witch did turn then, for she was a curious sort, as the old woman said she must be: all black witches are, when it comes to the subject of themselves. “You brought us together, and you know so much,” the queen stepped back inside, and the eels made way for her, a little. “It made sense, and was, I think, to be a fair show of gratitude. I even dared think it would make up for the tongue.” An embarrassed smile played across the queen's face and she looked to the side. “What was?” asked the witch as she floated nearer. “Boy or girl – to make them strong and safe – the king and I thought its godmother might teach it some small magics; small for you, of course, but even that would have been enough to make the child mighty, I'm sure. That's what convinced him, really, not me: anything to make his baby safe.” The witch gasped, and bits of alchemical bric-a-brac, expensive or not, tumbled to floor as her tentacles flew out and knocked against the shelves. In a single swift motion she swam the rest of the way to the queen and pulled her close so that they were face to face. “You'd have me godmother your firstborn?” The witch's eyes were wide, her tone disbelieving. None but white witches had ever done such a thing, and so few really knew why, but the old woman had. It was a secret curse, from Titania herself, on the whole lot of them. To punish them for a slight which happened long, long ago. They were never to have it, though always – always – to lust for it. “Of course,” said the queen, “as I said, it seemed only fair. But it doesn't matter now, and I don't want to keep you.” She tried to turn, but the witch's cold and scaly hands on her shoulders would not allow it. Though they did not grip so tightly as to hurt. “Wait, this changes things.” And now it was the witch's eyes which looked far away and into a world she never thought could be. “But you said the price was the price, grandmother.” The queen tilted her head and raised her brow quizzically. “You said there could be no haggling.” “This is a thing that cannot be asked,” the witch was breathless, beside herself with shock and budding glee, “it must be given, freely, of your own accord. Those are old laws, Your Majesty – older even than I.” Her voice grew more and more rapid as true happiness bloomed in a heart which had long forgotten even the memory of its memory. “And you offer it to me? To be godmother to your precious little one?” “I would, grandmother, gladly, if only my child could live to enjoy it.” The face of the queen beamed at a victory, such as it was, so near at hand. “It shall! I swear it! A gift given with nothing asked except that you keep your word.” “Oh, grandmother,” exclaimed the queen as she embraced the witch and choked down her revulsion, “by your life and magic you swear it?” For a promise from a witch is strong, strong as any magic which flows within her. “I do, of course I do. But we must be quick!” she turned from the queen and shot back to her shelves. “The potion, and this one too – for the pain – you must administer them as soon as you can!” “Nothing simpler, grandmother,” laughed the queen and blessing the old midwife in her thoughts, “my baby is here.” The brow of the witch furrowed as she turned, potions in hand, “What?” “It is here! I brought it, knowing there might not be time to come and go back.” The queen held her satchel up in front of her and, opening it, emptied the contents onto the floor. And there it lay in a little heap amidst what few trinkets of gold and silver had remained in the bag. It was twisted, and gray: a half-scaled torso with an eyeless face and a body that ended in a broken mockery of a fish's tail. “It lived only an hour or so.” The voice of the queen lilted, an edge of hysteria behind the facade of mirth. “It screamed the whole time. The king took it very hard, I'm afraid.” The queen stepped over the corpse and approached the Sea Witch. “But it's alright now, right grandmother? You'll make it well, you swore so – on *your life* and by *your magic*, yes?” The witch dropped her potions and drew herself up. When she spoke the words sounded far away in her ears. “You tricked me.” “Oh, no, I don't think so,” said the queen, sweetly. “And, in any case, why should that matter? When the shoe was on the other foot – ha – you didn't seem to mind.” Still she continued to approach, slowly. “Are you saying you renege?” The queen frowned and her voice sank into sullenness. “That would be unseemly, grandmother. That wouldn't do at all.” At a small gesture from the witch the eels in droves came at the queen. They bit into her legs and feet, and her blood flowed into the room. It hurt, but that was nothing. The queen's feet always hurt. Each step was a knife thrust into her flesh, and bone, and marrow. It had always been thus, for as long as she had had feet to walk upon. She had long since learned to ignore pain. And, even if she hadn't, pain was nothing in the face of this; pain was nothing at all when it bought her revenge. She leapt at the witch. The hag turned and shot to the right, but her tentacles trailed behind her and the queen was quick, agile as ever. She snatched one and squeezed. The magics that had so long protected the witch failed in the wake of her broken promise. The slimy flesh popped and a black jelly of blood and puss squirted out. The touch of it burned the queen but she did not loose her grip on the broken appendage. The scream that burst from the witch was, to the queen's ears, more beautiful than any song she herself could have ever sung. Together they rushed out the door: the witch trying to flee but pulling the queen in tow. Into the horrid forest they went. The eels followed in a swarm and bit the queen on her arms and back and face; they tore flesh and scratched to the bone underneath until her skin was all ribbons and blood. But the grasping branches grabbed one after another until all were caught. At the last it was only the witch and the queen locked in struggle; the forest would not dare snatch at its master, and the magic that animated it could not prevent the queen from forcing the hag to make good on her deal. The witch jerked from side to side, trying to throw off the queen, but again and again Her Majesty grabbed on to a new tentacle and squeezed until there were hardly any left unbroken. Together they sank into the muck, the water think with their mingled blood. “Stop,” gasped the witch, “please, stop. I can still make things right, and I will, I swear.” “You can raise the dead?” The queen reached for a rock as the question fell from what was left of her lips. “No, but I can make it so you'll have new children, and they will be beautiful and strong! They will live long – longer than any man, and I will teach them all I know! Only cry off!” The queen found a suitable instrument: one side rounded, the other a jagged edge. She held it tight in her hand and paused. A breath escaped her and she spoke a truth which betrayed her motherhood, and she didn't care: “If the king will forgive you, and accept your terms, then I will cry off.” “Yes! Thank you, Your Majesty! I will come to you in your castle and beg mercy, I swear it!” The queen raised the rock above her head, “The king is not in the castle, grandmother. In his grief he jumped from the high tower – not an hour after our child sat cold in its crib.” The witch snarled and lunged up; her fangs were bared and sought purchase in the white flesh of the royal throat. But the queen was quicker, and the pointed edge of the rock was thrust deep into the open mouth. Down and forward it was pressed, forcing the detestable head to the ground. There was a small struggle, but the witch was tired and, stripped of her old protections, weak. She fought for the life she had and hated, but the queen fought for the life she might have had and always loved. The snap at the back of the witch's throat was the final word on the matter. The queen looked down on the limp carcass, as much jelly as flesh and bone, and turned away. She staggered as she went. She was dizzy with fatigue and blood loss, and the fire of the witch's blood had worked its way into her through her wounds. She sat, finally, and then lied down and looked up toward the sky a world away. And though it wasn't there, for it was night now, and though she wouldn't have been able to see it if it were, because she was so deep in the sea, she glimpsed again the sun. The queen closed her eyes and slept with a smile on her face. And in time the sea did what it does, just as the world spins; and bit by bit, by way of one stomach or another, the little mermaid returned to the sea.


