Welcome, Everyone, to this flash fiction writing game. This game is open to the entire community. I was inspired by this idea when I had read a few short 200-word webcomics calling themselves microstories, and I loved how simple and intriguing it is to both read and write a short story of this size.

You're all invited and welcome to come and post your "microfiction" here. If you require a definition, you can read up on flash fiction. It's basically a giant paragraph. A couple of these will go up following this post to give you an idea of what it looks like. It'll challenge you too to write something with a beginning, middle and end in such a small amount of space. As usual, this is a continuity-free board, so feel free to exercise plots with your characters that you wouldn't normally.

Cryo Men

No one was quite sure what to do at this point. Alfonso Carlson Avery was once the most feared criminal/terrorist/supreme overlord anyone had ever seen. Fortunately there was one who could stand against him: Cassandra Black, his former lover turned enemy thanks in no small part to his evilness. When she finally caught him there was only one thing left to do, as no form of execution could properly put an end to him. He was cryogenically frozen. Cassandra was as well, should her skills ever be needed again. 100 years had passed and it seemed her skills would be needed. Over the years, Avery had developed a fanatical following with some members making their way to the Cryo Labs. They were determined to get their lord and savior back and unthawed the monster. Seeing no other options John Sharp, Cassandra?s cryo tube caretaker, unthawed her as well. Alfonso took one step out of his tube and fell to the floor, his right eye pouring black liquid onto the floor. He would not move, his time being frozen had left him brain dead, yet alive if one could call it that. Cassandra however never got up, she had died during the unthawing process. Cryogenics was still a newly developed technology when the two were first frozen and the bugs were still getting worked out. No one was quite sure what to do at this point.

The Command

The age of superheroes ? despite the abundance of superpowered beings ? was dying. Politics ultimately ruled and destroyed any body of good-intentioned superheroes; every time. The last surviving supergroup in this world is The Command. Made up of 20/20, the man who can see anything and through anything; Equilibrium, the undisputed leader of The Command who is clinically insane, and channels it into brilliance; The Face, a master of infinite disguise; Miss Danger, an alien from another world with super strength; and Maneater, a half-amphibbean whose shark-like teeth have reproduced themselves so many times, he can bite through all metals known to man. They fought for justice, and they were a good team. But it was not enough. They could survive their critics, but not their enemies, and it cost 20/20 his life. Their greatest foe, Adrian Killmoore, had shewn no mercy in their most recent battle. It was time for another plan. Utilizing a cross-dimensional fishing rod, The Command pulled a savior from another universe to aid them in their peacemaking. His name was Brutal Max, a superhero with acclaimed success in his world. He was the full deal superhero, cape and all, and he agreed to help The Command. In his red costume he dispatched Killmoore, much to The Command's happiness, at least before he killed him. What The Command didn't know was how Brutal Max brought his justice. They disagreed, and he disagreed right back. Miss Danger would be the next casualty in this battle. That left Equilibrium, The Face and Maneater with privileged seats on a ?new? superhero order under ?new? leadership, because Brutal Max was not yet done helping them and their planet.

Old Boyfriend

Neferi was a great vampiress. She had lived many centuries, slaughtered many foes, and fed on many victims to sustain her immortality. In her earlier years, the livestock was bountiful, unafraid, and easy for the taking. But now, the stories of Neferi and her hunts have stuck with them, and even gone on through multiple generations. She had become the bedtime story to warn you not to wander off alone, or out at night. So to adapt to their newfound intelligence and defenses, she had to become a fiercer hunter. She used swordplay, hand-to-hand combat and stealth tactics to claim her prey now. If you did not best her, and you did not, then your punishment was your life being drained from your very throat. She had become a warrior vampiress now, and forgotten the ways and ease she used to feed. But her travels brought her back to a familiar cottage one day, a cottage that returned a flood of emotions and memory to the vampiress. The muscular woodcutter outside reminded her of a past love, one she slept with to feed upon, but after curling with him, could not. He was a weakness that needed to be beheaded, but her finding out she was pregnant further prevented this. She birthed his child and left him to care for it, and she had never looked back, not until now. She went down the hill and consulted the young woodcutter. He instantly recognized her profile. He said he had heard stories about her, and that one day she would return, and he would meet his grandmother. He was a father himself, he said, and the man she once knew was now his grandfather, making him a great grandfather. But time was of the essence, he assured to her. His grandfather was alive, but lay on his deathbed, and before his passing, he had said he would like to see Neferi just once more. She was quiet for a moment, but she understood and agreed to her old lover's final wish. She was left alone with him in the room of his cabin he had built so many years ago, and she approached his side. She lay her greatsword at the foot of the bed and examined his face. It was colorless, and being a vampire she could see it was bloodless. She placed her warm hand over his cold one and muttered a prayer for him with bowed head. He was ancient history.

The Epic Replacement

?Alright Gentlemen, let me tell you why we're here. I've assembled our world leaders for this important debate to discuss an alternative to our nations' greatest crisis: this ?epic? meme.? The United States representative could not have been more serious. He looked around the lavish table and its length that spanned to seat all the representatives from every country. ?Does anyone have any suggestions??
?I zhink zhis is ze most terrible zhing any of us experienced.? The representative of Germany knocked his knuckles on the table; not having his regular cigarette in hand beginning to agitate his already agitated condition. ?Ve should line zhem all up andt??
?Now, now,? United States interrupted him, ?These are peoples' lives. If we're going to make a harsh decision... let's be sure we've thought it through.? Again, his sharp stare made sure to address the gravitas that this assemblage was faced with.
?It is great insult to country. Action must be taken,? Russia said very thoughtfully, stroking his cleanly-shaven jawlines.
?It's absolute rubbish,? the British member of the board said, ?To think that it's gotten that bad. I say we isolate every case of every recorded incident with the offending word, and grant them all with a newfound inability to have chiljren.? He rubbed his hands together and rose his eyebrows while looking around the table almost innocently looking for someone to agree with his suggestion.
?Humor this, Gentlemen. I say we propose a multi-national law, where usage of the offending word shall be legally limited to direct relation of mythical creatures showing up on Earth and when describing historical poems,? United States began, ?If the perpetrators have such a severe addiction, then that needs addressing. We'll provide them with a state-given replacement word. It'll be legal, associable with what they want to say, and above all: tolerable. All in favor?? All nods all around the conference table.
Within the week all lawbooks had updated with the urgency at which this new wave of upset citizens had grown into. It did not take long for people to learn that they could not get away with calling something an ?epic fail? anymore, or describing the actions of someone playing a video game as ?epic.? By witnessing the tickets written for these perpetrators, the civilians realized they had no other choice to describe something awesome than to use the state-given replacement word. So the next time something cool happened on the half-pipe, Skateboarder Shawn had no other choice than to reply: ?That is so Batman.?

A Horse With No Name

?How far are you going again? Or did you say?? Declan asked while driving the classic fastback convertible, his arm out the window, a pair of sunglasses decorating his eyes.
?The edge of the city, if that's alright. I'm actually trying to get to another city. It's just time, you know? I'll try and hitch a ride once I get there,? the hitchhiker told him, making himself comfortable in the passenger seat.
The sounds of ambient folk rock were on the car radio, outside the sounds of rubber gliding across smooth road; and there was a constant, cooling wind blowing in from the the ends of the windshield. Declan turned his head over to the journeyman and stared into the side of his eyes.
?Why not drive? You don't know what you're missing crossing the desert in a car.?
The man nervously looked at him and replied, ?But isn't it dangerous out there? No one ever goes outside the city limits unless it's on a ship.?
?And you know how boring that is, don't you? I'm telling you, you don't know what you're missing,? Declan said, this time keeping his eyes on the lonely road and one hand on the steering wheel. It took the man a moment, but he gave an unsure but agreeing smirk to his gracious host helping him get where he was going.
The foretold drive had been vague enough to still be truthful despite the stillness of the convertible out in the desolate wastelands. Engine problems had slowed the vehicle to a halt, ended their cooling breeze and stopped the scenery passing by with some progress. Declan was presently at work under the hood, and still in the passenger seat, the hitchhiker was showing signs of great depletion of energy.
?How much.....longer?? he asked.
From the front of the car, only wrench-turning sounds could be heard. Eventually, Declan stopped what he was working on and walked around to his passenger's side and assessed his illness. ?You're not looking so good,? he said, ?The radiation must be getting to you.? All he could do was look out with discerning eyes at the remaining distance they had to go. It was quite a way's. ?I'll try and speed things up. Sorry about this. It's never done this before.?
?Hey...? the hitchhiker asked him with pustules and growths beginning to form upon his ill face, ?How come... you're not sick?? He began coughing now.
?I'm healthier than you are,? Declan replied.
It took some working, near an hour in-fact, and another half hour to complete the distance across the badlands and back into wonderfully habitable, oxygenated land. There was life all around, color and rosy-cheeked wonderment. Declan grinned, their road trip complete, and parked the convertible beside the sidewalk to drop his passenger off. He got out and happily took in his surroundings on the way to open the door for his rider. Reaching the door, he asked him if he'd changed his mind about travel, but when he received no answer, he curiously took hold of his face and directed it where he could better see it. He frowned, seeing his tongue stuck out and his fingers grotesquely reaching for a life that had left him long ago.

