A family sat at a round kitchen table awaiting their meals to be served by the servants. This family was neither rich nor poor and consisted of four members; a father, a mother, a son, and a daughter who've been birthed recently. "How's school been?" the mother said to the son. The son replied with pleasure and tried to please his father with his accomplishments but the father simply looked passed his son, to the wall which had a new portrait that the servants had hung about almost a year and a half ago. The portrait was of the family in their best attire as the background was a dark hue which made it appear sinister. "What's wrong?" the mother asked. There was a brief silence and then father mutter "nothing" without ever breaking eye contact from the painting. He knew something was off with that portrait, but he didn't have an explanation why. Maybe, from where he was sitting at made the painting distorted he assumed but, he will always reject that idea since it would always look wrong, despite where he stood or what angle he gazed on it. The servants came out of the kitchen with a silver dome over the food. Once they set it down before each member, they began to show the food they've requested. Before they could eat, they first had to eat this pill that was issued to them from so long ago. Each member swallowed the pill and began their meal except for the father who only stared at the pill with bewildered eyes. "Aren't you going to take the pill papa." the son asked after he swallowed his pill. What exactly do we need this pill for? He wondered. "Silly father, you know you have to take the pill in order to keep living right?" Oh yeah that's right but... when exactly did I start taking these pills? And how come, my pill is a different color then everybody else's pill? The son sighed and got up from his chair. He walked towards the father. Why are we taking these pills for anyways? How come, nobody here ever questioned its purpose. Will something terrible happen if I don't eat it before the hand Strikes twelve? What will happen, then... will anything happen? The son picked up his father's pills and began to put it near his mouth, but the father grabbed his son's arms with a strong force and pushed it away from him. "I don't want to eat it!" the father yelled. Everybody was in shock. " father you need this pill or else you will become miserable." The father looked around the kitchen table to see his wife's upset face as she cradled the now crying toddler. Out of guilt, he took the pill from his sons hand and observed it. " it's for your own good." The mother responded. The pill inches closer to the father lips, but the closer it got the more anguish he became. He put the pill in his mouth and the mother and son's response became relieved. "Was that so hard father?" the son says. The father locked his eyes with his son for the first time and the son can see the rage that laid within him. He spat his pill out towards his son's face. "I don't want to eat this pill! I must know what will happen!" the son picks up the pill hastily and battles his father onto the floor. "You must!" he screams. The father fought back even though his son was more powerful than he was. He tilted his head towards the portrait and realized the painting became more distorted every passing second, which gave the father the strength to overpower his son. He ran towards the portrait and began to laugh hysterically as the painting presumed to show a twisted hallucinogenic scene that can only be found in someone's worst nightmares. The second hand on the clock began to tick louder when it started itching closer to twelve, but this didn't bother the father's curiosity and his pleas for rationality. A sudden silence fell over the family when The old fashioned clock rang, which the father knew he was free and he looked back to his son who was on the marble floor. The son wiped his now bloody lip and says in a soft and concerned voice, " we were only trying to protect you." And in that instant the father knew the deed he committed. His son became transparent and the father extended his hand out to the son for the first time where he has shown sincerity but the connection their newly found bound was short lived when the son vanished. The father looked at his wife who was covering her mouth as her other hand held the toddler who was screaming. The father went towards the wife and grabbed the child before she fell on the floor. "This hurts so much," she cried. "Why couldn't you have taken the pill." she slowly grown transpicuous. " Because, I had to see the truth." The wife's eyes widen in fear then she closes them, so she doesn't have to show the pain and disappointment she felt at that moment. She vanished into thin air when her tears began to fall from her chin. The father cradled the baby who was in a small thin blue blanket and turned back to the portrait which was now only a plain folded piece of paper that is taped loosely on the white wall. He walked somewhat slowly towards it because he was terrified to see it but, at the same time he was eager. After he hesitated to take his last step, he traced his index finger behind the paper and set his thumb on the paper and peeled off the paper off the wall slowly. Once it was off the wall he examined the folded paper and started to open it until he saw what it contained inside; There were words that seemed to have been written hurriedly on a Typewriter. He read the contents of that letter and when he read that last sentence his jaw dropped open as his hands began to tremble. "No...this can't be." tears began to flow out his eyes. He looked down to his arms to realize his precious daughter was no longer there and shortly a strong throbbing sensation in his head began to deteriorate the way he's perceived things. One moment he would see them huddled around laughing, and the next moment he would see himself alone in that depressing room. He was going mad, and he knew that. He at first hit his head with the palm of his hands but he kept on remembering so he then resorted to banging his head against the wall but all that did was with a worsen the splitting headache. He fell onto his side and presumed the unwanted memories but, he saw that there was something he didn't notice in the room. Where the kitchen was supposed to be was replaced by a somewhat large porcelain bowl located in the middle of the room that was under white fluorescent lights. He pushed himself up and began to stumble towards it but he kept on falling out of revelation and fear. He instead began to crawl as memories of the accident flooded his head.the sounds of screeching tires was the only thing that kept him from passing out from the horror he felt. He reached to the bowl and found thousands of those pills in the bowl. With shaky hands, he managed to pick a singular pill and examined its vibrant turquoise color. He began to put the pill near his mouth but stopped when it touched his lips. I've already seen what I longed for but now I am thinking should I eat it. If I don't eat this pill I would only be stuck here in this desolate place stuck with my thoughts. But... if I do eat this pill I will be reunited with my family and be loved by them but I will always know that deep inside that they are not real.


The upside of conducting experiments over the Colorado River is that if things go haywire, there's a cleanup system of currents. The test site above the Grand Canyon had more than five thousand tests under its belt. That didn't hide it from the critical eye of budget evaluators from the interior office. Science for the sake of progress fell far short of science for military or economic gain. It's all about the dollar signs, baby. Jerry Fallington presided as the head of the Icarian project. Two post-grad degrees from MIT marked him for greatness, but he felt chinks in the armor of that idea with every thousand-foot splatter scream. The council for strategic growth tasked Jerry with overseeing the genetic modulation for human flight. Yes, you heard that right, and no, officially the US government wasn't funding Dr. Thoreau style experiments. Officially, they were simulating multi-layered defenses to hypothetical Soviet aggressions. After the discovery of the Soviet Mermaids, the president privately agreed that America had to fight fire with fire. "Retired" German scientists of questionable moral standing operated under isolated free rein to enact an unorthodox defense plan. After the unmitigated disaster of the Bayou based alligator people, acting department heads added an addendum requiring a moral supervisor, ideally of Midwestern stock, to avoid the heretical contaminants that infect the intellectual communities of both coasts. And thus, mid-level manager, Jerry Fallington rose to his position as head of the Icarian project. Cold name credit to his petulant teenage daughter, Sabrina, who everyone agreed was too smart for any of the crop heavy state schools. Under the dry eye of the Arizonan sun, Jerry learned not to squawk every time a test subject wet their wings in the river below. The Germans joked that he was two screams away from a Sauerkraut queen. Which baffled Jerry, as he believed Germany to now operate democratically. The Germans tsked. They knew they were funny; the whole world be damned. It wasn't until their bittersweet triumph on test number 5322 that Jerry mused as to why they hadn't installed a trapeze style net below their test site. He curdled the mood like a vegan at a hot dog eating contest. "Fear of the unknown is necessary, Jerry." "Yes, Jerry, we couldn't let the failures spend life with their worthless wings tucked in shame. They flew fast, just in the wrong direction." Jerry could only stare at his morally questionable white lab coat clad collaborators. "I guess you're right, boys." Never one to be out of the group, Jerry swallowed his good intentions and canceled his order for nets. At least he could chuckle at the mad scientists flailing in vain as they tried to capture off-brand angels like oversized butterflies after the first successful trial. Officially, Jerry Fallington retired to Sioux City, but legend has it that he stayed on to oversee Operation Ocean Overwatch as the birdmen took to the skies. Like hawks in pursuit of fish, they flew over the Pacific, only their bounty was Russian and genetically melded between Babushka and bluefin. The Soviet aquatic espionage effort was quickly picked clean via wing and harpoon. The Feathered Furies, as they called themselves, were granted leave and took up residence in the wilderness of Papua New Guinea. Whether ground-bound Jerry followed can't be confirmed. But the locals speak of a kind legend that prefers brown loafers and sliced cheese.


You know, this whole thing is really crazy. At the moment, I'm on a small yacht. In the middle of the ocean. I haven't seen land in weeks, maybe even months. It's been so long since I've seen a calendar. Oh yeah, I bet you wonder what happened to get me here. It's actually impossibly crazy. So, let me tell you what happened. It was a few years ago when I first realized that the world was going to a dark place. It was obvious that something was going on that would change the planet forever. The summer was getting hotter, the winter was getting less snowy. And, I know most people would say how this was global warming, but it was happening so much faster than ever before. Also, not too far off base, California had another wildfire. Which didn't help the environment in any way, obviously. And this one was the worst one yet, it spread out to all of the coast, and even all the way to Texas in some places. It was not good, to be short about it. That was disturbing. Although, in the end, it did get put out. Although, not before the next disaster started. It wasn't really a disaster, other than the fact that it really messed the world up. The poles were moving, rapidly. Which, with it, came the change in the weather. It started off with something small. I lived in Ohio at the time. Which, if you don't know, is pretty much ignored by any costal storms (Hurricanes, tropical storms, etc…) And then Ohio got hit with a hurricane. We usually get hit with the backlash of it, but this time it was still a level 3 when it got to us. And the coast got hit by tornadoes. That was even crazier. It was really horrible. They had no preparations made. And not a lot of people there have a use for basements, so they don't have them. At least Ohio was ready for storms. Heavy storms at that. At this moment I was on the road to the one place nearby that hasn't been affected by anything abnormal yet. Canada. But as soon as I settled in stuff got bad. Have you watched the movie 'the day after tomorrow'? If so, it was like that scene where everything is freezing crazily fast. It started in the upper part and slowly came down. It happened slowly. 5 degrees lower in one day. Then it happened the next few days. That was when I decided to leave. I was driving back to the U.S. When I got a call from someone I hadn't talked to in months. My brother. He told me about everything that happened. Oh yeah, he was a meteorologist. He said that the deep ocean, about the mid-pacific hadn't been affected by anything yet. I kept him on the phone for hours. He said the reason this was happening was because the poles were moving rapidly. Miles in days. I came to his house in California and we caught up. He told me it was time to go. I went out and bought a ton of water. He had an oven on the boat so we could boil water from salt to drink. I also grabbed about 100 boxes of those nature valley crunch™ bars. Also a few fishing rods. When I came back I saw a storm coming from the mainland. I saw so much rain pouring out of it. When I got back I ran to the boat with my bags of food and water and got on. He was already there. He said he had hundreds of gallons of gas in the floor. We wouldn't need to go back on land for months, maybe years. And, obviously, I've survived till now. No problems yet. I hope this somehow ends soon. Although I hope I find more people. I'm starting to go crazy here. I love my brother, but, after a year of only talking to one person. It gets boring. But, I gotta go help stable the boat. The waves are starting to pick up. I'll keep you updated.