Rachel sat on the tile floors of a one-person bathroom in the park as she listened to the rain pelting down outside and the occasional clap of thunder that broke up the monotonous percussion of the rain. Tonight was not a good night to be homeless, not that any night ever was, but tonight was an especially bad night. It was cold. Wet. Worst of all, the people had not been charitable today and she looked at the measly bounty she had collected over a day’s worth of begging and counted it out. Seventeen dollars and ninety-two cents. It wasn’t enough for her to commune with her god and that brought her even lower than life had by putting her in this situation where her only refuge from the storm was this dirty bathroom in the middle of the park. She would’ve cried if she could have, but she could not, and thus, she simply made her peace with the fact that tonight was a very bad night and slept with her head against the cold tile and hoped for better tidings tomorrow.  Morning came quick for Rachel, at least it felt like it did. In reality, she slept about ten, maybe eleven hours, but it was a dreamless, restless sleep with lots of tossing and turning which was interrupted by a heavy banging on the door by someone whom she presumed to be an annoyed parkgoer needing to pee. She managed to mutter out with only minimal slurring (which was actually quite a feat for her when she first woke up), “Uhh—one sec—I’ll be right out.” She got to her feet as quick as she could, but even that didn’t feel very fast. Every fiber of her being felt utterly sapped and the exhaustion clung to her deep in her bones and even into her soul, but she managed to shamble over to the door to open it to the sight of a man in his early thirties and his four-year-old daughter.  The man was unimpressed with the emaciated husk that stood before him and turned up his nose at her. He pushed his daughter behind him so that Rachel could half-fall, half-walk out of the bathroom and he quickly ushered his daughter in so that she wouldn’t catch too much sight of the woman stumbling out of the bathroom. Rachel didn’t much care for people like that men. They were too judgey. Too quick to write her off as nothing but a tweaked out loser, but she didn’t pay him much mind once she got in stride with the day. Today was going to be a good day, she told herself. Today she was going to earn enough to buy her communion and then everything would be okay. Yes, today was going to be a good day and she felt a smile crawl across her pale lips as she walked through the park.  The walk from the Park to the corner of Sixth and Main was long, but she didn’t care much. She had a half-drank bottle of Dr. Pepper and even though she felt like shit, she knew she’d make enough today. She just needed another twelve dollars and eight cents and then she’d call up Marco and he’d give her everything she needed to perform the sacrament that helped her connect with her god. He was a good god and Rachel loved him more than anything in the world, more than her six figure job that she used to have, more than the big house, more than her husband, more than her two little boys who probably weren’t so little anymore, but she didn’t like to think about that. Nope. She liked to think about how good it’d feel to perform the sacrament and experience the pure love and bliss of her god. She liked to think about how that exhaustion that sapped at her deeper than anything ever should would be instantly exorcised by the sacrament. Yes. That’s what she preferred to think about. Not everything her god had asked her to give up to show her loyalty, but everything he gave her for that loyalty. He was a good god, at least in Rachel’s eyes.  When she got to the corner that she had more or less claimed as her own over the past few weeks, she tossed the worn out ballcap off her head and upside down in front of her so that the rare pedestrian who did acknowledge her existence could throw her whatever alms he felt fit. They were growing fewer and farer between though, Rachel noticed, but there were still enough kind souls in this city that she didn’t have to result to more unsavory means to perform her sacrament like some of the other women she had come to know over the years. They worshipped different gods than her though; their gods were tan and white powders or cloudy rocks. Hers was beautiful and pure like polished quartz and that was just one of the many things that made him so perfect in every way.  The hours went by slowly and she felt her stomach rumble, but the hat didn’t have enough for her to eat. It only had five dollars and forty-two cents. She needed at least the twelve dollars and eight cents before she could even consider wasting some money on things like food. It’s not that she wasn’t hungry. She hadn’t eaten in two or three days, but there were things more important than food in her life. Rachel needed to perform the sacrament. She had to. She just had to, because how could anyone live without their god’s love? How could anyone go back to living in heathenism after bearing witness to the spiritual exaltation that came from his love? She could fathom it no more than she could fathom the idea that two plus two equals five and maybe even less than that. And for that reason, she kept sitting there as her belly rumbled and the hunger pangs spiked. It wouldn’t matter though once she got enough to call Marco. Her god’s love would take all the pain away and it wouldn’t matter anymore.  She didn’t know what time it was but it was starting to get dark and that prompted her to look at the hat, because she knew there was no point in bothering after dark. Everybody went home except for those like her who were trying to commune with their own gods and they certainly wouldn’t donate to her cause. The hat had twenty-two dollars and seventy-one cents which brought about a sigh of relief. She had enough. She finally had enough.  Rachel got to her feet and walked to the nearest place with free WiFi. It was a Starbucks on the corner of Eighth and Main that stayed open twenty-four hours a day. It wasn’t ideal for escaping the elements as they were fairly strict on kicking people like her out after so long, but she didn’t care. She just needed their WiFi long enough to text Marco. Yeah, she had to text Marco. Marco would help her. Yeah. Yeah he would. He definitely would.  She at in the Starbucks texting him at a mile a minute until he responded, “cool hmu at mickey d’s up on cedar”  That was a long walk and was already getting cold. Really cold. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care about any of that, because it was only a couple miles and it wouldn’t matter once she met up with Marco. Yeah, it’d be fine. Everything would be okay. She just needed to hit Marco up, get the stuff, and get right with her god. Yeah that’s all she had to do. Yeah.  So she walked. She walked in her old, torn-up sneakers that hurt her feet because they were so old and had enough holes that some people questioned why she even bothered with shoes. There was a chill to the air on that night, but fortunately for her, the storm had passed. Rachel was grateful for that. She would’ve kept going to Marco even if the storm hadn’t passed, even if it meant she’d walk into that McDonald’s soaking wet and utterly drenched, but she was glad that wouldn’t be the case.  Finally, after what felt like forever but was actually only about an hour, she walked into that McDonald’s and saw Marco sitting at a table nursing a burger that was probably cold by now and she made her way over to him. He looked her up and down and gave a bit of a smirk, “Y’know, Rachel, all you had to do was ask for a ride.”  She did her best to hide how uncomfortable Marco made her, but it wasn’t as successful as she hoped, not that Marco cared. He knew exactly what he was doing and he got off on it. It’s why he did it. He loved letting her know that all she had to do to stop living the hard life was just stop saying no, but getting right with her god hadn’t gotten that bad yet, although there had been some times when she wondered. But she hated Marco. She hated Marco almost as much as she loved her god, but almost was the key word there. If she hated him more than she loved her god then maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have sacrificed so much in his name, but she was long past that and now she just had to deal with her choices. After all, at this point, there was no turning back.  “That’s okay, Marco. Look, you uhh—y’know?”  “Yeah, Rach, I got it for you, but can I at least get a please out of you?”  Fuck you, Marco. FUCK YOU! That’s what she thought to herself, but that’s not what she said. What she actually said was more along the lines of, “Can I pleeeease get that stuff we talked about?”  “Ahh, Rachel, you always did melt my icy heart, you know that? Course you can as long as you got what I need.”  She reached into her pocket and counted out twenty-eight dollars in actual bills and had to mix-and-match coins for the other two dollars’ worth, but it was all there. He counted it carefully before swiping it up and flipping her a tiny baggie of beautiful, translucent crystals that she had craved since her last time her getting her hands on them. Finally, she would get right with her god and everything in her world would be good again. Finally.  “I’m gonna go now, Marco. It’s uhh—good to see you, I guess.”  “So soon, baby? Come on, spend a little time with me! Tell you what, I’ll buy you a cheeseburger.”  “Sorry, Marco. I got things I’ve gotta do. Sorry.”  He frowned. She didn’t care. She got up and made her way to the bathroom and nestled into the handicapped stall. She should’ve been more careful and selected a better place and she knew that, but it had been a few days and she just couldn’t wait any longer. She gently spilled some of those crystals into a tiny glass pipe that she carried with her everywhere, really it was only thing she owned that she actually cared about anymore, besides that little baggie. She loved that just as much. And she took a lighter and gently jostled the crystals around as the flame licked the bulb of the pipe.  She took a deep breath and with it, the Sacrament had been performed. All was good in the world again. Everything felt good. She had her energy back. She felt like she could take on anything and everything was great and wonderful and just fantastic even. She spent a good five minutes or so repeating the Sacrament to get right with her god before she strolled out of the bathroom with quick, long steps and leaving behind a cloud of smoke carrying the aroma of burnt plastic. Finally the world was right again and she was ready to face it, for she finally felt her god’s love again, but she had a new goal now. She needed to do three things.  She needed to get some more Dr. Pepper, she was craving a King Size Cookies & Cream Hershey Bar, and she needed to make sure she had enough money to hit Marco up again tomorrow when what was left in that left in that little baggie would be gone. But for now, she wasn’t panicking about that. She felt like her entire world had come into focus and it was in all her control. All thanks to the god in the tiny glass pipe who she loved more than her husband, more than her kids, more than her career, and more than anything else in the world. She loved her god and for now, her god loved her, but would be reevaluated once she ran out of those tiny shards to perform the sacrament. But she wasn’t too worried about that right now. Nope. Everything was perfect and as it should be and she would solve all of her problems tonight and everything would be wonderful.