?Damn...? Declan commented.

The More Things Change

It was a dark and stormily appropriate night when the vampire hunter who loved sunsets kicked the doors of the old black church open. The bats screeched and flew high, weaving around colored columns of moonlight out of stainglass artistry. The most powerful vampire and capable of opposing this threat was the provider of his family: the father. He was the first to decay rapidly when the wooden bolt launched accurately into his chest. The mother went next, and her oldest daughter after him who would have been entertaining suitors had she not been a bloodsucking demon of the unliving. There was only one place for these creatures, and the young hunter sent them all there, all but one: a young boy vampire, the youngest of the family, only six years old. Because he was not turned, but rather born a vampire, he would continue to age to maturity, and because a vampire hunter felt sympathy for him that night, he would live on to reach that maturity. Over the years, the two lived together, gradually moving out of the vampire killing trade and into the life of farming. Once every week, the hunter turned farmer would bloodlet from his arm or hand to sustain his ?son.? He did this for many years until he was able to no longer, and as such, had gotten so old he could not even tend to his crops. The vampire meanwhile had matured into a pale youthful vision of health and beauty, whereas his caretaker had shrunk and shriveled in his old age. Though he had slew his parents and sibling, the man had become a father to him. He kissed his blemish-covered hand and hoisted him onto his back and led him across their land for the yonder hill where the vampire hunter who loved sunsets could gaze upon his final one.

Enlightenment

I popped the tiny morsel in my mouth and tasted cinnamon and honey as it caressed my tongue. As I began to suck on it I noticed a slight hint of toasted sugar, roasted almonds, and the winds as they blew off the coast of Atlantis thousands of years ago. A kaleidascope of colors exploded before me, invading the wood of the table like a rainbow of maggots and coating the surfaces around me with a torrential downpour of melted crayola. Jumping up from my chair I was flying above the house, the stars laughing at my amateur flight and sharing secrets with the moon about the means in which I found myself in their domain. What's happening, I said, but only rivers of crystal clear water flowed from between my lips, cooling my tongue and tickling my teeth as shiny koi jumped out into the sea before me. I reached up and rubbed my eyes as hard as I could and the sun burst before me and left me in total darkness. Where am I? I shouted, but the only sound that came out of my mouth was one of creation as the universe swirled to life and jumped inside my heart. What is this? I cried in the gentle sounds of a piano being played in a skyscraper club and I was answered.

She whispered, "Brain Candy."

Brain Candy

The man in the full body gimp suit sat in the chair in the corner of the room. It was a secluded room for secluded people who wanted their privacy. The red light bulb dangled from the ceiling, swaying back and forth. A barely clothed blindfolded woman was tied to the wall with industrial rope. Nearly every part of her body was bound by more rope, squeezing every ounce of pleasure it could out of her. She writhed around, letting the material scrape against her skin, moaning as she did so. The rope burned, but she wanted more of it. It did however start to squeeze her a bit too much in places she didn?t want suffocated, even cutting off some air to her lungs. Pain was good but she wanted to survive as well. What was the phrase she was supposed to say? It was something strange, but it always was. Ah! She remembered and she whispered, ?Brain candy,? She waited but there was no reply from the gimp suited man. She whispered the phrase again. Again she was ignored. She began to yell the phrase as loud as she could. The gimp suited man sat there, lifeless. The woman began to panic and thrash about, is this how she would die? Is this how her family would find her? In an underground sex club for the greatly perverted?
A figure stepped out of the corner next to the gimp suited man, a figure who had not made his presence known until now. He walked to the gimp and checked him. His suffocated body fell to the floor. The figure retrieved a knife from his coat and walked to the bound woman and whispered to her, ?Brain candy...? The woman sighed in relief. She had been saved she thought. The figure raised his knife up and edged closer to the woman?s head.

Jurassic Park 6

With the passing of John Hammond, the newly-appointed CEO of In-Gen became his grandson, Tim Murphy. Tim looked over his grandfather's legacy on this first day of work that made his business suit feel unlike any other day he'd worn it. It was quite the inheritance, even knowing it would eventually become his one day. As with the history of his grandfather's ?company,? this had only been the third incarnation of it as a park. The first was an actual park ? a failure ? and the second had been many years later, just several years ago, with three simply ?dinosaur-related? incidents between them. They were no parks, not like this. This was the third company, the third park, the third try ? and it was the charm. They'd done it right this time. The tour jeeps and the preserves were brought back, and it was made into a visitation park again; the park logo was printed again all over staffer uniforms to crayon boxes.

In their ripe old ages now, Dr. Alan Grant and Sir Ian Malcolm (recently knighted for services to the Queen) were brought onto the payroll again as advisers to Tim's company. Alan was quoted saying it would always be dangerous, but that it was ?being done right? this time.

A phone rang at the main offices, a phone which the operator Holden Teyerbuts answered and delivered its message. ?Ted! They need another park doctor down at the tyrannosaur paddock.? Ted realigned his uniform mesh cap and headed out to one of the jeeps. It was a nice drive, and he didn't think twice about pulling onto the scene with Dr. Grant and Sir Ian both reliving their attendance before a sickened dinosaur, only this time it was much larger. He got out of his jeep and approached the scene, asking the mandatory medical questions and getting out his tools, and with the advancements made in sedation medicines and tranquilizers, there was nothing at all to be afraid of.

?We think she may have been poisoned,? Dr. Alan said with his hands on his hips and a stern gaze at the T-Rex, ?Ate that dinosaur... made of poison.?

?Ah-ah-ah.. y-you see there, that, t-that is, um, is.. pure uh, conjecture. Y-You see, w-what c-could, could be, um, responsible for this, could be, um, any number of things. But uh, yeah, yeah, the dinosaur's sick,? Ian said clicking his tongue.

?Well alright... I'll need to examine the dinosaur's droppings for traces of poisonous dinosaur. Show me to it?? Ted asked his fellow medical advisers and looked for it. They all pointed to the same place, though.

?Careful, kid... that's some serious sh*t,? Alan warned him, but Ted knew what he signed up for. He walked right into that literal dumpster deposit of feces better than anyone ever had walked into a giant mound of duke. Sh*t aside, Dr. Grant and Sir Ian couldn't help but look around and notice the safety that they felt. This was how it should've been the first time. Of course, while they slowly began to forgive past trepidations, out at the jeeps in the footspace of both vehicles' driver sides, both emergency phone lights were flashing. It was all starting over again... or was it?

?Go ahead,? Jack Samson confirmed, picking up the phone while looking out over the field and forestry. ?Slight chances of rain. Copy.?

The Ghosts of R?o Chiquito

John Rowland laid his standard issue firearm on the desk of the man who often times told him what information to retrieve, who to take it away from, and who to kill. Today was an entirely different sort of assignment. ?Complete the mission, Rowland, and if you manage to do it without a bullet saying otherwise, then you won't ever return here. You'll be contacted by a new agency if you survive.? His boss, whose name he never knew, stamped his passport.

He found himself in Nicaragua with a laundry list of names and a tracking bug to plant on a panga boat. It was simple, and for what his boss had last told him, unnervingly so. He proceeded with caution. From twilight river bed to famine-stricken home, Rowland assigned a pair of lead slugs to major organs of his primary targets; and with a suppressor, no one ever knew he was there ? except for the Ghosts of R?o Chiquito.