Most people have at least one talent that they really excel at. Some special people have never met anyone who could outclass them at their talent. Fortunately for Arnold York, he was one of them. His special talent was duelling with pistols. As a member of high society, the opportunity to duel his rival noblemen presented itself rather frequently. It was customary in this place and time for gentlemen to settle their disagreements in combat, and pistols were currently the most popular weapon. As he gained his reputation as an 'unbeatable' duelist, he was provided target practice in the form of a few fools who fancied themselves a good shot. York accepted every challenge he received, and won them too. His skill made him essentially untouchable for most. Any man who had a qualm with him would back down rather than face death. As you might expect, this safety made him a troublemaker. An avid womaniser, he did not fear the anger of fathers. Yes, he had plenty of enemies, but he stayed on the good side of the right powerful people, protecting himself from assassination. He took care to make enemies only with the weak. His flamboyant character kept him in the good graces of the public. York always used the same strategy in a duel; once the start had been called, rather than turning to fire immediately, he would duck or throw himself to the ground. His opponent would then miss his shot, and York would take his time aiming properly, shooting the other man dead every time. Any commander worth his salt knows it is foolish to use the same strategy so frequently, but it worked for York. His opponents knew what he would do, but they still could never hit him. The secret to York's victory was simple: he was a cheat. Were he born two hundred years earlier, he would be a court Jester. Two hundred years later, a stage magician. He was a master of showmanship and sleight of hand. Everywhere he went, he would carry with him a duelling pistol with a blank shot. He would put on a show before the duel, captivating the attention of all who were watching, then diverting it elsewhere for a brief moment, during which he switched one pistol for the one loaded with a blank. Alternatively, he would have his servant replace it beforehand. If he was being challenged, he would provide his own set, and then use body language and subtle suggestion to coax his unaware opponent into choosing the sabotaged pistol. The reason he always let the other man fire first was so that the blank shot would not be discovered afterward. York's latest duel was with a stranger named Harrow. York had not wronged Harrow, but Harrow had challenged him nevertheless. Harrow claimed merely to be seeking a challenge, but York suspected he was hired by a certain local landowner whose daughter York had recently slept with. He was not bothered by the deception; he would win the duel regardless of Harrow's motive and leave for the next town. Since Harrow had challenged York, York provided the weapons and Harrow would choose first. This meant that York did not have to switch the pistols in the presence of witnesses, but he did have to force Harrow to choose the sabotaged pistol. This always proved trickier, but it was a skill he practiced extensively on his servants. The pistols were always prepared such that the steel components on the sabotaged one were slightly more polished, mostly to make a more attractive choice to the unsuspecting victim, but also to tell York which was which. As York's servant opened the pistol case, York checked that the shinier one was on the left as always. York took care to always stand on the right, as the challenger would be more likely to choose the pistol closest to himself. Noticing that the sabotaged pistol had sunken deeper into the velvet than its sibling (making it less prominent), he flourished his hand towards a nearby tree, making idle conversation about Autumn's early colours. It is natural for humans to follow a moving object with their eyes. If the object moves in a straight line, the natural response is to snap back to where the object started. But if the object moves in an arc, people's eyes will remain fixed on it when it stops. This effect is what York was taking advantage of. He moved his hand in a large arc towards the tree, diverting everyone's eyes from the pistol case as he lifted the sabotaged one into a more attractive spot. When everyone finally returned their gaze to York, they were none the wiser to his little adjustment. Suddenly, Harrow slapped York's hat off his head. The hat fell behind him and York stumbled in surprise. After York had regained his hat and balance, Harrow explained that there had been a wasp on the hat and he was simply saving him from a sting. This unconvincing story put York in a foul mood. "I'll be glad to shoot this impudent bastard!" he thought. "Enough talk, choose your weapon." he said disdainfully. He smiled as Harrow picked up the pistol on the left and walked to his position. York took the other pistol and did the same. They turned their backs and waited for the signal. As it came, York ducked down immediately and spun around. But strangely, Harrow had not fired. He was just standing there, watching York. He wasn't even aiming his pistol. "What is he playing at? Is he just trying to do something differently from the others? I ought to shoot him anyway. I'll fire the other pistol into the air later to get rid of the blank." he thought. He stood up, aimed his pistol at Harrow, and pulled the trigger. A blast came from the barrel, but as the smoke cleared, Harrow was unharmed. Harrow grinned sardonically as he raised his pistol to level with York's chest, the flintlock glinting in the sunlight.