“Canceled??” I yelped, before realizing my predicament. I returned to a whisper, “What do you mean canceled, Claudia, he’s right here and he’s gorgeous!” I glanced over at my date’s tailored suit which was offset by his easy smile and handsome features. Claudia was speechless for a moment. She apologized and said that the date she had set up for me definitely canceled. Pausing for a moment, she asked, “are you 100% sure he is as gorgeous as you say?” I hung up on her and stared at the floor for a moment. Claudia thought she had set me up with someone else. Not only that, but she had set me up with someone that she did not think could be considered gorgeous. But here was this man; polite, kind, and as sexy as ever. “How is your friend, Maria? Is she well?” Frank smiled in the most heartwarming way. “Uh, yeah. She’s fine. How did you meet her, by the way, she didn’t tell me how you guys met.” I hoped that my anxiety didn’t show. “Oh, I know Claudia from a long time ago. She thinks so highly of you and so I told myself that I must meet this amazing woman Claudia keeps raving about!” I looked deeply into Frank’s eyes. For a second it seemed like they moved independently of each other. “That’s so nice to hear. Are you from around here?” “Well, not originally. You see I’m much older than I look and I have been around. But I am glad to have settled here. It is the right place for me.” His forked tongue licked his lips as he waited for me to continue the conversation. I looked down at my meal of salmon and raspberry sauce. It would have been delightful if my stomach were not tying itself into knots. “Do you have many siblings? Or family in the area?” “Oh, yes,” he chuckled, “very many siblings. We are all over the place. I can’t keep track of them all.” He looked back at me, leaning forward, eyes narrowing into slits. “What about you, Maria, are you alone?” I did not know how to answer. This felt creepy now. I stood up to excuse myself. “I need to go to the little girls room for a moment.” Grabbing my things, I slipped away towards the washrooms but then I doubled back to head out the front doors. Then, I ran. I ran all the way home without thinking about what I had done. I frantically opened the lock and ran inside. Slipped my clothes off and hid under the comfort of my bedsheets. It was a terrible night, full of nightmares involving this Frank guy. I tried to put it behind me and get on with my life. Claudia called me. I let it go to voicemail, still rattled by my dreams. *“Hey Maria, I am sorry about the weird cancellation yesterday. Maybe the guy actually showed up after canceling. Anyway, I am happy to tell you that I didn’t have one nightmare all night. It’s amazing! I have them every night for years and then they are gone instantly. Anyway, talk to you soon babe. Bye bye!”* I didn’t think too much about the voicemail. I tried getting my own nightmares out of my head, keeping myself occupied until the next evening. I lay in bed and tried to think about normal everyday things. But when I closed my eyes, I saw Frank’s face, turning into the face of a snake. Jolting upright, I looked around my room. It felt silly being afraid of a dream, but it felt so real. Laying down again, I determined to reason my way out of this nonsense. My door creaked open slightly. *It could bee anything*, I told myself. Frank’s familiar voice floated to me from my doorway. “Hello Maria.


To say that the void stretched on forever would be subtly incorrect, as it would imply that the void was a thing, which had dimension and volume, which it did not. Likewise, it was not white, which would imply the existence of light, but it was also not black, which would imply the absence of that same light. The best analog for our minds would be gray, and yet even that would be wrong, because it was not some blend of light and darkness, but rather the total absence of both. We lack words for such ideas, or even the ability to truly comprehend them, so it will have to suffice, for now. They sat there, at the table, alone in the not-gray nothingness that seemed to stretch on for infinity and yet did not even exist. She did not know how many eternities had elapsed since they'd arrived. She’d forgotten. It was mostly irrelevant anyway, as She was outside of time, as was He. “The Others have not yet arrived,” He said, stating the obvious. But then, there was little that was not obvious, after countless eternities of nothing. Only one thing could ever surprise Them, and it was never about conversation with the Other. She sighed in response, the simple gesture a grander statement of Her ennui than anything She might *say.* She paused a mere decade, almost imperceptible, and then shrugged at Her companion. “They said They might be late,” She repeated, for the infinitieth time. After that, there was silence as they sat. The silence was not uncomfortable, they were accustomed to it, but this time it seemed an expectant pause, nonetheless. His face was a mask, still inscrutable to Her mind after all the aeons. Nevertheless, She knew from experience precisely what He would ask, when He finally got around to it. After what felt like an eternity (it was, in fact, two eternities), He finally replied with the inevitable question. “Do you want to play again?” There they were. The words were gentle, a mere subtle suggestion, and yet their invitation was irresistable. Her face displayed the same mask as His did, and yet like Her, He knew exactly what Her response would be. She cocked her head to one side, raising one brow quizzically. "Again?" She tapped Her fingers on the table, pretending to consider the offer. “This time I’m playing The Pure,” She demanded, despite having played The Corrupt for the last several thousand matches, prior to which, well, even They didn’t really remember. It all evened out in the end. When you've played the game an infinite number of times, such streaks were inevitable. He spread his hands in acquiescence and then gestured to the table so She could set up the universe, this time. She looked down at the table, then up into His eyes. For another eternity, what passed between them was expectant, eager, and utterly non-verbal. One corner of Her mouth turned up ever so slightly as she stared at Her companion. She inhaled deeply, then gave a sibilant, seductive whisper on the exhalation. "*Let there be light.