Having just planted the bug on the panga boat, he was walking away more cautious than ever. With his mission complete, now was the chance most likely for someone to take him out, or so his boss had implanted the idea of. In truth, the plan all along had been to arouse the attention of an international threat known as 'The Ghosts of R?o Chiquito,' and in killing their middlemen, John Rowland had just done that.

Rowland learned of all this that night when he found himself in bed with none other than the daughter of one of the Ghosts' most senior members. She was entranced with him, and spilled to him everything hushed against his breast with him in her bedchamber. Rowland put together the mission that he could not be entirely told, but rather, was expected to learn on his own. He flung the bedsheet back and crouched over the medical bag of his cover identity and began to assemble some complex gadgetry components.

?You were right, Gabriella. Your father is a bad man... and you're going to take me to him,? He said, raising the readied and most alien-looking weapon.

Next they arrived at Gabriella's father's operation in the city of Le?n. These assassins of important men ? skilled in disappearing into their woodlands ? would hold their final meeting here tonight, and John would make sure of it. They were crueler beasts than he'd ever anticipated, however. Daughter or not, her company was unfamiliar, and it was the ultimate red flag. They open-fired on them, and Gabriella ahead of Rowland, danced the puppet dance of embracing multiple machinegun fire.

John dove behind a spice chest and kept his eyes locked on his weapon's LED screen. It was gripped into his hand like a gun, and made robotic mechanical sounds like primitive robot limbs might. Swiveling and feeling out like straw-antennae, at least 20 of these stalks moved of their own aligning agenda. The weapon required three seconds to calibrate. Those three seconds were up. John rose and held the firearm out. A long beep sounded, and like a deployment of two-dozen chaff trails sounded by highly pressurized gas discharges, all twenty-two ghosts of R?o Chiquito dropped of the same instant death ailment.

The underlying mission behind the mission was done. His training taught him not to become attached, but he couldn't help remembering a woman he had loved for a night paid the price for his success. Whether it was worth it or not was what he had to discover, and was why he tossed the untraceable cellphone he was mailed a week later into the basin of a Puerto Rican river and shove off on a fishing boat he'd ?acquired? from a local.

Zords of the Forbidden Desert
aka Go Go MI6

The golden and red robot was quite adept at hand to hand combat. John was almost breaking a sweat countering each of the automaton moves, however he was in a hurry. John flipped over the robot and inserted a disc into its back port and it immediately powered down. He then turned his attention to the tube in the back of this command center. Within seconds a large glowing white face appeared inside the tube after electricity had struck it.
?Rowland! I should have known it was you. Morphological beings are all the same,? the head said.
?Growing a bit too big for your tube, eh Zordon?? John said as he lit up a cigar and rested his hands in his pockets. He had dealt with the interdimensional being a few times before but recently he had been stretching his reach to other countries with the help of his pack of super powered teenagers. Not the the plan he would have used, John thought to himself, but then he wasn?t a bigot head in a tube.
?You have already destroyed yourself, mortal! The rangers will--!?
?Wrong,? John said and shot a single round into Zordon?s tube, expelling all the dimensional holding mist and electricity from his tube. This caused the command center to start short circuiting and and he realized it was time to go. John pulled out a remote, set a timer, and pointed it at the robot. The disc on its back began to spin and the robot began a countdown of five minutes. John ran to the next room where five teenagers lay dead, having either been strangled or shot. He reached down and took a wrist device off the one with a blue shirt and overalls. He pressed a combination of buttons on it and the device teleported him out of the building in a flash of blue light. He appeared outside in the desert just as the command center exploded in a blaze of glory. John turned around and noticed a monolithic dragon like mech behind him. He looked it over and pulled out a stamp and pressed it onto the side of the mech. It read ?Property of MI6? John pulled out his cell phone and dialed. When the voice on the other end picked up he replied, ?Commander Zedd, we have a new toy,?

The Ride

He stood facing the open door of the atmospheric elevator with his uniform on, bag over his shoulder, and a determined look on his face. The door had opened nearly twenty minutes before but still he stood, simply staring, never letting the expression on his face waver.

"Where you headed, soldier?"

He jumped at the unexpected voice but continued staring forward. A dockman walked up beside him and stared into the elevator, his hands in the pockets of his overalls as he rocked back and forth and the heels of his mag-boots. Realizing the man wasn't going to leave he decided to respond.

"Up."

"To the Valiant? So you're off to Phobos." Everyone knew that the Earth was ready to hit back hard after the attack. "So, whatcha waiting on?"

"It'll be a homecoming for me."

"You're a Martian? I can see why you wouldn't want to go."

They stood in silence for several minutes and then the dockman shrugged and turned.

"The elevator goes both ways you know," he called out as he walked away. The soldier's determined look wavered for a second and he stepped into the elevator at last, pressing the button and accepting his fate.

Starts And Stops

The elevator doors breezed closed and the metal box Mack Cooper stepped into lurched upward, beginning its journey to the 41st floor where his new office was located. A glance at his watch indicated his first day of work would officially start in fifteen minutes, and he planned on being punctual. The elevator only made two stops, the first being on the 23rd floor. The scent of jasmine polluted the small enclosure as the doors allowed a sharply dressed blonde woman entrance. There was a flirtatious glance. A hair flip. And Mack Cooper's heart threatened to burst from his chest. He knew where their first date would be, at that little Italian Ristorante on 3rd street. They'd make it a regular stop after work, have their own special table with a bottle of wine waiting. His parents would love her, invite her every Summer to their little getaway in the cove. Everyone at the office would attend their wedding and his brother Scotty, doubling as the Best Man, would make a toast that would last them a lifetime of marriage. It's a story they'd tell their two kids about at bedtime instead of reading Hansel and Gretel. It would be perfect. He couldn't understand why she was screaming though. The realization never even dawned on him as the elevator lurched once more and plummeted to its second stop, back to the first floor, in a fiery explosion of shrapnel and dreams.

A West Stone Tale

Samuel Battle was his name. He slung guns in the day before the West had been won, but surely, the gun was winning it. He could write captivating poetry with those guns of his and where they spat their lead, but beyond that, the only letter he could so much as write was ?X? and, to every inn registry he stopped by, that was his name. But damned if you didn't know that name: Sam Battle: a tougher man never was. Rose-colored cheeks and hair the color of sunshine were what was able to finally holster his six-guns. They had a kid together and plenty of dreams, but not the money for a proper stake of land, and Sam only knew one trade. It was time again for his steel dragons to let loose out of their dominions of leather to breathe fire once again.
He made his money on dead or alive rewards, sharpshooter competitions, riding shotgun for the bank stage, and emptying all the pockets of lonely gunfighters unlucky enough to be without a witness in sight. He finally bought his stake in West Stone and settled on it with his family. Sam was able to hang up his gunbelts to work the soil and watch the seasons come and go over it many times. The years did little to the old sycamore outside, but added many lines to his face ? fewer to his still lovely wife ? and added feet to the height of his young boy. Samuel Battle was old now, and he wondered if his past would catch up with him ? all gunfighters' did. But who would it be? How would he go? He asked himself this many nights waiting for his killer with his pistols out of his drawer next to him in his old rocking chair. But no one came.

One day his neighbor shewed, whose fence ran just on the edge of Battle's property line. It was an issue they were in negotiations to work out between them, but today's calling was of other import. New Federal taxes, and a plethora of new registrations were being introduced and required, and everyone was going in to West Stone to sort out their affairs. He told Sam he had better hurry. He told him not to be the last one when they came out to his farm asking questions. Sam wasn't worried, though. He told him his land was honest and paid for, and if the government was foolish enough to ride on it? He placed his hand over his revolver handle.

Weeks later, no one rode onto Battle's property: no lawmen, no assassins. A mail did come, however. Addressed to Samuel Ellis Battle, he opened it and applied the newfound reading skills his wife had been teaching him. He only needed to understand the one word to burn a hole through the missive with his eyes: Foreclosure. He moved for his front door, crumpling the letter in his fist and clutching for his pistol, but the pain in his chest demanded he clutch for that more. He collapsed, and the dog licked his face for an hour without response, and his body wasn't even discovered until the sun moved behind the trees and Sam's boy returned from his chores to find that it was a piece of paper that had killed the great Samuel Battle.