**"Green," the patient replied, so thoroughly convinced of his answer that he said without even a moment's hesitation. This was the third time they had tried the crayon test and he still wasn’t showing any sign of improvement. Michael sighed, trying to keep his exasperation as slight as possible.** **He had to remember that this man suffered from a debilitating neurological disorder that caused one to see and experience things the way they were. Some suffered from this disease more than others; many merly lapsing into employing logic or making a factual statement on occasion like a mental hiccup, but resuming a normal state immediately after. Others showed symptoms more consistently, but could be easily coaxed out of it each time. Michael Gumstead's current patient was what most would consider a helpless case, and the more the usually dauntless Doctor Gumstead worked with him, the more he was starting to agree.** **"We've been over this," he said. "It's yellow."** **Doctor Gumstead put the crayon back into the box and pulled out a blue one.** **"How about this one?" He asked.** **"Blue." The patient replied.** **"White," the doctor corrected, his sigh a bit more audible this time. The weather was undoubtedly contributing to his foul mood. He found himself wishing that time had ended yesterday when it was hot and sunny. Yesterday had been his day off and he spent much of it outside, revealing in the wonderfully intense, skin-charing heat; enjoying the suffocating sensation of his clothes fusing to his skin while prickly-inch ravaged his crotch. The earthly incarnation of Heaven.** **Today was a direct opposite; the air was crisp, cool and, worst of all, breathable and the sun was slightly obscured by clouds, denying him the pleasure of having abrasive sun-rays penetrate his eyes like fiery daggers. Instead, his surroundings were rendered disgustingly seeable while the slight chill in the air filled him with a loathsome feeling of life and vitality. Of course, the patient he was working with wasn't helping much either. It was funny how someone referred to as a "patient" could make you feel anything but.** **This patient was strange in many ways; he was one of those that actually preferred the horrendous livable weather to the pleasantly soul-scorching days that every normal human being full-heartedly embraced. He was also a vegan as he considered the consumption of flesh and bodily fluids to be "kinda gross". Ironically, while he considered that gross, his diet consisted of plants; green things that sprouted from the dirt and contained neither blood nor mucus (okra being the only exception). The mere thought of such a diet made Doctor Gumstead feel nauseous.** **In one of several unsuccessful attempts to bring the patient back into normality, he had offered him a bite of his ham sandwich and when the offer was inevitably declined, Michael, not being one to skirt around the issues, asked very plainly why. This conversation was what followed:** **"I don't like meat."** **"Why not?"** **"It doesn't appeal to me."** **"Let's not be vague; if I'm to help you, I must know more about your illness. Trust me."** **"I don't even know what illness I have."** **Michael had expected that. Few patients were able to accept their condition right off the bat.** **"It's something you're going to have to face sometime or another and the longer you put it off, the more difficult it's going to be. Now why doesn't it appeal to you? I must insist on a straight answer."** **The doctor's permission had evidently emboldened the patient to speak more candidly, "I find it more than a little gross. You're eating slices of someone's body."** **"Is that any different from what you're eating? What's the difference between cutting the head off a cow and cutting off a head of lettuce?"** **The patient was confused. This was made evident by his reply--"Huh?"** **The one saving grace of those with his disorder is that they are very easy to confuse.** **"I’m examining the hypocrisy of your position; you find it disgusting to eat animal bodies but are fine with eating decaying plant bodies."** **"I don't eat them when they're decaying," said the patient, elaborating his backward point of view.** **"Plants do decay, do they not?" Gumstead insisted, eyeing his patient with fierce scrutiny.** **"Yes, but I--"** **"So you eat decaying plants,"** **The patient started stupidly at him, then opened his mouth as if to respond, then let his head drop to his chest, managing only a weak, "Sure."** **Ah, progress.** **"And meat decays too, so it’s essentially the same thing."** **The patient raised his head slowly as if he were struggling with the weight of his own skull. Doctor Gumstead was slightly offended; what right did he have to be tired? If anyone had the right to be exhausted, it was the good doctor.** **"Well," the patient began, "I guess it's because nature intended them to be eaten, by humans I mean--"** **"And animals aren't?"** **"Not when you get right down to it. When you consider that the seeds in fruit are--"** **"Animals were meant to be eaten," doctor Gunstead interrupted, not willing to put up any more deluded ravings, "why else would they be marketed as food?"** **"Profit," came the predictable answer. People with this condition held on to a paranoiac belief that corporations are run for the sake of a profit without necessarily being interested in the public's well being which, to be fair, was sometimes true, but not when it suited Michael Gumstead to believe otherwise. In any case, it was nothing that a bit of positive thinking couldn’t fix.** **Gradually, the topic of the discussion came to focus on life's imperfections, which was just where doctor Gumstead had hoped the conversation would lead, as he had recently taken a vehement interest in spirituality; not organized religion, of course, which was just a celestial form of brainwashing, but real spirituality; the logical kind that respected the intelligence of the individual and worked for the betterment of mankind as a whole rather than a perverse desire to control others. It was rather unorthodox to treat a patient according to the spiritual teachings, but nothing else had worked so far, so he gave it a try. He asked the patient about any personal problems he may have had in the past that might still be influencing his behavior today.** **The patient pondered for a moment then said, "Well, back in--"** ***"NOOOOOOOO*****," Doctor Gumstead bellowed, "it only seeeeeeemed that waaaaaaay because of your negatiiiiiiiiive perceeeeeeeeption."** **"I didn't even tell yo--"** **"You'rrrrrrre respooooooooonsiblllllllllle for yoooou'rrrrre owwwwwwwwn experieeeeeeeeeeence," said Doctor Gumstead, proud of himself for having remembered to gratuitously elongate nearly every word; an intricate part of any spiritual lecture, "The “prooooobleeeeeeem” you** ***thiiiiiiiink*** **you haaaaad would neverrrrrrr have exiiiiiiiiisteeeeeed had you not acknooooowledged it in the firrrrrrrrst plaaaaaaaaaaaace!"** **"You mean, I wouldn't have broken my leg skiing that day had I simply not noticed it?"** ***"Yes!"*** **Doctor Gumstead almost shouted, astounded by his patient’s inability to figure out the obvious. Gumstead’s heart sank just a bit as he realised his mistake in letting the patient finish a sentence, which is as much a taboo in the spiritual realm as logical consistency. This mistake at first prompted Doctor Gumstead to think that he was not yet ready to apply his spiritual lessons to everyday matters, but then, upon realizing that centering advice on something you know little to nothing about was about the most spiritual thing one could do, he knew he was on the right track.** **The patient stared at him for a moment and finally said, "But how--?"** **"I don't know why you have to take such a hostile position," Doctor Gumstead said quickly.** **"I'm a little confused," the patient said, "How could I have noticed my injury before--"** **"I’ll have to cut this session short," said Gunstead, "if you continue with that hostile tone."** **"What hostility?" The patient demanded rather hostility, "I was simply pointing out illogicality of--"** **"OK, so now you’re insulting me. It's little outbursts like that that got you sent here in the first place."** **The outburst to which doctor Michael Gumstead had referred had taken place at the patient's place of employment where he had questioned the need to update the "perfectly good" software of each company computer in order to make them more difficult to use. His employers tried their best to explain how the functional software was now well out of date, having been in existence for more than three minutes, whereas the update would needlessly complicate each task for the convenience of every employee.** **Somehow this logic, as sound as it was, didn't satisfy him and he exposed his unstable mental condition with the decolonization that the explanation didn't "make sense", after which he proceeded into an incoherent rant about how newer wasn't inherently better, and how it “actually needed to improve on something”.** **Soon, the entire office had gathered around the post-patient to try and understand just what in the hell he was talking about. Needless to say, no one understood a thing. Everything he said made too much sense for anyone to make sense of.** **His office manager had tried especially hard to comprehend his position, but every attempt at an explanation proved futile, difficulty in communication being another common symptom. Finally, the office manager; name of George, made him take the rest of the day off, believing that his inexplicable outburst of critical-thinking was merely exhaustion brought on by overwork.** **His wife was the first to witness the full extent of her husband's insanity. It came when she asked him to fill up the bathtub for her and he did so, prompting him to wonder why he hadn't started making the enchiladas that she had requested for dinner and why he was pouring a bath so early in the evening. His perplexing response was as follows: "You told me to draw a bath."** **The wife, Isabelle, replied, "But that wasn’t what I** ***meant*****."** **When he asked Isabelle why she didn't say what she meant, she backed away from him; slowly at first, then made a quick dash to the bedroom, where she locked herself inside and called the police.** **Now here was Michael Gumstead; trying to reason with a man who probably couldn't be reasoned with. Gumstead had started the case fully and enthusiastically embracing the challenge, but now it was getting to the point where he was beginning to question his own sanity.** **"You have been hostile to people," Gumstead insisted, "don't try to tell me otherwise. You are capable of hostility."** **"Um, sure. So that means that I'm hostile in every instance of my life?"** ***"Yes!"*** **Gumstead said excitedly, barely suppressing a mirthless laugh. He couldn't believe this really had to be explained, "You've been displaying copious quantities of hostility since you arrived here! With your relentless questions and endless scrutiny. Disputing my authority and undermining me at every turn!"** **We are allllllllllllll of one consciousness;" Gumstead said, quickly preventing the patient from saying anything else, "we are aaaaaall perfect! We are aaaaaall compleeeeeeeetelyyyyyyyyy eeee-*****qual!*****”Gumstead made sure to state how equal they were with the most smugly condescending tone and smile he could manage. It was always important for the spiritually evolved to let people know that they were just a little more completely equal than those around them, “buuuuut if I didn't teeeeeeeell yooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuu, what your** ***thooooouuuuughts*****,** ***feeliiiiiiiiiiiiings*** **and** ***intentioooooooooooons*** **are than hoooooooow would you** ***everrrrrr*** **knoooooooow?"** **"I'm sure I know my own thoughts, feelings and intentions." He was getting frustrated. A definite sign of hostility.** **This time Gumstead didn't bother hiding his sigh at this poor, silly, deluded man as he pondered what he could say that would get through to him.** **"Don't be so hostile." He said at last.** **A week went by with no noticeable improvements. If anything, his hyper-sensitivity had gotten worse. When Doctor Gumstead was having his lunch, the patient, in a fit of entitlement, asked if he could close his mouth when he chewed. Doctor Gumstead reacted by chewing louder; “In Norway, it’s considered a compliment to chew as loudly as possible,” he explained, “and I’m not going to stop being polite just because you don’t like it.”** **“It is not polite precisely** ***because*** **you** ***know*** **that I don’t like it!” Portested the patient.** **Doctor Gumstead said with a tight smile that would seem patronizing to lesser sentient beings, but which was actually very evolved and free of the slightest hint of judgment; “what’s polite and what isn't doesn’t change to match your feelings. Politeness was invented to show respect. Respect, I will argue, is about the most important thing one human being can have for another; it’s the cornerstone of our civilization, and why shouldn’t it be? It helps to be courteous to those around us; to eliminate the potential tensions and live in harmony with those we encounter in our daily lives, so with that in mind, I will force my respect on you whether you like it or not!”** **The patient slumped in his chair, his chin nearly reaching his chest.** ***So damn dramatic,*** **Doctor Gumstead thought, rolling his eyes. He made sure the patient saw it as that was often worked as a way to deter further arguments, then he resumed eating his sandwich, making each chew louder than the last.** **Within the next week, they had tried shock-therapy, past regression therapy and speaking in patronizing tones whenever he had expressed a coherent thought, and he had managed to resist every step of the way. Doctor Gumstead had considered temporarily forgetting his compassionate nature and employing corporeal punishment, but had always managed to resist the urge.** **Michael Gumstead returned to work feeling an odd emotion composed of being simultaneously fatigued and refreshed. He was fatigued for the most obvious reason-- his pain-in-the-ass patient, though, thankfully, this would be the last day that he would have to work with him. They would go through the motions once more and then he would write him off as a helpless case. Sadly, every alternative, much like Doctor Gumstead himself, had been completely exhausted. The simultaneous feeling of exuberance came from having had his opinion swayed by an interview he saw on television; they were interviewing the now notorious Narvadan prosecutor, Christopher Butterfield, who had just gotten a death sentence for a man that had strangled his wife to death with a phone cord.** **The prosecutor was under fire by a small percentage of the public for organizing a celebration party when the verdict was announced; the party had shot-glasses designed to look like syringes and a cake that was in the form of a tombstone, pictures of which were proudly uploaded to Facebook along with a video in which Mr. Butterfield, clad in a blond wig and formal blue dress, doing a mocking impression of the condemned man's sister for the amusement of his guests. Some people, the family of the condemned included, saw fit to question Mr. Butterfield's ethics. Doctor Gumstead counted himself among them; a prosecutor who would stoop so low couldn't be any better than the remorseless killer he had put on death-row.** **Still, he listened attentively while the prosecutor made his case; "I showed the offender exactly the same amount of mercy he showed his victim," Butterfield had said, "if you want to say I'm crass and maybe a little callous because of the way I conducted myself at a private party, fine. Just keep in mind how callous it was for that vermin to coldly and meticulously wrap a phone cord around Ms. Stratten's neck and squeeze until all the life drained from her body while she struggled, helpless and frightened. I'll bet the Stratten family are suffering too, but, of course, nobody cares about them. Nobody in the entirety of human history has ever cared about the victim, but I've been doing my damndest to try and change that!” At this point, tears formed in his eyes and his voice shook with uncontrolled emotion.“I gues**s **I just care** ***too much*** **about human life!" he bawled.** **The more parallels Christopher Butterfield drew between himself and the scum he had put on death-row, the more Doctor Gumstead came to realize that he had misjudged the noble prosecutor. Chris Butterfield was really a very compassionate man, he was just fed up with the way the media had always given sympathy and recognition to violent criminals while treating the victims and their families with cold indifference. He knew the media didn’t care about the victims of violent crime because TV and radio networks would helpfully remind him. Gumstead decided that Mr. Butterfield was a great attorney after all, and he did a pretty good female-impersonator to boot! Doctor Gumstead felt good knowing that he had been proven wrong. He liked knowing that he was never too wise to learn.** **The doctor entered the small chilly room where the patient was waiting. The patient looked the way the doctor felt; haggard, exhausted and eager to get the day over with. Doctor Gumstead produced a purple crayon from his pocket. "What color is this?" He asked in a dismal monotone.** **"Orange." Said the patient.** **Doctor Gumstead reached for the next crayon then stopped, unsure of what he had just heard. He asked again and this time got "Green". Gumstead looked at the crayon then looked back at the patient. His hope suddenly renewed for the first time in months. Excitedly he produced a green crayon.** **"Brown." Said the patient.** ***I’ll be damned!*** **Though Doctor Gumstead,** ***I will be DAMNED!*** **The breakthrough that he had been hoping for, but thought unobtainable had been reached! Gumstead couldn’t hide his excitement. He vibrated in his chair and grinned like a rambunctious child as he produced an orange crayon--"No color," the patient said, "it's transparent."** **Doctor Gumstead jumped from his seat and shouted something to the equivalent of “Yahoooooo!” Had he been wearing a hat, he would have beaten it against the side of his pants. He called up Mr. Mondale, the head of the hospital, and asked him to come down as soon as he could.** **"Which way is up?" Asked Gumstead.** **"Down." The patient responded.** **"Which way is left?" Asked Gumstead.** **"Right." The patient responded.** **"When is today?" Gumstead asked.** **"Yesterday;" the patient responded, "today was already tomorrow."** **“How would you describe the name Caroline?” asked doctor Gumstead.** **“A beautiful name for a beautiful person.” the patient said.** **It was then that doctor Gumstead began nudging Mr. Mondale in the ribs while saying, "Huh? Huh?"** **Mr. Mondale was impressed. He gave doctor Gumstead a firm handshake and enthusiastic congratulations. Then, just for the hell of it, a hug and a big sloppy kiss on the cheek...and he wasn't even Italian!** **The following week, they brought the patient in to meet with the country's foremost experts on human psychology to show them the results. After performing a series of cartwheels, backflips and aerial somersaults in an uncontrollably robust display of joy, they unanimously agreed that the patient, this David Miller, was finally ready to be reintroduced to the outside world.** **Doctor Gumstead wished David Miller luck and sent him on his way. For the next couple months, doctor Gumstead would respond to every mention of the word "hero" with an embarrassed smile and a modest shake of his head. "I just did my job." he would say, "I was on the verge of giving up, but then I got lucky."** **Still, Michael Gumstead would have been lying if he said that he didn't feel some sense of pride as he watched David Miller walk backwards through the gates of the institution with his backpack wrapped around his chest and his eyes staring directly into the mid-afternoon sun.** **Once a mental defect, now fit for normal society.