As soon as the water coated the inside of his esophagus, David realized his fatal mistake. It burned. Leaving a trail of excruciating pain as it slithered down toward his stomach. Maisey heard the glass shatter seconds before the screams. Horrible, wretched, wailing. Reminiscent of the ones from that PSA she had been forced to watch that morning. The mother took off her headset and left her virtual meeting. She’d eat the dock in pay from her OneCoin account — her child was more important. But as soon as she saw her baby boy, all prior thoughts of being a great parent vanished. He was on the floor, seizing — eyes rolled back — tongue ready to be chewed off. And she knew, this was her fault. The PSA had made the side effects look almost comical. She remembered terribly costumed actors worming around on the ground like fresh-caught fish. It was a spectacle; something to be amused by, which in hindsight, probably undercut the severity of the message it was trying to promote. Bean™ had concepted, produced, and placed the spot in market all within a week. It was an in-house creative effort — a quick-turn deliverable to be crushed, not crafted. Something the brand managers, and nobody else was proud of. Uninspired as it may have been, the messaging was direct and simple. The community water supply had been tainted. But Bean Watershed Utility™ (BWU) was doing everything they could to fix it. According to the company, it was an issue caused by ANTICO. The black-garbed terrorist group had apparently dumped hundreds of thousands of gallons of harsh chemicals into the water supply. Chemicals like Acetate\_3009, Polymer\_19481, and Silicone\_4444441. Which when ingested, caused an unusually horrific sensation of convulsing, vomiting, bleeding from the eyes — and then very soon after, death. According to the PSA, there were two things one could do to avoid death in this situation. The easiest, and most important, would be to purchase a subscription for Bean Water Filters™ — only 5.3786749 OneCoin a day. This was a preventative measure which didn’t help Maisey or David. The second, more costly option, would be to find a Bean Health Bureau™ (BHB), and have one of their physicians irrigate the chemicals out of the body using Bean’s™ patent-pending technology, engineered by those formerly known as German. This was Maisey’s last hope of seeing her son conscious again. The spot said that if one were to consume these chemicals, they’d have a total of 10 minutes to get treated. Maisey picked up the boy, and rushed to the garage. She loaded him into her Bean Beam Cruiser™, and attempted the mental math required to figure out how much time she had left before his demise. It had been one minute since she heard David’s glass shatter. The BHB was six minutes away, meaning she’d have three minutes to get him treated and make it in time. She took a deep breath and pressed the button to start the vehicle. God was an antiquated concept to her, but still, she prayed it would only be a fifteen second ad. The interior lit up in hues of dark green and purple — Bean’s™ brand colors. The screen on the dash powered on, and politely asked, “*Where to?”* Maisey shouted back, “*the BHB*.” And her words were instantly transcribed onto the tablet. The car responded, “*The Bean Health Bureau, You got it, Maisey.*” The vehicle self-accelerated outside the garage, and turned out of her driveway at exactly the twenty-five miles per hour. The doors locked from the inside and the screen transitioned to a non-skip advertisement for next year’s model of the Bean Beam Cruiser™. Already covered in vomit, David began bleeding from the eyes. Weeping, yet still unconscious. The ad described the history of Bean’s™ automobile division. Its vehicles were the first to be engineered using an ingenious (and semi-sustainable) chemical process that involved Acetate\_3009, Polymer\_19481, and Silicone\_4444441. Next it showed cliche footage of the vehicle in action — cruising through desert terrain, sunny city skylines, and waterfront highways. Finally, much to Maisey’s dismay, it showed her and David riding inside the newest model, laughing together, playfully nudging each other, piloting hand-planes outside the open window. It was a deepfake — a vignette from some horrible episode of deja vu Maisey never conjured. The mother held her breath, waiting for the piece of film to end. The vehicle pulled up to the BHB, but the advertisement was still playing. Maisey reached for the door handle, but knew before she pulled that it wouldn’t open. She slapped on the glass window and called out for help. Outside the BHB was desolate. Since all buildings and vehicles had been fitted to be sound-proof, noises (human or industrial) were a far and few between kind of luxury. A nurse smoked a cigarette exactly eight yards from Maisey’s cruiser. Her back was turned to the vehicle — she was ordering a carton of Bean Menthols™ from her phone. Maisey screamed and cried and slapped and punched — punched the glass window until her hand bled. The mixture of agonizing whimpers over the ad’s royalty-free track created an avant-garde melody Maisey found even more disturbing. All in all, the brand film was 9 minutes long — the Beam Cruiser™ had dipped in sales the last few years — and media-strategists thought a long form, more emotional spot would prove successful. They were right — that model would eventually top last year’s sales by 1.005%. As soon as the advertisement ended, the doors unlocked. Maisey feigned hope, with mutterings like “*Davey, you’re ok, baby*.” But deep down, she knew it was over. The media-buy-roulette had determined their fate. Maisey got out, and opened the back seat. But just as she suspected, David was gone. Covered in blood, vomit, and bruises — his skin turned a dark green and purple. She picked up the corpse, slung it over her shoulder, and carried it next door to the BCF — The Bean Crematorium Facility™.


I hid under my blanket. My flashlight perched against my shoulder, while the book was firmly in my grasp. I intently read each word carefully, as the music of the radio played in the background. A waltz tune dragged on and I was beginning to get tired of listening to it. Hopefully, it would change soon. And that wish eventually came true. But not in the way that I had expected. Static. A drawn-out staticky tune played. It was the same waltz, but it was too unintelligible to decipher. I pulled the blanket off from over my head. The smell of the room hit my nose for it had been isolated from me until now. I peered around in the darkened area. The only light that I could see was the slight blue twinge from my radio. I stared at it. I stepped out of bed and I puzzled over its malfunction. Attempting to extended the antenna towards the window was met with no results. I smacked my hand against the wooden top, but all it did was make the machine sputtered more. And on the final strike that I laid against it, I heard the voice. *“Colder,”* it said. I tried to switch the stations, but each had the same message. *Colder* As I checked behind the dresser that it was perched on, I found the plug and pulled it out of the wall socket. But still. *Colder* I held the radio in my hands and listened to the voice. It was the voice of a child. A boy. It was a prank. At least that’s what I told myself. I prepared to go to the garage and throw it in the trash. Before it said its next word. *Warmer* My heart skipped a beat. The hairs on the back of my neck spiked so suddenly at that one word. I stepped back towards the dresser. *Colder* I stopped and headed for the door. *Warmer* Ambling into the hallway, I stared down at the radio. The slight waltz continued to play. My feet pattered against the carpeted floor. *Warmer* The gloomy house bore down on me more and more. My vision began to tunnel and the structures around me were nearly void. I reached the stairs and looked down at the landing. However, I focused not on it, but on the radio that could see me… feel my presence. *Warmer* Each measure of the stairway made me more and more anxious as to when it would speak next. And soon it had. When I was near the storage space. *Hotter* This was it. This is where it was taking me. The space underneath the stairs. I reached for its handle. My hand quaked at the prospect. The nervous heartbeat that thumped against my temples. The horror that the voice had caused me, and how easily I obliged to its wishes. I opened the door. *Hot* Those final words. The darkness inside the space. The shadowy claws that outstretched from within. It’s coil-like limbs reaching around me. My eyes dilated at its shapeless morph. It curled around me. Under my arms, twisting over my legs. My shirt tore to pieces, and my pyjama bottoms did so as well. It pulled me in. The radio fell out of my hands and clattered against the ground. Shattering to pieces. But the light still pressed on long after the darkness had ceased, and once more it chimed.


Annabeth stood her ground. The men had fallen, the weak, young and cowardly had fled. The sick and old had been sacrificed in an attempt to save everyone else. Yet they still came. An army of darkness and death. A plague upon mankind. Yet, the last to stand against it was a woman. She held her sword tightly. It was an old weapon. Passed down from father to son for generations, a line unbroken until now. The blade was short for a sword, yet too long for a dagger. Too thick and heavy for swinging quickly, yet too light to bash through armour. An odd weapon from a time long ago. Her shield was big, unlike the sword. Yet it was light. Made of a mix of wood and metal, it stood tall against any attack. It protected the body from spear, arrow, or sword. Together, the pair made a nearly unstoppable pair. Hiding behind the shield and stabbing out with the sword. But both paled in compared to the armour. Plates of metal overlapping leather. Cuts covered this armour from head to toe, yet the plates remained unbroken. When surrounded, the shield becomes a weakness, forcing you to protect one side and leave another vulnerable. The sword can only kill one enemy at a time. But the armour. It can stop a thousand blows from a thousand men. That is what Annabeth needed right now. The army approached the young woman. A great cloud of dust followed in its wake. Forests, plants, and animals all withered to nothing before it's all-consuming mass. Then, it reached Annabeth. The very ground that she stood on begun to crack and turn strange shades. The air turned stale and hard to breathe. Yet, she did not turn. She did not run. She had a duty. A little sister and brother to protect. Her grandfather, who gave his sanity to fighting this horde. Her mother, who had to abandon her oldest daughter to save the rest. The orphans, the lost and damned, those who tried their hardest and failed. The people who never had any hope from the start, and those who had lost hope when the Hero died. They all counted on her, even if they didn't know it. "S-stop!" She commanded. Her voice