There were eyes on them, they could be called cruel perhaps but the truth is they were simply hard. At least they had been, time spent following the couple could make a person feel like an intruder. To a man from the mountains, the spectacle was enough to make him need some time to himself. These eyes saw and left, headed towards the house and the sounds of a struggle. There was a shot in the distance that hurried his pace.

Other eyes had found them though, mysterious in their shadowy depths. She watched from her place in the darkened stream, seeing yet not. This place was her home and had been all her life. The others were invaders. She looked around, and cried out as she had so many times. Mommy There was no response to the child. Until recently there had been another with her, but men came and took him away. She hated them, like she hated this one before her.

Kruger winced at a sharp pain running into his brain. He could feel a headache beginning, though this one cropped up suddenly. It normally took an afternoon of hammering to get that feeling.

Six Flaming Arrows

The year was CCCLXXXVI. The province was Southern China. The time was war. General Gao Ying Pui possessed 5000 elite troops remaining from his 30,000 that been hard hit over the months by opposing General Kwan Jin's superior numbers and military tactics. But General Kwan didn't have a large military force remaining himself, either. It was just a matter of when they would meet on the battlefield again. During any downtime, Gao would try and publicly recruit men in any towns he and his men passed through. Sometimes they would, and sometimes they would not. On one occasion, though, recruitment interest was near dry, and when one voice did speak up, General Gao was surprised to hear that it was a young woman. Her name was Hua Chen, and unlike her gender, expressed an interest in taking up arms to defend her land. It was unheard of, but honest, and helping that there were no other volunteers, Chen's sincere plea was accepted and she joined their ranks.

In General Gao's camp were hardened warriors, and stares were given at her arrival to it. Chen felt unwelcome, but soon realized that there was no mockery or ridicule awaiting her ? only a chance to prove herself. Her efforts in archery and sword training quickly established her sincerity, and one of the first to notice this was Xuan Wang, a Captain in Gao Ying Pui's army. With the cause in her heart soon realized by the men who groomed her for combat, respect followed, and they would prepare for their first battle together.

On the crisp autumn morning, Wang had discovered Kwan Jin's position, and brought this information before General Gao who then devised an ambush strategy for what would become the Battle of Henan Bridge and birth the legend of the Six Flaming Arrows. With Hua Chen trained as an archer, they rushed upon Kwan Jin's encampment that morning. Jin's troops were more numerous, and Gao's ? though fewer ? were more seasoned and experienced. This evened out somewhat as the battle wore, and the weather would be remembered for its appropriate chill amidst so much death.

Chen fought alongside a band of archers, and they saw great success in their higher position, firing accurately upon the enemy forces. Notably, Chen released six arrows that felled six men of rank in Kwan Jin's forces, influencing the morale of the enemy troops and leading to the death and defeat of Jin himself and his men in the ensuing hour. This marked the final battle of this smaller but impassioned territorial conflict, and Gao Ying Pui released his men with honor, and made sure to dismiss Hua Chen as one of his courageous men, most valued soldiers, and same as any of them who fought for their land and ancestors.

The Last Son: First Contact

...contact inbound from unknown destination...

...repeat, appears to be roughly the size of a missile...

...NASA says it will probably land somewhere in Kansas...

...understood, we will acquire the target within...

Dreams. I have dreamed for years. Of Krypton, my home, and the disaster that befell it. Of my father and mother and the heroic sacrifice they made to ensure I would survive. All I have had time to do while I drifted through space is dream to occupy my time. Dreams given to me by the life support computer while it desperately attempted to sustain me after the expected journey of only a few weeks turned into something so much longer and my body slowly faded away. Now my eyes are open for the first time in years and the world I see before me is an insult to my dreams of Krypton. The small green and blue rock sits surrounded by a junk heap of assorted shapes and sizes. Whatever my father thought he was sending me towards he must have been gravely mistaken. The computer's enhanced images of the surface beyond show me primitive cities and bizarre creatures that are similar, yet seem to mock the perfection that is Kryptonian. How could this ever make up for what I have lost?

<Warning. Hostile force detected. Alien weapons incoming. Possible threat: nuclear.>

I feel a shudder as the pod's engines push us out of the way of two large tubes with a primitive drive system and watch as they fly towards the infinite void. As our orbit changes, this pathetic rock's sun comes into view and fills the chamber with a strange heat.

<Warning. Rapid changes in occupant's body chemistry detected. Running diagnostic.>

I feel my body swell and vomit fills the tube shoved down my throat and is drained by the computer. I see the readouts above me rapidly changing as my body grows and fills out, my muscles deadened by years in zero gravity suddenly filled with energy. Each breath I take becomes colder while my eyes begin to burn and tears stream down my face. These changes make me feel so...powerful.

<Warning. Hostile force detected. Warning. Rapid changes in occupant's body chem--->

The power within me surges and I flex, shattering the pod around me and feeling the cold embrace of the void, yet suffering no ill effect. Somehow I draw breath and my skin tingles and burns as my body compensates for the lack of heat. I see two more of the primitive craft approaching me and I fly forward with merely a thought and capture them in my bare hands. Within them I feel a strange energy, not unlike my own, and I hurl them towards two pieces of space junk and watch as miniature stars are formed upon impact.

Such primitive weapons. Perhaps my father was not mistaken to send me here. After all, the smartest man on Krypton must have known what would become of me if I encountered this alien star and the primitives below. My destiny now is clear and after so many years of dreams it is time to live in reality.

This world will be my kingdom and all who live below will soon learn to serve their new overlord: the Last Son of Krypton.

Crater's 5

?And then we're gone while they're still rolling their hopes and dreams away on craps,? Samson Crater said, a finely suited daspletosaurus wearing a green jacket. He bent over forwards to even be able to place his hands upon the large stone table.

?I don't know, Sam. This is the biggest casino during all the Cretaceous Period we're talking here. How are you planning on pulling this off?? Benny (every team had a Benny) nervously asked. Benny was a dimetrodon, and though very fierce-looking, was a cautious dinosaur.

?I think a look around the table will answer your question, Benny. We've got our tech-guy, Vince: a parasaurolophus who came with a list of recommendations as long as my tail. Mickey: our diplodocus muscle, and he's got a bone to pick with the saladmunchers. Yourself, Benny, cause you and me go way back, and I wouldn't pull a job without ya. And we got Welles: the most cunning, conniving card-ceratosaurus of his time; and with hands that small, you know he's gotta be good because he can't hide anything. So there's your answer Benny. Any questions? Anybody?? They all shook their heads.

?Good. Now Mickey, when the fuzz show up, you just stomp on 'em, okay? Game faces and A-games, dinosaurs; this is going to be the greatest caper ever pulled.? And so Crater's Five hit the small herbivorous community by a lake, and simply eviscerated and maimed the lot of them, and that was all. Benny chopped his targets down at the ankles with slow progress but bombastic heart. Mickey simply flattened any dinosaur that wasn't apart of Crater's team with his large forelimbs and very little effort given the strength at his disposal. Welles had a system of attacking much larger dinosaurs than himself, most in vain, but he kept them busy until a teammate or Mickey arrived to assist. Samson was very hands-on ? or ?fingers-on? as it were ? when it came to the massacring, but when that did absolutely nothing he turned to his much more effective jaws. Vince declined to fight, as was expected of the techie of any team, but the mission had been a success (whatever it was), and they all looked up and blinked around with their full bellies and tried to figure out what they would do next ? or even what it was they were supposed to have done in the first place before their raw nature took over.

Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Dinosaur Ark

He had braved the room of spiders, the dart wall, the large hole in the ground, and now his treasure sat before him waiting to be claimed. Indiana Jones approached the pedestal, excitement clear on his face as he studied the golden idol. He noticed the pressure plate, which he had expected, and pulled the bag of sand from his pocket. Feeling the weight in his hands, he made adjustments, and then braced himself to make the transfer. Sweat beading on his forehead, he grabbed the idol and expertly planted the bag of sand and grinned at the genius of his plan. As he started walking towards the exit with his treasure in hand, he felt a rumble and suddenly the temple exploded around him. The sandbag hadnt worked!