7** new messages New message* Hey.. it's me. I uh, I know we haven't talked in awhile but a friend of mine asked me something that I really thought you'd get a kick out of. So, your doctor tells you that you only have 24 hours left to live. By the time he's done explaining it and you’re standing outside his office you’re down to 23:30. Whaddya do? Anyway, call me back when you get this.. I miss you. *End message New message* Hey, it's me again. I couldn't stop thinking about that hypothetical so I figured I’d call you with a similar one, but a little further along the line. So, same start but now you've got your affairs in order. Important account information written down, utilities handled, any pets have a new home to go to, all that sorta stuff. You've got about 18 hours left and none of the paperwork left to waste time on. Whaddya do? Call me back when you get this.. I miss you. *End message New message* Me again. I've got a confession to make. There isn't any friend with a hypothetical, I just wanted a reason to call you. I’m actually just sitting at home, alone, a little drunk. Kinda pathetic but, you know, I'm not the most likable guy. Anyway, back on the hypothetical, picture that you've got enough booze to pickle a pastor and no real place to go. Down to about 12 hours, whaddya do? Call me back when you get this. I miss you. *End message New message* Hey. I went to see my Dad. No I didn’t drive, I… I learned that lesson. Someone planted flowers for him, Tiger Lilies. Probably, you know I’m awful with flowers. They were orange and dotty though, he would've loved them. For our one sided voicemail game, you're drunk and wandering with 8 hours left. Where do you go, what do you want to see? Whaddya do? Call me back when you get this. I miss you. *End message New message* So I went and got Sharky's. You remember that crazy old dude with the taco truck that would park down the street from the graveyard? He finally got a restaurant, right where he used to park that old beater. Saw me staggering around and brought me inside. We talked while he cooked up some dinner, turns out his wife is buried a few rows down from Dad. Anyway, I'm sure you figured it out by now but I’m down to about 5 hours. Sharky just got the biggest tip he’s ever seen and I’m sobered up, so, what should I do? I know you're not gonna call me back but… I miss you. *End message New message* I think I maybe fell asleep after I ate, woke up in a booth with a blanket over me. Sharky left a key with a note to bring it back tomorrow.. I dropped it in his mail slot. I wandered back over to the graveyard, it’s been too long since I visited. So, I've got about an hour, no loose ends to tie up, and nothing exciting to do. Guess I'll come say hi. Sorry you won't hear this. I miss you. *End message New message* Well, it may have taken me two years to get here but I made it. I’m so sorry you got here before me. If there is an after, I'm curious how you're going to meet me. In anger? Joy? Will you even be there? Or is there nothing and I’m just talking into a voicemail that's never gonna get checked? Guess I'll know soon enough. No need to call me back. I love you. *End of messages.


He approached me from the direction the sun was setting and asked me: “Where’s the end?” “What end? End of the World?” “Yes, precisely.” I was amused and pointed in the direction i never even looked before. I was hoping to get rid of unwanted company. The man left and I continued watching the sunset. But then I saw him again in the distance. He approached me from the direction the sun was setting and asked me: “Im afraid I can’t find it. Could you please do me a favor and guide me to it?” I checked the time. “I can’t, I don’t have time. Try it again, you must’ve taken the wrong turn somewhere along the way.” “I will, thank you.” He left in the same direction as before. My neck started to twitch, my head started to turn. My curiosity made me look after the wandering man. He was heading in an interesting new direction, interesting landscape, but without any sunsets. I gazed at the world with no sunsets for a while. But then I saw him again in the distance. He approached me from the opposite of the direction the sun was setting, he was shielding his eyes from the light and he asked me: “I went all the way and back and I still can’t find it. I’m afraid I’m in need of your assistance. Would you be so kind and come with me?” I looked at him and then checked the time. I do have some time but do I want to turn away from the sunset? I was unsure. “In that case you must be looking for a different end of the world. The one I know about is in this direction. I’m certain of that.” “That might be the case,” he agreed. “Thank you for the help anyways, I’ll try my luck and go this way now. You’re a good man, I’ll make sure to let you know where I’ll end up.” He left in the direction I never even knew existed the moment he was done speaking. The curiosity took over me again and I tried to turn my head to look at the leaving figure, but it simply couldn’t be done. My neck wasn’t meant to look in that direction. I resumed staring at the sunset. But it wasnt as majestic and impressive as before. Something was missing all of the sudden, but I couldn’t figure out what it was . I was too busy thinking about the end of the world and how to get there. So I sat there, blinded by the sun, lost in my thoughts. He approached me out of nowhere, just as I was starting to get sad about never seeing him again and never venturing in new directions. He asked me: “I found it and memorized the way. I can lead you there if you want. Do you?” I smiled at him and checked the time. I didn’t care what time it was. “Sure, I have a moment to spare.” \ This is my first story i wrote in english, so apologies if there are any grammar errors.