stuttered and almost gave up entirely. But she still stood strong. Strangely enough, the horde before her did that very thing. "What is this?" A voice like gravel grating on metal boomed from the horde. It was roughly a hundred meters away from the girl, yet the monster that stood at the front could easily be seen. Three times the size of a regular man, it hefted an axe that could cleave a normal man in two. "A child dare stand in my way?" "I-I am n-not a ch-ch-child!" Annabeth yelled back to the monster. She could feel the tears prick at her bright green eyes. She shook her head, trying to force back the tears, only for her golden blond hair to fall in fount of her eyes. "Oh?" The monster boomed. "Then what are you, child?" The monster sounded more intrigued than angry, as if Annabeth wasn't even worthy of its rage. Considering the monster was well known as the Sin of Wrath, that was a feat in of itself. Annabeth took a moment to steady herself. She remembered her father's teachings. That rushing in would only lead to a quick death. To take your time, to plan and outsmart your opponent. The demon was known as the Sin of Wrath, but rage made you stupid. It preferred direct assaults and was easily caught by surprise attacks. "I challenge you to a duel!" Annabeth screamed out to the Demon. This time, her voice held strong, though force of will rather than courage. However, she soon faltered as the entire army of monsters laughed at her. All but three. The Sin of Pride, The Sin of Envy, and the Sin of Wrath. "Silence!" Pride called, it's voice smooth like silk. "A challenge has been issued, and you will respect it!" Pride was unique for a Demon, always following through with it's word to the letter instead of twisting and turning the contracts to its favor. But that did not make it weak, instead, it twisted the very person into agreeing to bad deals. "Ah, Wrath, ah, your so lucky! Ah, I wish, ah, that I could, ah, kill her!" A nasally voice called out. Envy, a small spellcaster demon that always wanted what it couldn't have. Greed for other's power meant it learned how to steal knowledge and strength from those it killed. "I accept your challenge, child." Wrath called out, stepping forwards from the army. The ground beneath its very feet was pressed down and left indents into the earth where it walked. As the monster crossed the hundred meters, it only grew in size. It eventually stopped ten meters from Annabeth. "This is your last chance to flee, child." Wrath said it's voice so loud that it hurt Annabeth's very brain. It's yellow eyes stared down at the girl, into her very soul. But she stood strong against it, for if she didn't, who would? Annabeth couldn't respond for fear of her voice breaking and giving way to tears. She knew she was going to die here, but every second she brought was another person getting away from the horde. Instead, she raised her shield just below her eyes and prepared to stab with the sword that was not quite a sword. Wrath meanwhile didn't wait for any more of a reply. It shot forwards with speed faster than such a large body should be able to move at. The axe came from the left side of Annabeth, so she moved her shield slightly so that it wasn't hit directly. The axe slid off the wood like it was two bits of metal sliding off each other. The Demon of Wrath lost it's footing for a second, and Annabeth took the opportunity. She trusted out with her sword that was not a sword and struck the monster in the neck. Wrath turned it's head to the girl, the sword still stuck in its neck. It looked down at the sword that was not a sword, shock and surprise clear on its face. "Fuck." It said, blood coming up with the words as it dropped its axe. The Demon of Wrath had been slain with a single thrust from a young girl. The Demon of Wrath fell to the ground, the sword that was not a sword slid free with no resistance. The universe stood still. The monsters no longer made noise. Even Annabeth's breathing seemed to stand still. Blood covered the girl from head to toe. Arteries spewed a lot more blood than she had thought. But not even the hardest of warriors can survive having their neck cut open. "Envy!" Annabeth called. Her voice cracked while saying the name, but the army of monsters dared not mock this girl anymore. "Ah, perhaps another time, ah ah." Envy said, backing away like the coward it was. But Pride stood behind the Imp. "Are you going to surrender to a small human child?" Pride asked venom and steel in its voice. That voice promised a slow and painful death. "Ah, yes, ah, your right, ah. Ah, it's only, ah, a girl, ah. Ah, My magic, Ah, should easily deal, ah, with her, ah." The Imp strode forwards. Unlike Wrath, it's steps were small, and it took the better part of ten minutes to cross the distance. The entire time it scratched at itself with its claws, ripping small scales off its body only to show more underneath. Instead of being clean and fresh, the scales were worn and ash covered. They were as sickly looking as those on top. Annabeth readied her sword and shield. her father's words came back to her. 'Should you ever fight a spell-caster, close the distance.' With those words on her mind, she sprinted forwards, throwing any pretense of defense behind. This seemed to take the Imp by surprise, but it was too quick. The Demon raised its hands and shot out blue fire at the girl. Raising her shield, Annabeth ran through the flames. The metal of her armour heated up, but the leather underneath stopped it from burning her skin. The wood of the shield refused to burn, however, having long been treated against fire. Unfortunately, she could not see. Instead of stopping in front of the Imp, Annabeth ran into it. Both the young woman and the monster were thrown to the side. Sword lost, having been thrown by accident. Training could not excuse a lack of experience, and losing your weapon was a great way to learn to keep a strong grip. The Imp was up first and blasting more fire at Annabeth. The girl had to hunker down under the shield, trusting in the ancients who constructed it. She could hear the cackle of laughter coming from the Imp. "Ah, die! Hehehehehehehe! Ah, Die! Ah, let me, ah, consume your soul, ah! Hahahahahahhahaha!" Envy cackled, blue fire shooting form it's hands. Annabeth slowly stood up, keeping the shield between her and the Demon. She felt her armour getting hotter and hotter. The leather had begun to sizzle and small bits of metal were starting to touch her skin, burning it away. Yet she still pressed forwards, walking towards the Imp as it backed away. Soon, the gap was closed. Annabeth was at the pinnacle of the fire. She thrust out with the shield, knocking the hands of the Imp away. This action interrupted the spell. It was only for a second, but that was enough. While she had a chance, the young woman swung the shield with all her might, knocking the Imp to the ground. Grabbing the sides of the shield, she brought it down on the Imp's neck. Putting all her weight on the shield, she pushed down, choking the monster. It was a slow death, with lots of spluttering and cursing from both sides. Spells began to fly in every direction in a mad attempt from the Imp to kill the girl. But, after what felt like an eternity, the Imp laid still, unmoving. Annabeth looked around for her sword. She found it lying in a patch of burnt grass. Limping over to it, she picked it back up and turned to the demon army. Burns covered her entire body and she was tired, but she still stood tall. "Pride!" She called out. She didn't yell this time. She didn't need to yell anymore. She wasn't afraid now. The army was still silent. The final general had been called out to fight, and everyone knew he would. Pride didn't say a word, nearly strode forwards, unsheathing a sword made of bone. Both took a fighting stance. Pride's was better, it was clear. But Annabeth had a shield. Helmet of a bird and a helmet of metal faced each other. Green eyes to pink. Pride made the first move. A thrust aimed at the neck of Annabeth. She rose her shield slightly, knocking the sword to the side and striking out with her own, like a snake waiting in a bush for its prey. Pride swatted away the sword that was not a sword like a horse swatted a fly. The sheer strength behind the blow almost knocked the sword out of her hand, but she had learned quickly to never let go of your sword. Pride stuck again before Annabeth could fully recover. The sword made of bone went for her eyes, but the girl nearly turned her head and let the blade slide down the side of her helmet. The sound of metal on bone rang through her ears, rattling her to the bone. While she had a chance, the girl stuck out with another thrust. This one was poorly aimed and was easily dodged by Pride. The sword came quicker this time. It stuck her outstretched arm. A loud crunch could be heard as the sword met metal. But it wasn't the crunch of her arm, it was the sword shattering. "You have very strong armour. I'll have to take it off your corpse." Pride said as he returned the hilt to its sheath. When Pride pulled the handle back out, a new sword was there, the same as before. "You have my respect, but you must die now." Just as Annabeth was about to respond, Pride disappeared. She heard a crunch and felt pain come from her back, then from her side, then another on her arm, one on her head, another on her arm, right at the elbow. Pride was moving so quickly and striking so hard that she couldn't even tell where he was. But her armour held up, breaking his sword each time instead of breaking itself. Every blow was a bruise, and in some cases, her own bone cracking. In a desperate attempt to survive, she put her shield in front of her, protecting her face from the sword. Pride did not slow down, however. Instead, it added in kicks to throw her to the ground. It added in consecutive blows to joints and her head. It beat and beat and beat her down until she was nothing but a crying mess on the ground. "I am truly sorry it came to this. If it is any consolation, you put up a better fight than the Hero. He ran away the moment I chopped off his arm. Truly, a coward of the greatest caliber." Pride taunted, a smile playing on it's lips. Annabeth slowly stood up, and Pride let her. "Don't," she said, weakly and softly. "What was that? I couldn't hear you." Pride taunted. "Don't you dare talk about my father that way!" Annabeth yelled as she stuck out with her sword. The strike was wild, a slash instead of a thrust. Her shield was out of place because of it, and Pride took advantage. The sword took her in the eye before she could even finish the swing. "Like father like daughter. To think, the Hero killed four of us, then his daughter killed two more. Yet neither could kill me. I guess that's why I'm in charge." Annabeth fell to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut. Life had left the girl, now forever to stare in the distance with only one eye. "Demons! Onwards! We have Humanity on the ropes!" Good ending up in a few days.