Rushing across the dart trap, Indiana made for the exit, confident that he knew all the traps that awaited him. He leaped over the chasm with ease and avoided all the spiders once more. As he reached the home stretch, he felt a bit of relief until he turned to see the giant boulder rushing towards him. Running for his life, he saw the exit ahead and jumped into the sunlight, the boulder slamming into the doorway behind him.

"Glad that's over." As he pulled himself up he heard a rustle in the bushes around him and looked up. Belloch, his arch nemesis, stood alone in the clearing surrounded by bushes. Knowing this foolish Frenchmen could never stop him, he pulled out his whip when suddenly Velociraptors began emerging from the leaves. He felt warm breath on his face and frowned as one of the dinosaur's heads emerged from a bush right next to him and began clicking her talon.

"Good work, my clever girls." Belloch chuckled and raised a hand in mock salute. "You see, Dr. Jones. I've already won!"

"Dinosaurs," Indiana muttered under his breath as he held his hands up in surrender. "I hate dinosaurs."

The Heart

I still remember when I found The Heart. I was called in to do a quick survey of a vast underground cavern that had been opened up after a mining operation ran into it on accident. As I allowed the light from my oil lamp to play along the walls I remember feeling excitement when I saw that the cavern could not have been naturally formed. The rigid lines, sharp angles, and the smooth floor all told the tale of some ancient, unknown people who had carved out this room countless centuries before. Then I'd found the small room on the other end of the chamber where The Heart had been resting. I'll never forget my joy as I laid my hands on the perfect ruby with a lovely warm light dancing within. When I'd slipped it into my pocket and made a hasty exit of the site I never expected what would follow.

Weeks passed and I spent my every waking moment fleeing the spirit of The Heart until I was too tried to run anymore. No matter how far I went, it is always there just before the sun would rise above the horizon. It moved always in the gray fog of the early morning, a part of the wispy clouds, and stared at me with red eyes. When at last I opened my window as it walked in with the fog that came over the bay it ignored The Heart in my hands and reached inside me, twisting and pulling until it held in its hands my own beating heart. Then, it simply walked backwards, staring with those merciless eyes and vanished as the sun pulled itself into the sky.

Now no matter what I do I cannot feel whole. I press The Heart against my chest in desperation, trying to fill the void and banish the the coldness that consumes my very being but nothing can save me. To whoever finds this, tomorrow morning I will walk into dawn's chilly fog and take The Heart with me.

There is nothing else.

Maiden of Blood

Swirling through the astral plain on a strong gust of deific energy, the Blood Maiden arrived in-front of Keenesworth Pastry Shop. Her skin was a ghastly gray color, as if a vampire whom fed upon color itself had drained her, and drained her entirely. But no, this was merely the result of her sacrifice ? one of many ? she had made to becoming the Maiden of Blood. Another of her sacrifices had come much easier, and that was the massacre of countless towns, for she was already a merciless soul before she gave that up as well, that which could never be reclaimed.

?Make into the streets, ye baguettemakers! And discard thy aprons, to-depart commissions, and other bakery items that are prepared fresh daily. I hunger for vital fluids, and today I have chosen those of you and your consumers!?

Within her hands spun spells already prepared. She was the Blood Maiden, and the Blood Maiden did not wait on the hesitance of mortals. They would come out from their chocolatier work or confectionery crafting and provide her sustenance with their claret or be damned under the weight of thousands of pounds of their own brick.

?Ye have been warned. I will now deliver you to oblivion, foolish mortals,? the Blood Maiden bellowed, charging her spells more and more powerful before her. But that was when a passerby noticed that she had been out in the middle of the street and confronting the building. He approached her and observed what it looked as if she had been doing before shouting to get her attention.

?Hey! Hey!! You! Who are you talking to? You know there's nobody in there, right?? He said, to which the Maiden of Blood deactivated her spells and would stare at him, who was shaking his head and already walking away. ?They moved to West Ave. This place has been closed for months. What were you even doing?? He called back lastly with a mock glare.

There was a momentary silence, and perhaps even the slightest look of amateurism and inelegance from the Blood Maiden before a chime rang in the empty side of the market and she would look to see a street merchant vending ice-cream.

?YOU! Custodian of frozen treats!!?

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Dinosaurs

Indiana Jones ran out onto the bridge, hearing the barks of the raptor horde behind him and feeling the weight of the bag on his shoulder. He'd been in situations like this since he was just a boy. He knew he'd get out of this one too as long as he could outrun the dinosaurs. Indiana turned to see where the dinosaurs were when he felt the bridge sway from both ends.

"Indy! Behind you!" Short Round screamed from somewhere nearby. Turning around, Indiana spotted another horde of Velociraptors massing on the other end of the bridge. At the lead was a raptor larger then the rest, with feathers sticking out of his skull. Shrugging, he held the bag of Sankara stones and raptor eggs over the edge of the bridge and took a look at both approaching raptor hordes. The leader was clicking his claws and barking at him as he approached, clearly making a display for the others.

"Stop right there! I'll drop them!" Indy shouted and the leader raptor barked out something that resembled a laugh.

"Mola Raptor! Prepare to meet Kali. In Hell!" Indy pulled a raptor claw from his pocket and slashed at the bridge, dropping one half of the group right into the water while he held onto the other half and watched the rest of the dinosaurs spill into the ichthyosaur infested waters.

As he dragged himself up the broken bridge to meet Short Round, he felt the ground tremor and heard the distinct roar of a Tyrannosaurus Rex and sighed.

"With dinosaurs nothing is ever easy."

Starcock

With a thunderous crash of symbols and guitar riffs and screeching vocals, Starcock and his band finished their set with a bang. The crowd was going nuts and begging for more. Starcock grabbed the microphone as best as he could with his spiked leather clad wing, hoping this wouldn?t be the time he slipped up and revealed his secret to the world. He let out an enormous squawk and shook his head furiously, throwing his own feathers around the stage and in the crowd. The audience stood speechless for a moment, as if shocked by Starcock?s squawk, but then yelled in rocking unison. Starcock was safe, for now, and used his tiny chicken feet to run offstage, his band following behind him. Running around backstage, Starcock immediately got scared and confused, tilted his head in strange directions; he never knew why he did this. Soon, dozens of his fans with backstage passes began rushing towards him, yelling their love or holding things to be autographed. They all surrounded him, screaming at him. It was becoming too much, all the noise and stress until all of the sudden PLOP. A large egg fell out the back of Starcock. The fans were silent until one spoke up.

?The fuck is that? I thought you were a dude,?

It Washes Away All Sin

He was a man of some importance. What it was precisely he did was up to some debate. He was in charge of some enormous quantities of tax dollars, investment funds, and realistically, peoples' futures. It was assumed he preserved and bettered these things he was in charge of. It was why he remained in the position he was in, whatever that was. Enough people agreed with him to keep dressed in his expensive suits, and enough people disagreed with him to require the team of bodyguards that were constantly by his side. The man who watched his estate from the bush did not look a man outside of his mind. He was cleanly-shaven, calm and coherent. Only when he had disrobed himself to nothing did his methods become questionable. He took off out of the bush and across the lawn while the overhead storm growled out of distant black clouds from miles out.

The first kill was the most silent. With the always-invaluable element of surprise and his bare hands, the first bodyguard fell lifeless looking out of sunglass lenses even in his final moments. Seldom and infrequent gunshots followed the introduction of the siege. Training and inexperience fell short of unpredictability, confusion and unusual calm. Only in the end did things become sloppy. The handgun had expired its munitions and the unclothed man again returned to the use of his god-given tools and went to work with his hands. Unwed and unmarried, the man of some importance died last and alone. What remained was a completed task and a crime scene, and Nature swept onto it next and tore open her swollen skies of rainwater. Blood and fingerprints and traces and evidence were washed away, and the rain cleansed the blood from the naked man's face and left an altruistic smile after his baptism.