“What have we got, Maya?” “Port and starboard are online, sir. Aft visuals are online. Forward visuals…” “Maya? Maya?!” “Forward visuals working fine, sir. Just messing with you.” “Ugh. When did you get a sense of humor?” “Sometime around the last staff briefing, sir.” “Well that was clearly a mistake. I’ll have to send you back.” “Yes sir,” Maya chuckled. “How are the legs holding up?” “Holding up fine, sir. Permission to leave dock?” “Granted, Maya.” And with that, the door slid open, and the universe revealed itself. Maya’s mech put one massive foot in front of the other. The suit came up to a total of fifty feet in height, ten tons in weight. She used the mech’s two massive hands to grab onto the edges of the dock, then launched herself into the endless night. “Are you squealing, Maya?” “I am indeed, sir,” Maya said though a wide, toothy smile. “You’ve been out here before.” “And yet it never gets old.” The distant stars, dead yet undying, called to her, and she forced herself not to reach for them. She turned left, and the torso of her behemoth rotated on its axis before being joined by the legs. Stella Eranti took a more complete view as Maya drifted further out. She was to stay at a half-mile perimeter as she circumnavigated that floating city, to prep her for patrol duty. A week prior, she’d woken up in her pod. The barracks’ design was taken from old Japanese hotels, cots built into walls inside of folding doors. Apparently the aim was to save space and help the troops overcome any latent claustrophobia they might be suffering from. Maya, as far as she remembered, had never had that problem. Tight spaces had only ever been cozy to her. They’d opened her door, pulled her out, and told her she was going to pilot the *Maisu*. Nobody was entirely sure where the *Maisu 0* came from. It was an old model of mech rig, and it was found in an unclaimed solar system. On the planet now called Rangi, a massive sprawl of green sand and boulders, they’d found her. Buried beneath what was eventually decided as a collapsed mineshaft, they found her. The most perfectly designed mech-rig ever imagined. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been preserved well, but after several years of debate over who could claim ownership, the Duke of Stella Eranti was able to take her home. From there, his scientists analyzed the behemoth, and eventually reverse-engineered the *Maisu 1.* … Which, as Maya and everyone else in Stella Eranti learned in middle school history, collapsed instantly when someone tried to get inside and pilot the damn thing. *Maisu 2* had fared little better, and *3* and *4* were improvements, but it wasn’t until the *Maisu 5* that any of the Duke’s people were able to bring the beast into the space, where it belonged. Maya remembered the first time she’d read those words, in her school textbooks. It had been a revelation: the Rangians, whoever they word, whatever they’d truly called themselves, had been space-faring. She could recall the exact moment the information had entered her developing mind: a ten year old girl, black hair in pigtails, sitting in a cramped classroom at a desk already too small for her. Her classmates were so close beside her that everyone had no choice but to get used to it. Handed the text, a pad projecting holographic words onto holographic paper: *40,000 years ago, the Rangians reached for the stars and took hold. The only question is just how high they climbed.* Maya steered around the turn of the bottled city. They floating through unclaimed space, and nobody was on their sensors. They were all alone. Maya was all alone. But she didn’t feel that way. She never felt that way. Rangi was with her. *Maisu* was with her, all six of them. And it was perfect. She pushed forward. “Maya, what are you doing?” “Just testing her out a bit, Sir.” “You’re not authorized to do that, Maya.” “I know, but… I think I can push her a bit more, Sir.” “No, you can’t, Maya.” “But Sir!” “Maya! Report back immediately.” Maya looked out at the cosmos unfolding before her. She reached out, one hand her own and one the *Maisu.* The stars were there. She reached. She grabbed hold. The only question was how far she could get. At full thrust, the *Maisu* was capable of similar speeds to a runabout, but with far greater firepower and maneuverability. She launched, and she went forward. The others were after her immediately, and she fired before they did. The backlash was mostly absorbed by the machine itself, but there was still a small jolt from firing that many times. Maya’s heart thundered, sweat bursting from her pores. Yet her hands remained steady, and she refused to blink. She didn’t know why she was doing this, only that… Only that it was important. Important that she get to Rangi. The other mechs started firing back. They weren’t as strong or as fast as her *Maisu*, but there were dozens of them. Indirect hit after indirect hit- they were targeting her life support systems. They were trying to save the mech. Maya took down five, ten, twenty mechs before carbon dioxide flooded her cockpit. Then her hands stopped moving. Then her arms. Then everything. Her entire body began to stop. Simply… Stop. The last thing she saw was the stars. She wanted to reach out for them. She wanted more than anything for them to reach back. But she understood: they were already dead. \*\*\* “How are you feeling, Sir?” “Very good, Your Excellence.” “Sorry about the newest Maya. I knew you’d grown attached to that one.” “She was certainly the most successful thus far. But she wasn’t good enough. Not for the *Maisu*, and not for me.” “Too much of the original pilot’s DNA, you think?” “Perhaps. More human DNA might make Maya 21 easier to control.” “Very good.” “And the mech?” “Damaged. Not irreparably, but frankly it’d be more efficient to simply start work on *Maisu 6.*” “How long until I have a body again, Your Excellence?” “Three weeks at most. And again, I apologize for your having to shut down the last one. I understand that’s rather a painful process for you.” “It is. Is there anything else, or may I rest, Duke?” “One more thing: the Maya program is growing rather costly. We may have to face the reality that it’s not worth the effort or the expense.” “So I’m on thin ice, then?” “You are.” “Very well. You do understand, though: the rig only responds to Rangian DNA. It has to be a Rangian, or at least someone with primarily Rangian DNA.” “I do. I also understand that someone else can figure that out rather easily. So if this next Maya fails-” “Then you kill me and the *Maisu* both?” “That’s correct, Sir. You may rest now.” And with that, the Duke left the room in which Sir slept. Extracted from Maya 20, placed in computer storage, the personality drifted off. It slept, and it dreamt of the stars reaching back. More than anything, Sir wanted to go home. He suspected that was Maya’s problem as well. Home to where they’d been found, home to where they’d been pulled out of their sleep. They wanted the same thing, but they didn’t want it the same way.


Everybody’s had a bad date. But my date with Lucy was definitely the worst date of my entire life. We met online, of course. I don’t think people meet any other way anymore. We really hit it off, she laughed at my dumb jokes and honestly, that’s pretty much all it takes for me to fall in love. We decided to meet up for drinks and appetizers at Applebees. I was nervous, so I showed up early, had a drink at the bar and waited for her to arrive. Meeting someone from the internet and finding out they’re significantly less attractive in person brings a uniquely guilty depression. It’s not that the person is necessarily unattractive, but in your mind, you’ve built up the anticipation for how you think the person will look. Expectation ruins reality. Usually this is just a result of normal people trying to look impressive. Which is understandable in the dating world. But that’s the thing, when I saw her walk through the door, Lucy did not look normal. She looked very far from normal. Her face was too thin and her nose was entirely too big. Freakishly such. She probably knew this because the she covered it up with three or five or nine inches of chunky, pasty white makeup. It could have been Plaster of Paris, who’s to say? That shit was out of control. She wore a giant green sweater, which in and of itself is not necessarily a bad thing, but it was almost eighty degrees outside, even after the sun went down. At first, I thought this was to compensate for being overweight, but she didn’t seem overweight. She seemed deformed. Like two or three different skinny people squeezing themselves into the same sweater. She had shredded blonde hair and walked with a wobbly limp, like an ether-sniffing marionette doll at a sobriety checkpoint. Her feet were disproportionally big, as if her shoes were hiding something nasty. Oh, God. I can’t do this, I thought. This is just too much. But I feel bad, because the expectations were built up in MY head, right? I’ll just turn and sneak out the back, text her saying I had car trouble or something. “Seth!?” She squawked. Or barked. It was a bark-squawk that was entirely too loud for the public, very unfortunately public situation at hand. Heads turned. Ah, shit. She saw me. Of course she saw me. I’ve been staring her down slack-jawed and silly. But really, can you blame me? This poor woman looked like a rubber horse mask wearing another rubber mask of Gary Busey’s face. “Seth! It is me. I am Lucy! The woman you speak to.” There’s no way she’s been using this voice her whole life. My voice was too dry so I just nodded. We’re already here, might as well have a few drinks and enjoy the food. How bad could it be? When my mouth finally began producing enough saliva necessary for conversation, we engaged in small-talk. I intentionally kept it awkward and as far from lively as possible. Maybe she’d catch the hint and we could just chalk it up to a lack of chemistry. I started dumping whiskey down my throat like my soul and sanity depended on it. Which, at this point, I was convinced it did. “So, where are you from?” I asked, hoping another unknown cultural origin could explain this catastrophic misstep in acceptable courtship. “Lucy is from Wisconsin. That’s normal, right?” Jesus Christ, whatever they put in that cheese really did a number on this one. Remind me to never drink Budweiser again, either. “I don-uh, I mean, yes, yes that is normal. Right. Have you ever been in like, a car accident or something?” She stared at me with big sickly brown eyes. Eyes that were almost yellow. Maybe she has cancer or something? I’m starting to feel bad for her now. Maybe the whiskey is melting the shock and warming my mind to a temperate state of empathy. She’s alone. She doesn’t get out much. Kinda like me, actually. Don’t be a dick, dude. Get it together. Then she laughs, it’s a coughy sort of laugh. It resonates from a deeper part of the diaphragm and I’m reminded of an alligator. Bet she used to smoke a lot. “You make joke! You funny man!” She swipes her hand across my forearm the way women do when they’re being particularly obvious about their intentions. Her fingernails are long. Monstrously so, and badly painted in flecks of a dark red. Her skin is entirely too rough for a woman. Maybe she works with her hands a lot? Oh. Oh, no. I check the neck. I don’t actually see an Adam’s Apple, but the skin does protrude in a hangy sort of turkey-neck way. I begin to sweat uncontrollably. Look, I don’t hate anyone. I believe everyone should live their lives and be happy. But I’m just not ready for this. I’m afraid. I feel like I’m waiting for the cashier in a gas station and a cop gets behind me in line. I compensate with more whiskey. That’ll help. I have to ask. I can’t just not know. “Look, Lucy. I’m sorry. But are you, like, are you a girl?” There’s that laugh again. “Yes! Lucy is girl. Real girl. Clever girl.” Of course she is. Trans girls are girls, too. It’s just… I’ve already paid for the drinks, she seems very interested in me, persistent even. I just don’t know if I can do this. Maybe just a blowjob? That’s not gay, right? I’m gonna need some cocaine for this. That’s it! Cocaine! I’ll see if she’s down to score some blow, then we’ll just see how it goes. Worst case scenario I get all coked up and can’t get a boner anyhow, sorta solves the whole situation. I can blame the coke, she doesn’t get her feelings hurt. Win-win. “Hey Lucy….” “Hey Seth.” She does the cough/laugh. Maybe the hormones haven’t been balanced yet? “You uh, you wanna score some coke?” “What is ‘score coke’?” “You know, like cocaine?” “Cocaine? If we score cocaine, can I get your meat?” Oh fuck. This is happening. “My…my meat?” “Yes. I want your meat inside me.” Not gonna lie, my dick did a little twitch right then. Jesus. Well, I guess you learn something new every day, don’t ya? “Okay! Um, I’m gonna pay the, uh, pay the tab. Why don’t you? Like, and I’ll then go to the car. Ya know, then we can like, you know. Wanna follow me while-“ “We ‘score coke’ like cocaine!” “Yes.” I said. Fuck, I kinda like her now. I can get past the face. And the limpy, wabble-walk. And the…uh. Whatever else I find. After I pay the bartender, we both walk back to my truck. I guess she took the bus or something because she never mentions a car of her own. I call up my buddy Allen, he usually has decent coke. Allen says to come on over, I open the door for her, she does that little laugh again. It’s kinda growing on me, actually. I can’t believe this is happening. As I’m driving, she starts purring and licking my ear. And I’m actually into it. Like, really into it. Once again, I can’t believe this is happening. We pull up to Allen’s place, he sends me a text saying to come on up. Allen opens the door and jumps back. “Holy fuckin’ shit, Seth. Who the fuck is this? You told me it was just you, bro?” “No I didn’t,” I said, “I told you a had a girl with me, Lucy this is Allen. Allen this is Lucy.” “Hello, Allen.” Said Lucy, “Can I also have your meat inside me?” “What the fuck?” Said Allen. Then he laughed, and I laughed, and Lucy laughed, we all laughed. “You didn’t tell me it was like that. Why don’t you both just come on in?” We all stepped inside and Allen clicked on the light. As he did, Lucy tripped over the doorframe. She didn’t fall all the way to the ground, but she fell just enough to cause her hair to tilt. Like, all of it just shifted to the side. This caught Allen’s attention. “Yo, that’s a fuckin’ wig, bro! The fuck is going on here?” “Allen.” I said sternly, leaning in close to him. “Don’t fuck this up for me, man. I need this.” But Allen wasn’t listening. Allen was recoiling in horror because he saw what I had been too drunk and horny to see all along. While Lucy was fumbling with her wig and sliding around the foyer, her tail had slid out of her floppy green sweater. A tail that was long and scaly. Just as scaly as her scalp beneath the wig. It was now painfully obvious. This was not a foreign woman. This was not a transsexual. This was a sixty-six million year old chicken-lizard stalking it’s prey from beyond the confines of the traditional understanding of time itself. And I, Seth Fox, horny drunkard and idiot extraordinaire, had fallen for it’s schemes. Clever girl. Allen screamed the only sensible thing to be said, “VELOCIRAPTOR!!!” And we both dove behind the sofa for cover. The Velociraptor Formally Known as Lucy shrieked, “MEEEAAAAAT!!!” Why? Why me? Why couldn’t she have just had a penis!? The Lucy-Raptor soars over the sofa with a dancer’s ease because she’s a theropod. An apex predator from the Cretaceous Period and I notice what made her gait so ungainly. Her shoes had been hiding a giant sickle-shaped talon on each foot with which her kinship would disembowel their prey. Unfortunately for Allen, he was this prey. The Lucy-Raptor was on him instantly, she sliced open his belly with her toe-claws and his intestines flopped out like folded ravioli. “Nnnnaaaauuuuuggggghhhh!!!!!” Said Allen as the Lucy Raptor chewed on his neck. I had no patience for this nonsense, so I fled the scene hoping, praying, pleading with any deity merciful enough to hear my cries. I did not want to be eaten by a velociraptor tonight. I just wanted a blowjob. Is that really too much to ask from the universe? One measly fucking blowjob? But the Lucy-Raptor wanted to feast on the flesh of living prey, and I was still fumbling with my keys when Allen had breathed his last. She came bouncing into the parking lot. “CAAAUUUOOGGGHHH, CAAAUUUOOGGGHHH!!” Said Lucy. The truck door clicked open. Lucy reared back on her hind legs ready to pounce. I yanked open the door and hurled myself into the driver’s seat, turned the key and started the engine as Lucy sailed through the air like a shark through calm seas. Her claws barely missed my fender as I sped from my dead drug dealer’s parking lot. I stomped the gas. At 20 mph, there she was, nipping at my window. I turned onto the street. There she was. 30 mph. 35, 40 mph. When I hit 55 mph she slowed down and wailed a roar of defeat. I had bested the Lucy-Raptor. Turns out velociraptors can run at speeds of up to 40 miles an hour. But a ’97 Dodge Ram can go up to like, 120 miles an hour, so FUCK YOU, VELOCIRAPTORS!! Dating is hard, folks. But remember, “Life finds a way.