SPOILER: mild gore implied. You feel the warm grip of a thumb rubbing against your soapstone skin, you can feel the person contemplate buying it, vibrations from their voice, garbled speech you once upon a time might have bothered to understand, but now don't bother, they'll never care. You hear the clink of your body as the man sets you back down into your box filled with the lost souls of the reincarnates. Your days are short and they are always the same, if you're lucky enough to be bought you will be a gift or a good luck charm. But If your pain you suffered to be made into something beautiful and refined, carved away into intricate sculptures that mean something to special people is wasted, a wrong cut, an ugly pattern, a failed business, you'll be lost forever to the wishes of time. If you didn't get lucky you get tossed out, landfills, cliffs, or maybe you'll get a second chance. That's where my story takes place, behind me a hard life and one bad crack, a hammer head to my metamorphic body. But when I can finally find the pain bearable again I'm covered in duct tape. All I see is black, and I can feel this binding sensation like a corset. When I'm finally awake and the duct tape is removed. My body is still rigid and tight but different. I think I've been epoxied. I Spend my days Watching the refracted purple light flicker through me as cars pass by, blotting out the sun for fractions of a second and then retreating from their past place. People rub my purple resin or pick me up and watch the light pass through me often. But then one day someone picked me up and never put me back, I fell into a little paper bag with white stripes going across the standard brown paper. A couple coins and a paper receipt follow my descent and clatter across me and jingle happily as the bag slowly swings from side to side. I can feel the vehicle seat smoothly vibrate as the engine shakes the car. The car travels what I estimate to be around two hours before stopping. My new owner opens up the car door and then grabs the coins and the receipt out of the bag before I hear the clink of coins against more of their kind and the zipper of a billfold and the rustling of paper. I feel the shake of the car door and then the swinging of the bag back and forth until I hear the clatter of heels on hardwood floor and the clunk of a wreath on the front door, I feel the bag being set down on a coffee table and see a ceiling fan with three lights above me spin constantly. I sit in the bag for days or weeks, I hear the often chatter of my owner or the ceiling fan turns off when the light diminishes and all I can hear is the flickering of a candle and the heating unit run. One day my owner walks in the door and stuffs red and white paper into my bag, making it hot but cozy at I slide around in the bag traveling to the car. The car turns on and then as soon as we entered we left the car and walked through a threshold of a home, I can hear happy and excited chatter, dogs barking, childish voices, and amazing smells, chicken, cheese, mashed potatoes, and more. I sit on an entryway table until the night slowly sucks out the afternoon joy and the porch lights come on. I can hear hushed clothes and the crackling of fire, I can smell firewood, and marsh mellows, and then as the sun slowly rises I hear trickling and the sound of life. I can feel the warmth of a hand grasp me and then the excited squeals of an excited woman. The next day I'm swinging from a keychain, back and forth until the car stops moving and then repeated over and over again, twice a day, five times a week. I finally bother to understand human language, I grow attached to my human, a short woman with red hair, and weird socks. then one day everything changes. I hear violent screams coming from the car itself, my owner wakes up and lets out a shrill shriek of fear. I can hear screams and commanding voices, orders for her to "Shut the hell up you stupid bitch!" and I am enraged. How can any one how dangerous they may be, insult the woman who gave me the joy of life, a home, something entertaining about my life? I sit on the floor of the car under the steering wheel, not being able to see anything but being able to hear everything, her desperate screams for help, a crack and then choking sounds, and then the screams died down. I passed out in rage, at my useless body, how could I not help her, why would anyone do this? Why are humans so selective on what they deem important, with no regard for other's life? And when I awoke I could move, not just feel, I moved in fluid motions being able to pass through anything and being a transparent gray. Then I saw him, a humanoid shape made out of rock with 4 arms, hundreds of eyes everywhere, and then a large crown of rocky spikes atop his head, 37 points on each side with blood splatters on the points of his crown. His eyes watched me stare at him in amazement, hundreds of eyes all suspicious slits of lime, staring me down, each one analyzing something about me. And then I heard it, his voice, A collection of noises in a language I didn't know but still understood, screams and shrieks filled the black marble hall, big black pillars and a huge throne encrusted with clear diamonds. He said "I have a deal for you, I am the god of Dispair, and I have something you want." I stared at him cautiously, his image flicked with a green hue that Desperately tried to get away from him. "I will give you the satisfaction of knowing your human's soul is safe and returned to her body in exchange for your soul's constant torture." He snapped his finger and white light blinded me temporarily, when my vision returned, A massive silver birdcage appeared, with a small floating chisel attached to the ceiling via chain. it hung ominously, as the door slowly squealed open. I tried to speak but just a small croak exited my mouth, The god laughed, a grim collection of sounds never meant to be heard. "You cannot speak, can you? you spent an eternity as a rock, for silence and peace, and this is your consequence." I muttered a Small croak "hhi'll dhoo iht, I'll dho iht" I repeated it over and over until I finally managed to muster "I'll dho it." "Good enough for me." I passed out before awaking to the intense pain of being stabbed over and over, but at least she is alive.