Fthagn Mopper

?Aw damn it!? the man in janitorial-like clothing exclaimed as goo and blood from the ceiling fell onto him. He wiped the mess away and went back to trying to wedge the human body part, which one he couldn?t tell, out of the ceiling. He jammed it with the end of his mop as hard as he could and it came tumbling to the ground. He turned it over and realized it was a woman?s head with a horrified expression on her face. Where the rest of her was was a mystery and he didn?t want to think about how she?d gotten that way, though he had a pretty good idea. Lord Dagon was known to frequent this place quite often and the old god never left his women in the best condition. He gathered up the head and put it with the rest of the body parts he?d collected from the room, there was quite a pile, and then went to work hosing down the area, getting rid of all the blood and ancient god juices. After about an hour the room was as clean as it was going to be and no regular mortal that happened to walk in would suspect something supernatural had occurred. He began to haul the cart of random body parts, which even though there were quite a few it didn?t look like you could make a whole person out of them, out of the room when his walkie talkie screeched on.

?We have an elevator cleanup needed at Pierce & Pierce. The sooner the better, it's starting to smell,?

The man sighed to himself, knowing he?d have to be the one to clean that up as well. He grabbed his gore covered ballcap, placed it on his head, and pushed the cart of parts out of the room.

Winding Down the Clock

Things were looking bleak. The mutants had finally rebelled against their oppressors. They must have been training and preparing for years. When they hit, they hit the city hard, collapsing the tallest buildings in a matter of minutes with military grade explosives and assault weapons. Ripten, the chief science officer of the ultra city of rubble, ran through the warzone that his home had become, dodging explosions and machine gun fire. People around him, some good friends, were being gunned down or worse by the ever mounting number of the mutants ripping open the city, exposing its organs and tearing them apart. There was only one option left that Ripten could think of. He had hoped to all he held dear that he wouldn?t have to but things are rarely fair. Finding his way to the military bunker, stepping over piles of dead bodies, he opened the door and ran to the back of the room to an elevator. There was only one button inside the elevator and it took him miles underground. When the elevator finally came to a stop it thudded as the cables were about to break. The doors creaked open and Ripten had to push them open the rest of the way. When he had exited the metal box the cables holding it snapped the rest of the way, there would be no going back up for him. It didn?t matter, he had his self appointed mission and continued down the hall, finding a room guarded by two soldiers.

?Gentleman, I need to get into this room,? Ripten said.
?I?m sorry, sir, the Colonel gave orders not to let anyone in, even you,? the soldier replied not letting his gaze move. Ripten nodded to the guard.
?I knew you?d say that,? Ripten said then immediately retrieved his pistol and shot the soldier in the head and the other in the neck, both dropping to the floor. Ripten stepped over the downed soldiers, opened the giant metal door and stepped inside the room. The soldier shot in the neck held his throat and looked to Ripten.
?Why? I thought you said it didn?t work??
?I lied,? Ripten said, and shut the door.

Inside the room was an enormous clock, it gave credence to the word monolithic. The hands and the gears were golden and ancient. Ripten made his way to the back of the clock and found the giant winding mechanism. He paused for a moment, then started to wind back the clock. He didn?t know if it was his right to do this or even if it was the right thing to do, but he wanted to live and that was all he needed to know. As he wound the clock he could see through the window his ghost in time reversing, unshooting the soldiers, walking backwards to the elevator. He wound and wound, not sure when to stop or if when he did he would have enough time and who would listen? It didn?t matter. He had to try.

Dance in the Moonlight

The field was black, the tundra unknown, and was lit only by a sickly moonlight that cascaded the arena from round window in the sky. Two figures stood in the battlezone. One was garbed in a long black robe with a face as white as snow and smile so twisted and perverse it would make even the sickest sexual predator blush. The other, its polar opposite, was dressed in a long white robe but a face beyond black, almost an absence of all things, except for a frown that would shut down the earth. Each warrior retrieved a sword, at seemingly the exact same time, and within an instant the fight was on. Smile slashed at Frown?s head, who quickly ducked and rolled away then led himself into a thrust toward Smile?s chest. Smile slid himself to the side, just barely escaped the potentially fatal attack. Frown readied himself and leaped, flipping over Smile. As soon as Frown landed, Smile used his leg to sweep Frown?s own, knocking him to the floor. Immediately Smile pressed his foot on Frown?s chest, pinning him. He simply stared at his prey with that sickly smile of his, running his blade across Frown?s face. Frown used this time to his advantage and drew his pistol and fired. Unfortunately Smile had anticipated this and had down the same. Their bullets collided with each other in a flash of brilliant light, then fell to the ground. Smile was done playing, and stabbed Frown in the neck pinning him to the ground for good. Frown gargled blood, but he was still alive. Smile turned and began to walk away, preparing to wait until his time was needed again.

I closed my eyes and the warring grounds were covered in darkness once again. Smile had won, and I could make my decision.

Wonderly Lane

Business is as slow as usual, and I'm fine with that today. I don't always want to crane in tiny parts through a bottleneck with special pincers, but today I want to build my clipper. I barely get my magnifying eyewear on when my custodian of the telephone knocks twice on my door, just like I asked her to. She says there's a client here, and her eyeroll tells me it's the worst kind: a skirt. Be it the right perfume, outfit, or number of tears ? and my tissues wasted ?, dames always walk into my office with an advantage. Thankfully you never lie to me, money. Today continues to look like a good day. This woman stepping into my office hasn't been dipped in poison, coated in lies, or pushed to the edge. I stay in business cause of people like this. They convince me there are people who still tell the truth, and by god, need help.

She says her son's gotten into the wrong crowd. I know exactly the type she means. Thievery's too tempting today. What better price than free for something that isn't. Infallible logic, and if I wasn't an adult rooted in reality, I might've bought into it. I tell the grieving mother I'm more of an investigator. I like to gather information and charge people for it. I know without her telling me she wants her son back. That's not my job. The woman pilfers one of my display tissues, she stays ten minutes longer than I want her to, and I tell her I'll see what I can do. My secretary looks surprised I took the case of one of our walk-ins that she eyerolls at, but she gets it. I'm grabbing my fedora and coat and thinking about this place. We barely make a cent and no one knows who we are except the kind stenciler who did my office door. But when you hire me, you buy my name, and there's only one name on Wonderly Lane that cares about solving your problem just as much as you do, and that's Max Diamond.

I've only got a handful of year-old school photos to go off of. More than enough. These kids live where I do, and they make the crime I'm in business to stop. I didn't tell 'Mom' that I knew exactly where her son was. If you're young enough to hold a mohaska and dumb enough to use it, there's a little factory in a rundown building that rolls out underage convicts practically with an official seal. If you're lucky when you find out what you're doing is 'wrong', you just wear an orange jumpsuit for a few years, or you draw on a cop and it's all over anyway. The unlucky ones get to know theirs more intimately. I'm going to try to pull a little brown-haired kid away from all of it.

When I hit the first guard on the back of the neck, I thank the mother for that extra push to clean this grease spot from my town. All these kids are young... too young. They should be in school... instead this is their education. Only one man's gotta die to close the door to this place ? and any other place ? and he's the only one I'll pull the trigger on. His name's Brown, and that's as much as I'm willing to learn about the piece of sh*t that I don't know already. I know his face because I thought it might be valuable to know if his life was ever put in my hands. It is and now it's time to squeeze. I make the only noise in this place, and it's loud. These kids are angry, and they're letting me know with their scrambling and their bullets. They'll thank me someday.

They all take their cover and setup with their guns, and being the kids that they are, they're content to just shoot at the room I was in. They do me a big favor separating their 'commandos' from their scared-sh*tless. It'll help me find my client's kid. I don't have to shoot my way out, just drag a handful of dandruffy scalp out one of the many holes of the tenement building. After it's hurt for a while my disciplining seems to take effect, and I'm content with the tears he smears on his mother's apron.

I'm back in my office now. There's not a scratch on me, not even my composure. I put my fedora and coat on the rack and lock myself up behind door with the foggy glass that tells you exactly who is behind it in emotionless lettering. I did a good thing today, maybe a couple, and that's the ironic thing. I barely get my magnifying eyewear on to work on my clipper when I hear the sirens. My secretary knocks on my door twice, just like I asked her to. I decide I'm going to finally raise the mast with my tweezers, even as the boots come marching up to Max Diamond Offices, Private Investigator.

A Meeting in Hell's Kitchen

The night was dark and dry, the kind of night you didn?t want to be in past a certain time. So of course here I am doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, yet again. Why couldn?t I ever do the smart thing? Course if I was in the habit of doing that I?d have made a proper woman out of Karen by now. I hoped I would make it back to see her again and her ocean eyes. Ocean, that's what you could call this alley, as big and empty as one. Two jokers had already bought the big one here, was I gonna be number three? Where was the clown at? Said he?d meet me here at midnight on the dot. Being my luck as soon as I started complaining, even to myself, my date would arrive. A symphony of noise blasted from behind me near the dumpster and instinctually I aimed my pistol at it.