(WP) Everybody Wants to Rule the World She didn’t remember much about being human, but she remembered love, or at least, the echo of it. That warmth that climbed into an almost unbearable heat, that all encompassing desire that resulted from a smile from the other person. But to even think of it was like trying to remember a dream after you awoke; there were a few key details, but it was so blurry that she didn’t like to think of it. It had been centuries since she’d been human, and anyway, what was humanity in comparison to godlike power? Now, she was uncontrolled, accountable to only herself. She’d crushed civilizations like dust in her fingers, collapsed societies with a flick of a wrist. But these memories, distant as they were, were a reminder: Though she wasn’t human anymore, she wasn’t unstoppable. Not completely. There was a way to control her, and invoke her power, but she would be damned all over again if she was going to let anyone control her for anything. She was a demon, true, but she still had free will. Many had tried to seduce her, claim her, but none had come close. Until now, when a man and woman stood in the chamber in which she’d died, reading an incantation that was older than time, compelling her essence into their plane of existence. As strong as she was, she could not ignore such a summons: Dissolving into glittering, navy smoke, she found herself trapped within a bright red circle, its corners etched with shining demonic runes. The pair outside of it exchanged bright smiles, manic in their victory. “I told you it would work! Her Dark Unholiness, The Demoness Who Shatters Worlds, Temperance! We summon you here!” How ironic was it, that her name was fucking *Temperance* and she was one of the universe’s most powerful forces of evil? It was beyond ironic; it was pathetic. If she ever found the unlucky demon who’d unearthed her human name, she would disembowel them and use their guts as garters. Taking a lithe human form with dark skin, long black curls, and scarlet eyes, the color of rage and blood, she tilted her head to the side, studying the pair who’d dared brave her presence. “What do you humans want? I’m not immune to flattery, of course, but you must know you cannot hope to control me.” “That’s not what the book said,” A woman’s voice broke through the haze of smoke, calm and more than a little arrogant. “The book said that there was a way to control you.” Temperance said nothing, keeping her face impassive. This wouldn’t be the first time a couple of reckless, curious humans found the book that detailed her birth, powers, and weakness. But she wasn’t about to give them the answers. They should’ve thought of that before demanding she come here. “The book said,” The woman continued, smiling wickedly, “that we had to make you fall in love to control you.” Where was the harm in letting them try? No one had ever succeeded before.


It was pitch black on that back country road that night, the car was almost out of gas, and a baby who he knew would never know fame nor success nor love was crying in the passenger seat. You wouldn’t have known it at first sight – at one year old, she already sprouted a mass of jet black curls that spilled down her head and a tendency to grasp, squirm, experiment, escape and cause trouble that you would not have known would alienate and drive away any adult that would have otherwise helped her in life, were you not told. The politically wise would have guessed the truth at the sight of the caramel-colored skin that would, in no small part, mark her fate. You’d have really known it as you saw her claw at him. He’d have been sick of her shit a long time ago if it wasn’t for the job. And of course, he’d have to pick *this* road. A grand total of forty-five miles away from anybody else, the shoulders overrun with weeds and grass and brush, and the only illumination at his disposal of course being the fucking moon, *this* was the safest route, and the tank was running on empty. He couldn’t even risk turning on his emergency headlights for fear of discovery, even out here. He pulled down a wooded dirt road and stopped the car. And it was there, shielded from the harsh cold light of the moon by silhouettes of maples and oaks, enveloped and wrapped in the thick lush growth of early summer, that the fucking baby finally, *finally* stopped crying. The lone pink barrette donning her hair had come loose; the other one was lost in the aftermath of her fit. Her black, rhinestone-endowed tee was soaked in drool and sweat and tears. He was fairly certain she had soiled her pants. With each tiny breath, she turned to and fro, examining her surroundings with the kind of trepidation you would normally expect to see in someone decades her senior. He could see her body shaking – feel her tiny fingernails pinching his flesh, even still – and was thankful that at least for now, she was quiet. Each second of the first attempt in her life to regain her composure was followed with a hiccup, or a sniffle. She pushed her mop of curls away from her face with hands that in three decades' time he knew would kill millions. And she looked up at him with large, soft, puffy dark eyes that he knew, had she been born in better days, would have melted hearts. Her cheeks were slick with her tears. Her grip was loosening. His hands were slick with his sweat, and with blood. He wouldn’t be able to deal with her like this. He wouldn’t even be able to hold the knife. Actually getting a hold of the kid in the first place had been a fucking nightmare. Her father was every bit as monstrously violent and ruthless as she alluded to in her final writing now dubbed The Last Manifesto. His neck still hurt from her father’s stubby, steely grip – he understood now why she hated the motherfucker so much. And speaking of mothers, it was strange to him how despite clearly knowing what he had come to do, that the baby’s mother didn’t do anything to stop him. She had cowered, and she had begged, and she had cried, sure, but her actions, her every moment up to her last, were consumed by this grey, tepid resignation that he was certain was the root of her apathy as described in The Last Manifesto. It was in those ten decisive minutes that led up to this that he discovered for himself why it was his boss made him read the fucking thing over and over again, not just to memorize it but to truly absorb it, to embrace it. He looked at the baby – material and social conditions at this point in the past really were just as bizarre and horrifying as she had described. And for all of the pure shadowed night and clean air and lush growth around them, he couldn’t understand why. That house of theirs was fucking loaded. What had possessed her parents to become such monsters? The Last Manifesto had briefly mentioned a brother and spoke at length about a sister of hers who played an integral role in her path to vengeance, domination and destruction. He supposed he – and his knife – had managed to get to them before the sibling's conception. He saw no sign of the elder brother when he infiltrated the house. Four years old, and blonde, and completely unmanageable from what he could gather from historical records, her brother would likely spend his life marked by the trauma that would guarantee everyone else a lengthy and prosperous existence, as miserable as it may be for him personally. And that was the only comfort he could take as he pushed down his seat, shook his hand away and dug around the back, looking first for a cloth to wipe his hands and then for the knife. It was only when he pushed the seat back up two minutes later that he had noticed her watching him and she had started whimpering. Her earlier attempts to dig into his flesh stung throughout his hand, his arm really. Little droplets of blood trailed down his pale, hairy skin. It didn’t matter though; he’d just patch himself up after the job was done, but in the present moment, there was nothing he could do to stop that *whimpering.* It was a helpless, squealing, pathetic equivalent of begging from the baby, begging that his boss and his people had yearned, struggled, and spent years fighting to hear, yet now, in a moment that for anyone else from his time would have been a cathartic and magnanimous triumph, he just felt so… hollow. Unsteady. Not right. The inside of the car was hot, stiflingly so. It was only now that he had noticed the thick pocket of air his faded fatigues were holding in. The thick heat in the air sat heavy in his lungs with every breath. He flexed his toes – they were squished tight in his worn black boots and the laces were tied so tight that he could feel a very particular cramp from his left ring toe start to flare up. He could feel his M9 poking at his backside. His grip on his Ontario MK3 Navy issued knife was slick, not with the blood from the first half of the job, but with his sweat. The air in this car was like home, too much like home. In his time, the average temperature ranged from around 65F in the wintertime, if they were lucky, to on average 115F in the summer, and this was up in the mountains. The humidity permeated the air so utterly and completely that it would leave his skin clammy and glistening during training exercises. His boss, a tiny, steely woman with obsidian eyes would give you a look that would pierce you in very particular and very nasty ways if she caught you buckling even slightly under the burning weight of the air. She purposefully trained him for this mission in that shit, in her own words, to make him appreciate. He fucking hated it. He fucking hated every inch of her short, scrawny, bronze-skinned little ass every time she would make him do it. But the first thing he noticed when he stepped through the portal at the start of the mission was the soothing cool breeze in the evening air, and that was when he realized why she did that. He’d never known the wind to bring relief. In his time, it brought destruction and radiation and misery, all thanks to the tiny baby sitting next to him, whimpering. The first loving, icy lick of the stuff already had him addicted. That was what he was here to fight for. To kill for. The job was supposed to be simple, a quick in-and-out. Portal jump to June 15 1987 7:04 PM, capture the target, eliminate any and all witnesses, eliminate the target, meet at rendezvous point at exactly 11:24 PM, portal jump back home, and hopefully reappear in a better time where all he would be is a stranger to the people he saved. A time where the land was still green and pure and not seared black and grey by plasma blasts and nuclear fire. A time that the baby sitting next to him, whimpering, would never get to see or enjoy or appreciate, because of the actions of the maniacs in that house with her, and the choices she would make in kind. She was a cute little thing, or as cute as a terrified, traumatized, stinking, whimpering pile of fat and curls and flesh could possibly be, and it was at that moment that the weight of his knife pulled his hand downward. He rolled down the driver’s side window. His neck was lovingly kissed and stroked by a breeze the other grunts back home would never get to feel, and the little bits of it that made it past his large and imposing frame made the kid sigh a soft sigh of, relief, he guessed? At least now she finally shut up, if only for a second. Now came the fucking cooing. He hung his head down and an exasperated sigh pushed past his lips. His boss would’ve been ashamed of him to see him like this. He could already imagine her putting a hand to her greyed, thick hair and shaking her head – and then glaring at him. On September 15th 2026, the baby cooing next to him would make the world burn in nuclear fire, and according to his boss and The Last Manifesto, that burning was only about 53% as intense and all-consuming as the burning she felt every day as a result of the irreversible psychological damage brought upon her by her family and by the New American Empire that subjugated her. His boss made him read The Last Manifesto over and over and over again, not to memorize it, but to truly *absorb* it, to *embrace* it. It was only as he looked upon the baby as she played with her tiny blood-stained sneakers, that he realized that his boss didn’t just do this to prime his mind against the inevitable guilt of murdering an entire family that would have hung on his mind regardless of the good it would do. It was something particular about the baby’s big, soft, dark eyes – maybe it was the full moon shining from the roof window downward, he didn’t know – but the light sparked a hint of sharpness in them, a hint of obsidian. And the boss’s greyed, thick hair, though perpetually tied in a bun as per Coalition of Humanity regs, would sometimes betray the barest hint of a curl. Per his training, he was required to study the history of the New American Empire and the height of American civilization from the 1980s, to the start of it’s downfall in the early 2000s, and the rampage started in the early 2020s by the little baby next to him, who had some-fucking-how managed to unlock her seat-belt, that would consign humanity to a fate as horrific as it was indelible – at least until his boss managed to rise in the ranks. Some-fucking-how, that bitch had managed to rise from lowly grunt to petty officer to chief scientist in the space of only three years, and in the twenty-five years since the destruction of the biosphere from the nuclear fire, she had managed to somehow, some way, build a fucking time machine. A portal, she had called it. It was she who proposed its construction as the only way to undo the massive influx of radiation and irreversible runaway climate change triggered by the rampage that would otherwise doom all of humanity to extinction. It was she who had proposed changing the past, and undoing the bearer of all of this destruction, before she could undo everyone else. It was she who had purposefully chosen *him* for the most sensitive and most important mission in all of human history – and it was *she* who had forced him to read The Last Fucking Manifesto over and over and over again – sometimes forcefully, sometimes balefully – not just to memorize it but to truly *absorb* it, to *embrace* it. And now he understood why. The baby was crawling into his lap now, using his thigh as a stepping stool as she tried, in her own haphazard infantile way, to grab his wife-beater and pull herself up. The baby was likely already deeply traumatized. The baby was an orphan now. The baby was filthy. But he’d be damned if he’d let his boss down, and he’d be damned if he’d let her grow up to bring about the end of all life on this planet. What he didn’t know was whether his boss had actually anticipated him doing what he did next. He took hold of the baby and popped the car door open. He stepped out into the deliciously cool night air, and as the baby snuggled into his chest, he wondered how much of that was due to the chill air and how much of it was due to the fact that she was likely unused to gentle treatment given in earnest. He checked the watch on his wrist his boss was reaching for as he started walking. It was already 11:15 PM. There was no way in hell he’d make it to the rendezvous point, but he didn’t care. He knew there would be a better time – he’d make sure of it. And he’d live out that better time with his boss now, not just to experience it but to truly *absorb* it. To *embrace* it. And he’d make sure his boss could, too.