The sky was so blue. The sun was so bright. The wind was blowing ever so subtly. The day was perfect. How could such a catastrophic event happen on such a day? I found myself suddenly hanging off the edge of a cliff. The only thing that I could hold onto was a small metal bar that was about two feet long. It stuck about a half a foot out from the cliff, and it was at least 5 feet away from the top of the cliff side. My main problem? The bar was boiling hot. It was as if it had come straight out of the fires of hell. The longer I held on, the more it burned my flesh. It hurt. A lot. I kept trying to slightly adjust myself, but that just ended up making it burn more. For a moment, I thought about letting go. *What’s the worst that could happen?* I thought. I looked down at what was beneath me. There was a massive dark hole at the bottom of the cliff. There was no way of knowing what lied within. However, the cliff side was so far up and the darkness was so far below that any person would inevitably die upon impact when they fell into the darkness. I quickly looked back up at the bar above me and tried to find a way out of this. How did I even get here? I honestly don’t know myself. One minute, I was standing with both feet perfectly on the ground. Everything seemed right with the world. Nothing in particular seemed too troubling at that moment. Then suddenly, I was thrown off the side of a cliff. I grabbed the bar as soon as I saw it and I held on tightly for dear life. I kept frantically looking around for a way out. There had to be *something*! It couldn’t just *end* like this! I looked at the rocks around me on the cliff wall. The rocks all seemed glossy smooth. There was no way to jump and grab hold of any of them. My hands were quickly blistering from the burns. I *had* to find something and soon. I looked up at the top of the cliff. It didn’t seem *too* far away. If I could find some way to get up there, I could get back onto the ground, and then I’d be fine. I just had to pull myself up past the bar. I attempted to avoid the pain in my hands as I lifted myself up over the bar and tried to reach higher. I knew I wouldn’t be able to reach it like this, but I had to at least gauge the distance between me and the top. I pulled myself up more. My knees were now at the same height as the bar, but I couldn’t rest now. I was so close! I lifted my right hand off the bar. It felt so nice to let it feel the air again instead of a burn. I reached my right hand up towards the top of the cliff. I could already start to see the green grass on the other side. Then, my right knee rubbed against the bar. My leg instantly began to sizzle. I shrieked in pain as I quickly lost balance. I fell back down below the bar, but my left arm twisted uncomfortably. I was now hanging from the bar by only my left hand, and I was looking down directly into the dark abyss below me. Also, when I lost balance and fell back down, it felt like my left arm popped out of the socket a bit. I cried out more. Not only was my arm burning because of the damned bar, but it was probably broken now. I could feel my left arm going numb. I had to swing my right arm back up onto the bar quickly. I turned myself back around and hesitantly grabbed a hold of the bar with my right hand. All the pain of the burning returned. For a very quick moment, I lifted my left hand off the bar. It still felt almost broken, and I had almost no feeling in it. I brought it down to my side and I looked at it. My left hand was burnt beyond recognition into a strange browny-black color. At least four layers of flesh had been burned clean off of my palm, and I could see the same thing happening to my right hand. It was clear that anytime I would try to climb to the top of the cliff, it would only make things worse. I was running out of options, and I was running out of time. If I stayed put and did nothing, my hands would be burnt all the way down to the dry bones which would make me fall nonetheless. I started to scream and make as much noise as possible. My main hope at this point was that someone would hear and come help me up. I continued to shout and scream for assistance. I would stop every so often to hear if anyone was coming. No one ever was. After a few minutes of helplessly shrieking like a child, I began to break down. I knew *no one* was coming. No one could hear me. I started to weep. My arms were getting tired and weaker by the second. I could literally hear the flesh on my hands burning off. I picked my head up. I used my shoulders to wipe some of the tears away. I *needed* to do something. I couldn’t just hang there in pain like that. I was only getting worse the longer I hung there. *Anything* was better than this elongated torture. Then, a small thought came to me. I looked down at the unrelenting darkness below me. *What exactly* is *down there? What would happen if you let go right now?* No! What the hell am I saying? I have *no* idea what happens if I let go of this bar. All I *do* know is it leads to certain death. I might be in pain now, but it’s gonna hurt a lot more if I fall. *But what if there’s a huge pool of water or something down there? It’ll cushion your fall.* Even if there *is* some sort of body of water down there, a fall from this height into water could still be highly fatal! I’m not taking that chance. Besides, there’s *no* possible way there’s a pool of water down there. I know if I let go of this bar, that will be the end. There is no chance of life going on. That’s it. It’s over. There’s nothing but eternal darkness and silence down there. The world will dissolve into nothingness. Right now, I may be in a massive amount of pain, but at least I know I’m alive and there’s still hope. I’m not letting go. I will continue to hold on until I’m saved. I continued to look around the cliff side for something I could use to save myself since it was clear no one else was coming anytime soon. I reached my feet out to try and touch the wall, but it was just a bit too far away, and I was so exhausted that I could barely move any part of my body. It was becoming increasingly harder to support my entire body with just my right arm. I’m not a terribly muscular person, but I can support my own body weight for a few minutes. Not this long, though, and that doesn’t take into account the immense burning pain in my hand was currently enduring. It was becoming near unbearable. I looked back down at the black hole in the earth. *You are running out of time!* Shut up. *Maybe it won’t be so bad. Falling into that abyss of nothing.* Stop! I’m not letting go! *Eventually, that choice will not be available for you to make. The bar will burn through your flesh and you will be forced to fall. You will have absolutely no control.* I don’t know that for certain. Someone could come and save me. *Just listen to yourself. No one can save you! Look at yourself. You’re in pain. There’s only one way out of this. Think about all the pain you could spare yourself by letting go right now. Your hands won’t burn anymore. Your arm won’t be broken anymore. If you fall, it* will *hurt. That’s true. It’ll hurt a lot, but I guarantee the pain won’t last as long. Soon, it’ll be nothing but silence. It’ll all be over.* I kept looking back and forth between the darkness and the bar. I was in the same exact position I was in five minutes ago, if not in a *worse* position, and I’ll be in the same position five minutes from now. Nothing will change besides my pain level. That will continue to rise exponentially. I looked down at the darkness. It looked so unforgiving. So mysterious. So. . . final. There would be no coming back. . . but maybe that’s okay. I took one final glance at the bar. At the cliff top which seemed so close yet so far. At my horribly mutilated left arm. At my hand that seemed to slowly loosen its grip on the bar with every passing moment. I shut my eyes, took a deep breath, and let go. I let the darkness surround me. There was nothing but silence. I snapped myself back to reality. I opened my eyes. I was back to where I was before I began daydreaming. In the hospital waiting room. The same place I had been for countless hours before. Just being there made me weak. The doctor came out of one of the hospital rooms. He walked over to me and said I could go in now if I wanted. I slowly nodded my head. I stood up and followed the doctor back into the hospital room. I stepped in. He waited outside and shut the door behind me. I looked down at the colorless hospital bed in the center of the room. I looked at the poor woman lying on top of it. She was dressed in a typical hospital gown and socks. There were several tubes traveling from large machines into various parts of her body. A heart monitor stood next to her bed. It’s beeping had decreased in frequency ever since they first turned it on. The woman’s eyes were closed. She seemed tired. Exhausted. I started to sniffle a little. The woman must’ve heard me because she opened her eyes and looked over at me. The moment she saw me, she smiled. Her entire face lit up. She would’ve normally sat up upon seeing me, but she could barely move. I quickly tried to match her smile by putting one on my own face. It wasn’t a real smile, but if I didn’t do it, I would’ve ended up crying my eyes out again, and I had already done that enough in the past year. She extended her arm out to me. I walked towards the bed and snuggled in close to her. All was silent for a moment besides the sound of us breathing together. How did we ever get here? Less than a year ago, everything was fine. She was so hyper and adventurous. It was perfect. Then suddenly, she got sick. . . and she didn’t get better. Luckily, the doctors were able to get to her before it got *too* bad. But it’s just been going downhill ever since then. Everything they’ve tried has just made her worse. Maybe if they didn’t do anything, she would’ve been better off, but I guess we’ll never know now. Eventually, she figured out that nothing they were doing was helping her. Even in the last few months when she just kept getting worse, they kept trying to find something because . . . there *had* to be something. It couldn’t just *end* like this. But my mom thought otherwise. She said she didn’t want any more medicine or treatment. She just wanted nature to take its course. Everyone seemed to think this was a *great* idea. . . everyone except for me. Was I the *only* one who realized what was going to happen? . . . what was going to happen if we let her go? We couldn’t let that happen. *I* wasn’t going to let that happen. I kept trying to convince her to use more medicine, find other cures, even though they never worked. Even though it only made her worse. I just wanted her to get better. I just wanted her to be saved. There would be days when I would feel so down about it that I would just start crying as if *I* were the one in constant physical pain. It had consumed my life. The thought that one day, I would wake up and she wouldn’t be there. It was times like that when I would think to myself, *What if you let go of her right now? What would happen? It might not be as bad as you think. If you’re hurting so badly, why not get rid of the pain?* Absolutely not! What was I thinking? That’s a horrible thing to think. For the longest time, I avoided the thought and constantly prevented it from entering my mind, but now as I sat directly next to her with her body wrapped close to mine, the thoughts started to return. *She is running out of time.* Shut up. I knew exactly what would happen if I let her go. She would leave me forever. I knew if I let go of her, that would be the end. There would be no chance of her life going on. That’s it. It’s over. There would be nothing left for her but eternal darkness and silence. The world around her would dissolve into nothingness. I may be hurting a lot, but at least I know she’s alive and there’s still hope. I’m not letting go. I will continue to hold on until she’s saved. I expected a doctor to burst through the door at any moment and proclaim that he found the miracle cure that will save my mom for sure. I kept counting down the seconds till it would happen. . . I must’ve counted down to zero at least a hundred times before I gave up. No one was coming. I slowly lifted my head up and looked down at my mother. She still had her eyes closed. The sides of her mouth curled up into a genuinely content smile. She didn’t seem afraid. She was perfectly happy with her decision. *Maybe it won’t be so bad.* I’m not letting her go. *Pretty soon, that choice will not be up to you. She will only get worse from here. Nothing can save her now. You are only prolonging the inevitable. She’s only gotten worse since last month, and she will only get even worse next month. Look at yourself. You’re in pain. You’re tired. You haven’t laughed for real in almost six months. You haven’t slept well since God knows when. Your face is red from how much you’ve cried. Look at her. She is hurting more than you can imagine. There is only one way out of this. Think about all the pain you could spare yourself by letting go right now. If you let her fall, it* will *hurt. That’s true. It’ll hurt a lot, especially for you, but the pain won’t last as long. Soon, it’ll be nothing but silence. It’ll all be over.* I kept looking at my mother. She continued to hug me close to her chest. I could see the pain making her weaker by the second. The pain alone was nearly killing her. I thought about what might happen if I let her fall. Her pain would be completely gone. *She* will be gone. She can never come back. I would be hurting for a while. . . but it won’t be nearly as bad as my current pain. I looked at her one more time. I could tell that she too was ready. I leaned in real close, and I kissed her gently on the cheek. I softly whispered that I loved her. She didn’t respond, but I could tell that she heard me and was mentally giving me the same response. Even though her eyes were shut, tears began to slowly stream down her face. I sniffled for a moment before I began to cry as well. I wrapped myself around my mother once more, and I held on tightly. Even though I didn’t want to, I knew it was time for her to fall. I took one final glance at my mother. At the woman who had loved me since the day I was born. At her smile which had lifted so many spirits on gloomy days. At her hair which seemed to grow greyer and thinner by the second. At her hands that seemed to slowly loosen their grip on me with every passing moment. I shut my eyes, took a deep breath, and. . . I let her go. There was nothing but silence. The heart monitor flatlined. I clung to my mother even though I knew the only thing left of her was her body. Eventually, I looked up. I opened my eyes once more. The first thing I saw was the open window on the side of the room. The sky was so blue. The sun was so bright. The wind was blowing ever so subtly. The day was perfect.