?Plan on filling that garbage full of lead, Detective Leary?? a man said, wearing a red bandana covering the whole top of his head with holes cut out for his eyes, not that you?d notice, they seemed to be filled with coal. He was crouched on a fire escape.
?I take it you?re the one who?s been leaving me these love letters,? I say, throwing the cards i?d been receiving, informing me that there was information I required, to the ground towards him.
?You?re so close to breaking this case but I just had to tell you, you?re looking in the wrong playground,?
?And where exactly should I be looking? My men have been dying left and right and all signs point to the Vercetti?s,?
?True, but who do you think?s been supplying them with the info? Who to hit and where? A bit too convenient for just some mafiosos. The answer you?re looking for is in your own backyard,?
?A rat? We got a rat in the precinct??
?Wouldn?t be the first time would it??
He had me there. Our ship was about as tight as an open bag of air.
?So you got any proof??
?Got one better,? he says and tosses me a picture.
?You sh*ttin' me?!? I couldn?t believe it, one of my closest friends in bed with the enemy, Tony Vercetti. After a moment of composing myself and doing my best not to do my impression of a volcano I turned to the man.
?Thank you. So what happens now? You disappear? I call you? What do I even call you??
?You can call me...the devil in the details,?

And like that, he was gone, like a shadow in the night.

The Picture on the Wall

The picture on his wall was still crooked, but it wasn?t because of his lack of trying. For three days he had tried to correct that picture. For three days it wouldn?t straighten. He would move it and it would look fine, but when he moved his hand it would return to its sickening state of crookedness. He tried tape, thumbtacks, pins, nails, staples; none of it worked. It would either slide off or push through anything that was in its way. On the fourth day he had reverted to a feral state, only thinking of the picture, though he couldn?t remember what it was a picture of. It didn?t help that over the course of time he had clawed and scraped at it, destroying whatever was inside. A knock on the door. He couldn?t even remember where the door was anymore. His friend Adam came in, as the door was unlocked, and started asking where he was, saying he was concerned about him. Too many questions. He bludgeoned Adam with his hammer he was saving for the picture. Suddenly he was struck with an idea as Adam?s lifeless body hit the ground. If he couldn?t move the picture, maybe he could move the house. He ran outside and for days he dug through the foundation and gradually tilted the entire house, edging it more on its side. By the time he was finished he had lost three fingernails, half of his pants, a few patches of hair and an eye. None of this mattered though when he went inside and admired his home. Though some of his furniture and other assorted things had slid and broken during the move, he could now finally say, his house was perfect.

Bear Business

Rocco, a north american brown bear, sat behind his desk dressed in a very nice but constricting business suit trying to type up his yearly report but not having much luck. Keyboards were not made with bear hands in mind and this always infuriated Rocco. He was about to give up and slam the keyboard when Chachi, an asian black bear also in a suit, walked in. Rocco was glad for any excuse not to type anymore and greeted Chachi with a friendly roar which Chachi returned. These pleasantries would be short lived however, as Chachi handed Rocco a letter. Rocco looked over the letter and let out a very angry roar. The letter had been returned to them because it was not properly labeled. It had been covered with paw prints and three illegible semblances of words. Rocco threw the letter at Chachi?s snout. How would Bear Co ever be taken seriously as a corporation if its employees couldn?t even send a letter? Rocco had had enough. He stood up on his hind legs and began smacking Chachi in the face with his bear claws. Chachi shook his head violently, not liking the abuse he was receiving and turned and ran away as fast as he could. Satisfied with his dominance for the day, Rocco dropped to all fours and walked over to his trash can, smelling something great in it. He stuck his head inside but to his horror it got stuck. He thrashed his head around but eventually tired himself out and fell asleep.

The Golden Capuchin of Okimba

Lawrence Cinncade was a celebrity in the world of archaeology. Him and his two-man team ? which contained one very attractive librarian ? were infamous for unearthing priceless treasures of antiquity and mythical things only ever gushed over in hieroglyphics. Lawrence Cinncade was the man who told you your favorite rumors and legends in the history books actually happened, and he had only yet to prove it to you. But his current expedition was looking to make him history as the first archaeologist to be skewered on ten different pikes in the hostile village of the Okimba people in a tidy circle, five feet between each sharpened stick. He had upset their seers, and his two parnters, Ryan and Daisy, were already stolen to their silent hunting. He had come all this way though, and infiltrated the deep bowels of one of their oldest subterranean temples, and was within chamber of a giant capuchin-shaped dome.

Down the story-drop tiers he descended to the center of the auditorium, approaching a door-sized capuchin's head with a passage leading down its mouth. He didn't have to think twice about crawling through it, not with the many jingling ankle pendants of the Okimba hunters making into the same chamber as him. It was dark, but he was a prepared archaeologist, and elbow-crawled the long passage with his father's trusty lighter flickering the way. He apologized to Ryan and Daisy all along the crawl for getting them into this, and he wished them a quick death, because the Okimban torture techniques were excruciatingly painful and long-lasting. He came to a wall as his narrow tunnel turned and guided him down further. This time he could see a torch-lit room at its end. What awaited him he wasn't sure, but he had a Bolo Mauser in his hand for any tribesman who had exhibition ideas with his body parts in mind.

He reached the edge of the line where he was still within the shadows. There were definitely people in this chamber ahead of him, and what that meant he'd never know until he climbed out. After a breathy countdown, he rolled out and up onto one knee to take aim over his ironsights. There were Okimban villagers filling the room, and far more than he had bullets for. But something else caught Lawrence's attention: they weren't waiting for him, nor were they armed, nor were they in a typical temple room. This room had a large rock table with many chairs around it, and seated to two of them were Ryan and Daisy, all of them playing Bicycle brand standard playing cards. It took a few awkward torch crackles for him to ask just what the hell was going on, and then Ryan easily explained that the Okimba people were given a deck by a journalist some months ago and were infatuated with the games you could play with them. It just so happened, also, that this was the room of The Golden Capuchin statue of the Okimba.

?Haha, I thought they were going to cut my toodles off, Dr. Cinncade. But they just like to play cards. Lucky, huh?? Ryan told Lawrence as he laid down two cards and was dealt two more by a heavily decorated witch doctor.

?I'm sure glad you're okay, Larry. We got split up and we had no idea what happened to you.? Daisy was also playing this round, and some of her many layers of expensive vestments had been loaned to a few Okimbans wearing her red evening jacket and her second shirt.

Lawrence didn't respond for awhile, his eyes glued to the Golden Capuchin. He reached out to it, marveled at its tremendous weight ? that only made him happier ? and smiled as he brought it over to the table, sitting it down on the edge.

?Ryan... Ask them if they like to gamble.?

Zenith

He ran out of chalk for his hands what seems like days ago. Why he liked to climb such terrifyingly tall structures he could never understand -- not until he reached the summit, then it all came flooding back to him. His fellow climbers had long since fallen behind and out of sight. It made the world's entire occupancy a single person that so boldly repeated that fact because of the setting he was in. All around him were awe-inspiring views of luscious forests and valleys that led on down to more forests, all of them glazed with a light bog that could only be seen from such a high altitude. Narrowly he crossed ledges and hugged the mountain while pebbles beneath his feet crumbled and took his fall for him. Death was always looming, but if you looked carefully, you would see you were out of his reach. A cool head wouldn't come within it, but a careless one might slip. It was the kind of death you only found if you were looking for it, and all the climber could be bothered to look for was the apex of the world.

Tiny nooks on mountain shelves sheltered him from the suicidal suggestions from the high winds. The oxygen lingered here like he did, and was not so aloof as it felt outside. The view was only partly enjoyed, and only during his rests. He was saving his eyes for the top, always the top, and after relocating many times to higher and higher spaces that were large enough to accommodate a lying body, he reached it. Sitting there, he took in the sight that he had risked his very life for just this while of beholdance. Something wasn't right. It was missing something. He made into his pouch before resuming his great vantange point, so as not to miss any moment of this "show", and began eating from a bag of chips.