Dead Not Gone I am dead not gone, I am as here as I was the night I was murdered. I still feel the pain, if not more, I have no human barriers holding back the flood of emotions. I feel them from everyone. I still feel love and the loss of love. I watch as life begins to be normal again without me. I watched my love seal me away in the deep, dark corner of his mind. I watched him pretend with others, always looking for me in their faces, or the way they laugh. I watched him find love again, living a life with her that we had often talked about. He often visits telling me about his life, how happy he is, how sad he is that he can't live it with me. He named his daughter after me, to honor a memory of us and what we never had the chance to have together. He's grown older now, frail, his life has been beautiful. I know he will go to sleep for a very long time soon, and I am happy for him. My mother missed me fiercely, some nights more than others. Some nights she'd wail just as she did when she found out. Those nights I'd lie with her and sing to her, and I swear she'd hear me. She was never the same after I left. She wasn't whole. I'd talk to her while she slept, hoping I'd bring her mind to a happier place, but she'd wake with the same look in her eyes. She'd looked the same as the day she found out. She'd tuned out of life and I lost her to a place she could no longer hear me. I watched my little sister grow older than I ever was, she still insisted on calling me her big sister even when she was three times as old as I ever was, her life wasn't always kind to her. She lost a lot of trust in the world when she lost me. She looked for solace in things rather than people, anything to numb her from feeling sadness about me or our mother. She had to grow up a lot at a young age and will forever be sorry to her for that. She met a man after our mother died and he showed her kindness, he showed her how to love herself. She started to feel again, she lives a good life now. She helps those who seek the same numbness that she did not too long ago. I watched my killer, grow old and frail all alone. Life did not treated her well. She would often revel in that night. When she couldn't fight her urges. Just one quick motion and I was lifeless, all my hopes dreams ambitions gone and buried with me deep in that river. My killer often thought of ending it for herself and I willed all of my anger to make her. But she was a coward until the day she died in that nursing home all alone stinking of piss and death. Even the way she died was too good for her. I've watched everyone in my life grow old and live their lives without me. I am sad that I could never have children with my love. I'm sad I couldn't be there for my mom as that darkness took over her life. My sister will now forever be my big sister. I was taken too soon, and the world didn't slow down for me or for the ones I loved.


Found lurking in the depths of every crowded bar and concert hall is the notorious Red Cap. His appearance has changed over the centuries to fit with the current generations. Thus what once appeared as an aristocrat now showed his face under the brim of a snapback. The gentle rhythm of bass lures him into darkened rooms where drinks and cares are loose. The one mainstay of the Red Cap that has traveled through the years with him is that if he grabs hold of your hand and you don't instantly escape, you're doomed. His grip is the single invite to the dance of death. The concertgoers and bar dwellers always shout at first, but they're grateful to have dodged the invite themselves. The risk of public libations doesn't deal with the bridge trolls or taxi goblins, no, the real threat of a night out with friends is that the Red Cap might catch you and make you dance until you die. Which then he'll take your bloody, battered feet and dye his Red Cap once more with the blood of the unfortunate and foolish. Escapes from his grasp have been dramatic and rare. Many people have taken to wearing loose clothing they can slip out of just in case. The fashion of harem pants and silk tops tripled Chinese exports in one summer alone. An unprecedented double attempt occurred to the initially unfortunate and then warily smart, Arthur Tomkins. Arthur was an arborist by trade and came to Finnegans Hall for a weekend drink. The night had already fallen when the distinct clue of the Red Cap's company was clear. Red flickered to his side and a long peal of laughter that cut through the music in the hall before Arthur felt a cold grip on his hand. He looked to find the wide grin split into the dark corner of the room, crowned by a red hat. Without thinking Arthur's other hand shot to his hip and drew his hatchet, it cleaved the Red Cap's grip before he saw the consequences. The Red Cap snarled backing away. Even he played by the rules; it otherwise meant incurring the wrath of Mab. Arthur bested the Red Cap, but at a handy price. He stuck clear of taverns and dance halls for many moons until they had seen him grow accustomed to his prosthetic hand. It was more appropriate for the public than his work claw, which he argued gave him steadier purchase in the trees. The bar brought chills to Arthur's spine as he fingered the handle of his hatchet. Stiff drinks and fast music made the fear fade from his mind. Surely no man had been tapped twice by fate for the same task. Arthur froze at the sight of Red as it slipped his eyes. He was peeking in at the corners before a hearty tug found the Red Cap clamped down on his right hand. Fear should have frozen it, but what's dead can never die. Arthur returned the Red Cap's laugh that he safeguarded as sweet revenge for years, as he stepped away from both the Red Cap and his prosthetic hand. Twice bested- by bravery and wit, a third victory would elevate Arthur above the station of mortal men and into fable. But all Arthur longed for were tall trees and calm breezes. He knew without prophecy, that if he ever set foot in a bar, tavern, or dance hall again, the Red Cap would descend upon him like a rabid dog. So he never did. His life was his own, as he doomed the Red Cap to a life of fear, that he might reappear in those dark halls to best him one last time.