Greg clung to the rosary for dear life. The mansion creaked around him, every dark stain in the abandoned place making him think of the blood spilled there long ago. “I’m here to make a bargain.” He was supposed to speak the words in a loud, clear voice. Instead they came out as a half-shriek. Nothing answered. “Axaroth, I am here to make a bargain,” Greg repeated, his voice a little calmer. Nothing was going to happen. Not really. His friends had been messing with him. “Speak!” The voice rang out from every direction at once. It boomed with a deep bass, and demanded compliance. “I...I...I…” Greg stuttered as he tried to get words out. “I..I..I...I will perish if I don’t speak and waste the time of beings infinitely more important than mine own. Speak or be damned.” “I have requests.” “And you are willing to sell your soul?” Gregory held up the rosary in defiance. “You must make a bargain for an earthly price if I am protected. There was a moment of silence, and then laughter rang forth from the walls. Deep, bellowing laughter. It went on for some time. When it finally halted, the demon answered. “That protects against lesser demons. I am Axaroth, Prince of Hatred.” Gregory bolted, but froze with his hand on the doorknob. He had come here for a reason. “It offers no protection.” “Half of your soul, so you are doomed to half an existence. Unless, of course, you come to hell. Then your soul can be reforged for an eternity of torture.” “Kill my father.” Silence. It stretched out, like a rubber band, thinner and thinner until everything threatened to *snap*. “I said kill my father,” Greg screamed when he could take it no longer. The next voice Greg heard wasn’t the demon Axaroth. It came from upstairs. Several voices, in fact, were arguing. Greg followed them. Up the stairs, down the hall, he found a bedroom. His friends, if he could call them that, sat around a laptop and microphone, the laptop displaying a view of the foyer Greg had just been in. His friends turned and looked at him in shame. Greg looked over them all once, then turned without a word. They chased him to the entrance, pleading their excuses, how it was supposed to be funny, how they thought he’d ask for Jessica to date him. As they reached the front door, the lights went out. “It isn’t funny anymore.” Mike, the ring leader, pleaded their innocence as the room turned cold. “I said it isn’t...funny...any...okay, what the fuck is that?” Something was rumbling, almost like a chuckle, in the darkness. The boys turned, and from the darkness stepped forth something large. Something evil. It stood eight feet tall, ten with its horns, a goat standing like a human, a pentacle of blood upon its forehead. As it strode forward it stared into the eyes of each boy in turn, the blacker than night holes in its head seeming to suck out their secrets. “Gregory.” The demon’s voice was deeper than was possible, it rumbled like the Earth moving, it was fear itself, made manifest. Greg reached behind him and yanked at the doorknob, but it refused to budge. “Gregory dear, these friends of yours need to go. Say the word.” Mike turned from the beast, the only one to do so. The rest plead on their knees to the beast, overlapping voices crying out for their mommy’s for the first time since leaving for college, crying out for mercy where there could be none, crying out for salvation from the very thing they had wanted to be. Their eyes locked. For a moment, Gregory saw Mike. He had wet himself in fear, and that was what he had wanted from Gregory. Fear. Embarrassment. Shame. The video was supposed to go viral, shaming Gregory into leaving college and going home. “And your father too. I know you hate how he treats your family. Let me punish them for you. Let me punish them all. Say the word.” Greg’s mouth moved silently. One of Mike’s friends charged the beast, only to be effortlessly backhanded across the room. He fell in a slump, the moaning the only sign he was still alive. “Choose quickly, lest I give them the chance to choose your fate.” Greg ripped his eyes from Mike as Mike spun back towards the beast. “Yes,” Mike screamed, “yes, kill him, kill Greg and let us go.” The beast ignored Mike and held Greg’s gaze. “Say it.” Greg swallowed as the word came to his lips as if on its own. “Yes. ***** Entry for the /r/WritingPrompts spooky campfire, happening Saturday.


I don’t want to talk about the forest. I won’t go on about the way it creaks and howls as it fights with the wind, or how the leaves dance against another amidst this brawl. No, I won’t mention the beasts that reside there, nuzzling in bushes and making roofs from branches. I want to talk about a tree. This tree is deep in the thick of the forest, and deeper still, past the creek, past deadfalls and beaver dams. This tree pierces through the sky and has done so for generations. It has withstood storm and toil. This tree is a monument to nature’s arrogance. I want to talk about a man. A prideful man who set into this forest to build a home. He took his ax to this tree, chopping at its impenetrable bark. His saw snapped, its teeth barely scratching the tree’s flesh. He could not uproot its veins, buried further than he could dig. Through the seasons, and the man’s best efforts, the tree stood, still. The man laid against his opponent, exasperated. If he could not take this tree down, he would build his home around it. His ax chopped down the tree’s brothers and sisters, his saw transforming them to logs. The man built a home. Years passed and skyscrapers were erected. Soon, the tree was no longer the tallest monument in the forest. Soon, the tree was forgotten. The man’s daughter happened upon it one day, a girl just as proud as her father. She wondered why this tree had been allowed to stay in place of all the others. Her home was growing larger, after all, and they could use the space this tree was consuming. It’s roots, twisted and unsightly, were soaking up water they could surely use. The girl set out to complete what her father could not. Though the steel in her ax was stronger than her ancestor’s, she was still unable to pierce the formidable trunk. No blade she forged could puncture its shell. Her ropes unraveled with every attempt at an uprooting. Finally, with all options exhausted, if this stubborn tree would not move, she would simply destroy the ground it stood on. She forged a torch from its branches and placed fire at its feet. The dark of the forest crackled. The girl’s face glowed, soaked in victory. The tree did not give in. It called on its old sparring partner. Gusts brushed beneath its fiery leaves, red and gold, flames dancing in the sky. The wind was generous in its dispersal. The girl watched in terror as the fire she started spread further than she could control. The embers were returned to her and she glowed once again, dancing a final, shrieking dance. The heat nipped at the skyscrapers; a magnificent orange roared through the buildings and the homes that were once trees turned to a forest of flames. The wind called on a favor from the clouds and the rains came and extinguished the danger. The smoke cleared, ash lay in place of the homes, and the tree stood, still.