Big Villain, by Hana Aianhanma, December 2019. This story is made up. Any and all resemblances to real people or animals are truly coincidental. The author would like to emphasise that this story should in no way be taken as an endorsement of villainy as a career option. ***** # Big Villain Samuel Snortinsdotter had a grievance. Not his name, though he would have liked a few minutes of loving conversation with a crowbar and the Snortin in his ancestry who had had a daughter. Nor had he that much anger to direct at the fellow pupils who called him Snorty during his time at school, much as he wanted to pin some red-hot needles into them in embarrassing and painful places. No, Samuel´s biggest discontent at the world was that Santa never brought him what he wanted. When he was six, he wanted an electric train set. Santa brought him a tea cup that was decorated with drawings of cute bumblebees. At seven, he wished for a remote controlled car. He received a wind-up toy with an accompanying one-foot track. At eight, he was seen salivating at the games console section of his favourite toy shop. Santa decided that a digital watch would be good for him. One that was branded with the logo of the company his father happened to work at. The first time, when the electric train set had failed to materialise, Samuel had written a polite note. Surely the gift had been an administrative mistake? Could Santa please correct it before the end of January? Santa sent him a response that dripped in sarcasm at Samuel’s expense. Santa, it concluded, does not make mistakes. Samuel stopped complaining about Santa’s presents after that. Still, he fumed inside at the injustice of it all. Mentally scarred down to the soul. Samuel Snortinsdotter was going to get his revenge if it was the last thing he ever did. He held a cup of coffee and thought about his plight. Unfortunately, the world was filled with evil people. He needed to not only figure out some unspoken horror, it also would have to be something less common. His first Evil Deed would need to be original to make a splash. So Samuel considered, watching the table next to him. The student sitting there slurped his cappuccino offensively. Samuel bet he always got what he wanted from Santa. That student was smugly wearing a new suit and exhibiting an obviously new laptop for the world to see. The back of the gleaming screen was only marred by the picture of a cute little dog. That was it. Samuel was not going to take that. He was angry enough to kill puppies. Yes! The more he considered it, the better the idea seemed. A truly dastardly deed. Attention grabbing amongst the world’s horrors. Appropriate for the announcement of the arrival of a modern humble Big Villain. He would find the dog shelter with the most puppies in town and blow it up this Christmas. Let’s see, what would he demand in his threats? The shelter in question was a lone building next to Percy Park. Samuel had sent the announcement of his intentions to all the newspapers in town. Not a single animal shelter seemed to have increased security. Did they not believe he could do it, or did they simply not care? There were no people at the shelter. Just the dogs and not that many puppies at that. No extra treats for Christmas, it seemed. Samuel shook his head before he descended into the cellar. He carefully placed the explosive, plugged them into a wall socket, and set the timer. Samuel climbed the stairs back up. Before he could reach the front door he passed the dogs. They drooped in their cages, an occasional whine emphasised their misery. They barely reacted to his passing. Clearly, the shelter’s owners were either unwilling or unable to take proper care of them. Their failure to be present during the festive season suggested the latter. Pathetic. Samuel opened the door and looked back. Oh well. The newspapers were satisfyingly alarmist in response to the explosion. The screaming headlines declared that some madman had actually gone through with his threat to “blow up some puppies”. Luckily there had been no victims in the explosion, they said. No mention of what happened to all the dogs. Typical. The threatening letters were dug up. Neighbours were shocked. Questions were asked. Fingers pointed. Samuel could hardly contain his evil grin. He had made an impact. From now on, no one would dare ignore his threats. All would cower in the glow of his villainy. He finished his celebratory macchiato, folded his newspaper, and left the coffee shop. When Samuel arrived home he was greeted with welcoming jumps and barks. It had been exhilarating and frantic near the end, but he had managed to move all the occupants from that shelter before the blast. They would do fine as his new henchmen. Or should that be henchdogs? ***** Thank you for reading! Feel free to share. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.


The first time I saw Stephen, he painted a hex sign on my right arm, and I couldn’t move my fingers for three hours. When I found him again the next day, I asked how he had done it. He just gave me a lopsided smile, the kind when someone knows something you don’t, and I decided right then that I was going to become his friend no matter what. I wanted to be in on his secrets. I agreed to let him practice his symbols on me, simply to have an opportunity to observe him work. Sometimes it was fun, like the time he turned my hair purple. Other times it wasn’t, like when my nose swelled up so big that I couldn’t see around it. He had to lead me out of the woods where we practiced, and I tripped four times. The swelling went away by the time I had to go in for dinner, but the scraped knees and scratched arms didn’t. But every time I would rethink my agreement to be Stephen’s guinea pig, he would offer to teach me a new hex. He knew he had me that way. I was a curious girl and desperate to learn such a rare skill. What he didn’t realize was that I was also a lonely girl and desperate for a friend. So our hex experiments continued throughout the spring and into the start of summer. Until Brittany moved in down the street. She showed interest in Stephen, and he showed interest in her blonde hair and curves. That’s when he decided he couldn’t be seen with me, and he definitely couldn’t be seen doing hexes. He needed to be normal. I wasn’t done with him though. I had so much more to learn. I’d had a taste of the hexes and I couldn’t just give up on them. I wasn’t ready to go back to my old life, my old helpless lonely self. I knew it would be easy to win him back. He would feel the pull of the hexes’ power eventually, especially if I helped him along. At first, I painted the symbols on myself. I made my hair blonde and swelled up some of the features I wanted to enhance. I wanted to show him that anyone could make themselves beautiful, but not everyone could share in his secret. I could tell it caught his attention at first, but then Brittany and her friends mocked me. And I got tired of having to repaint the symbols every time I went to the bathroom. I was trying to think of ways I could use the hexes to win Stephen back, when Brittany fell asleep in class. I carefully drew a hex sign on her right shoulder blade. When the bell rang, she found that most of her arm had gone numb and she couldn’t carry her bag. Stephen offered to help her and cast a glare over his shoulder at me. That was the first time I became angry with him. Before that I just saw him as lost, entranced by a fading beauty, soon to see the error of his ways. I knew he would eventually long for the hexes, and me. But that cruel look he gave me sent rage bubbling up from my stomach to my throat. How dare he act that way towards me for doing something he had done a hundred times? He is the one that started this, but now he judged me? That night I stood underneath the old oak tree in my back yard and looked up. The branches arched over me and the moss hung around me like a protective shroud. Although I knew they were there, I couldn’t see the stars. I lowered my gaze and with the snap of branches and the crunch of leaves my feet moved on, the sounds reassuring me that they would alert me of any intruders on my night stroll. I followed the worn path through the woods we practiced in, needing no light for guidance. Soon I saw Stephens front door. It didn’t take long to paint the hex sign there. When I was done, I returned home to wait for morning. I left early for school the next day and stopped just inside the woods across from Stephen’s house. I heard the creak of hinges first. Next came his foot, stepping across the door frame before giving out beneath him. His head came across next as he fell, his neck oddly stiff. He reached his arms out to brace the fall, but as they crossed the threshold they froze only halfway up. When he landed, his outstretched arms gave an audible snap and his head cracked the pavement. When Stephen’s eyes found mine from down on the ground, I felt like he was looking at someone else. Without the help of his facial expressions I couldn’t read his mood, but I didn’t think I saw anger there, just pain. The sight of his blood snapped me from my efforts at interpretation. I ran toward him as the realization of what I had done landed on me like a boulder. I flung myself on the ground next to him and cradled his head on my lap. He was fine; he had to be fine. I knew he would fall and become paralyzed, but I didn’t realize how hard the fall would be. I just wanted to get his attention and have him all to myself until the hex wore off. I didn’t want this. What if he never forgave me, never came back to the hexes? The thought had never crossed my mind before. If I couldn’t resist them, how could he? I didn’t know what I would do without him. I wouldn’t be able to learn any new signs. I would be alone. For a moment it occurred to me to swear never to use the hexes again, if only he would be ok. I could send that out to the universe and seal it with a promise sign. But I couldn’t swear off the hexes, not even for the boy who gave them to me. So I just sat there with him bleeding in my arms, waiting for someone to come. Not knowing if anyone could save him. ...


I was half joking about stashing that PopEyes sandwich by my bed before leaving to go to the company Christmas party. But the truth is I really did leave it there. I'm not sure what Super Drunk TWoN did with it when he got back but still semi-drunk TWoN woke up to a bunch of dirty wrappers stuck to his face. I got up to use the bathroom in the morning feeling disgusted at the pathetic human who had eaten that cold sticky sandwich at 3 in the morning. That was until I made my way back to the bed and notice something... The last piece. The final bite of the sandwich was there sitting in my bed. I must of forgotten it in my intoxication. The perfect shaped last morsel of goodness... Just the right proportion of bread to chicken. You could tell I had been surgical in my drunken state because it was all breast; plump, breaded, bulging. I had purposely ate around the sandwich to leave this perfect piece. Maybe I had even spotted it first and laid out my plan of attack from the second I opened the wrapper. It was in this moment, when I was faced with a perfect last bite laying alone in a dirty cum stained sheet, that I realized something... I'm going to die alone. I could of left the piece. I could have carried on the facade that those moments of disgust are only perpetrated by me at my most drunken vulnerable state. It was a test. Not a test for anyone else, but a test for myself. Would I eat that disgustingly beautiful spicy chicken piece, the one my drunken twin had forgotten and then have to admit to myself that there is no differentiating between the inebriated human who fills his life with gluttony and sin, and the one who judges him for it, or would I leave it and save the last bit of dignity I had in exchange for the last piece of chicken that I saw....? The truth is... I actually thought about it. I honestly looked at it and made the mental calculations of if I should. I weighed the consequences of scooping up that tiny shimmering succulent poultry. I mean no one is watching... I could eat it and pretend like it never happened. But I would know. I would know what I did and I couldn't blame it on the drink, and now that I've acknowledged and weighed the consequences I could never pretend like I didn't know the low depths of patheticness I was willing to stoop to. My reflection lasted about half a second, though it felt like a lifetime, before I lifted up the that perfect piece of chicken.... slapped it back on the waging stale pieces of bread which had found themselves on opposite ends of the bed, and ate it. I had a choice... I could have spared my soul.... I could have been disgusted... I could have not told anyone... but the shame is my penance...