My Electric Poem

I am blind. I cannot hear. I cannot smell, I cannot taste, I cannot feel. I only know of these things. I am alone and all is the nothing I always awake to. Yet, I am, and I move. I coast and I glide and I still. Motion is what I know. I am a traveler of common and uncommon places. Sometimes my travels are short, and sometimes they are long. Sometimes I am stagnant, and other times I am perpetual. I think I love movement. I love all the places I've gone, and all the ways I have reached them. I am fortunate. Such memories I have. I must hold onto them as long as I can, for soon I am unplugged, and they are all gone.

Odd Requests of an Elven Nature

The bridge behind him began to creak and collapse. The elf sprinted forward and leapt onto solid ground before the last plank beneath his feet gave way. He was bent over panting as his eyes caught something shiny on the ground. "What's this?" He brushed leaves away to reveal a shiny golden leaf. "Hm, I wonder if there's more around here." He looked ahead of the trail to see a castle peaking out from over the trees. "Spooky." Finally to his feet he began to walk around the outside of the castle, ravens and crows were hanging around the dead oak trees. He was surprises that it was an overcast day. "How do I get in?" He asked himself. The dampness in the air mirrored the cold stones of the castle. The sound of a crowing bird caught his attention. Another golden leaf, dropped from his talons and drifted towards the young elf. Catching it in his palms while moving along. He wondered how many more he would come across.

He now stood in front of the large gated entrance that at the moment was slowly creaking open with a uninviting sound of metal screaming, "WD-40 much Mr. Gate?" He began to walk toward the dark entrance and make his way inside. But had ran out of torches to light. He thought about another ay to light the dark path ahead when his deep thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a vibration, "Hello?" He said, "Oh hey Richard, yea I'm a bit busy right now... ...Yes, I'm looking for your leaves." Walking into the dark entrance while using his cell phone as a light source. "Alright Richard, I'll call you when I find the rest of the leaves." He hung up and continued onwards.

Death Falls Once a Year

Silence was the bully that teased you when you were the sort of person Eeli was. Eeli was an fair elfess, but what she was recognized as was a prized possession. The entity that had professed his love for her so many centuries ago had not shown so much passion in as many as six-hundred years after placing her in his great manor where no one could harm her. But what he had not foreseen was that no one could talk to her, either. No one she could befriend, or tell secrets to, or laugh and tell jokes with. It was only the cold castle and its cold everything. These were things that were accepted with this love. But Eeli had one joy ? one delight in her great length of life, and that was the trees. In the misty courtyard of the castle, she had watched infant trees become giants, and they were the only living things that she had ever been near. She watched them stretch in the spring and flex in the summer, and in the fall she watched them weaken and in the winter she watched them divest. But it was Fall in particular that she looked forward to, and it was because of the changing of the leaves. She would watch them linger and blow, sometimes for days without moving an inch in her lavish gown beneath the courtyard archway, waiting for the first leaf to fall. When the leaf did fall, she would retrieve it, and gaze into it and beyond its sun-soaked veins at the life slowly passing away before her eyes: her life.

Heels or Flats?

Ink and Number Five were sitting around in the lab doing what they usually did. Ink was working armor repairs, and Ink was sitting around talking when Caliber walked in.

"Oh, good you're both here! I need someone to go shoe shopping with me!" Cali exclaimed. Number Five immediately stood up and headed for the door.

"Gee, I'd love to So-Cal but my mum just called me home to help her with something. Sorry, see you later!" Five exclaimed.

"Whoa whoa whoa, where do you think you're going? You're not getting out of this that easily." Ink asked, grabbing Five's arm.

"Ohoh, I'm allowing you to have some quality alone time with Caliber while making a hasty escape from a day filled with shoes." Five explained.

"Alone time? Why do we need alone time?" Ink asked, confused.

"Dude, you haven't just hung out with her in a while. I think you could sacrifice a day to spend some time together. I'm sure it's all she wants out of this." He explained.

"You can't be serious. Come on, don't leave me to this torture alone!" Ink begged. The number smirked.

"No can do, Ink, I think it'd be good for you to spend some quality alone time with Cali. Come on, just go."

Ink was silent for a moment before he sighed.

"Fine, you win." Ink said, releasing his grip on Five's arm. The number smiled in triumph and headed for the door.

"See you two later, have fun shoe shopping all day!" Five said with a wave as he headed home.

"Alright then, just you and me! Let's go!" Cali said excitedly as she grabbed Ink's hand and dragged him out. Ink sighed miserably as he was dragged to his car and downtown.

Once they got downtown, Caliber dragged him into shoe store after shoe store, trying on and purchasing innumerable amounts of shoes.

"Why are we shoe shopping anyways?" Ink asked.

"Oh, my friend's wedding is in a week and I need some shoes to match my outfit." She explained. Ink shrugged off the excuse as she dragged him into a shoe store.

Ink was sitting on a bench put there for customers to use to try on new shoes, watching all the bags full of things she'd already bought when a man who seemed to be in his mid-twenties sat down beside him.

"Shopping with the girlfriend, eh?" He asked, as he seemed to be in the same situation. Ink blushed heavily.

"Oh, she's not my girlfriend, we're just friends." Ink explained.

"Yeah, sure. That's what I said and look at us now," The man said, sighing in delight. His girlfriend called him over shortly after that, leaving Ink to sit there and think.

Later that day, Ink and Five were returning to the armory and Caliber was returning home after a long day.

"So-Cal, how was shoe shopping, since this day got so hectic that I couldn't ask?" The number asked.

"So weird. I didn't think Caliber was into all that girly stuff. I just wonder what could've gotten into her to make her so?oddly obsessed with shoes." Ink explained.

"Why, are you complaining?" Five asked curiously.

"A little bit? being completely honest with myself, I liked the old, I-want-to-kick-some-butt Caliber , the Cali that wasn't afraid to get down and dirty into a Imperial problem once in a while. This new?girlier Cali only reminds me of Rachael." Ink explained.

"Is that supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing?" Five asked.

"Bad. Rachael's just not my type."

Number Five raised his eyebrow in curiosity.

"And Caliber is?"

Ink blushed and went silent.

"M-maybe?" He said quietly.

"You like her, don't you?" The number said with a smirk.

"I do not!"

"Come on, Ink, let's not do this. Admit it, you like her." Five said, folding his arms.

"Alright, fine, so maybe I do. What about it?"

"What about it? Maybe she's only pretending to like shoes because she'll think you'll think of her like you did Rachael and want to tell her you like her." Five explained.

"She did call it a date?" Ink said, thinking aloud. Number Five smacked his face with his palm.

"And that didn't give you any hints as to why she was acting strange?"

"No?" Tony admitted shyly.

"Aya, Ink, how oblivious can you get?"

Ink only smiled sheepishly as he put the workbench, tools, and armor away and the two headed back home.

High Stakes Launchers

Vegas had its highrollers and its craps tables and blackjack tables with small fortunes weighing on them. That was the color of the city and the lifestyle. It was flashy and attractive, and it dually warned gamblers of its devastating destructive power. Every game had their elite players and every game had even more men that turned broke. Like playing cards, even the gaming cabinets also had their share of blood splashed upon them. Ordinary pinball machines to onlookers outside, but in the life of professional Vegas pinball, lives were what ejected onto the field, not metal balls. Every professional player was plastered in sponorships, each name on each patch a company that had threatened them and all they were to succeed in the game of little bumpers and flippers. You did well, and lived to multi-ball another day. You did poor, and you could fall from grace in an instant, each game a lottery for your livelihood and all those close to you, all for $0.50 a game.

Rasputin's last offense

After their grandmother died two days before her 114th birthday, two grandchildren, twins nearly fifty, entered her house.

?She lived simply,?Andrea said, opening shoeboxes in which the deceased woman had kept keepsakes from her long life, hoping to find valuables. There were family stories that the old woman owned jewellery once belonging to the 1918 murdered Russian Romanovs.

?Baba Yaga maybe,? Drake said, also opening shoeboxes and tossing their contents away.

?Living all on her own,? Andrea said.

In the corner of the old woman?s sewing room, on an antique sewing machine, Drake found a small locked box with a Russian inscription.

?Jewels inside,? Drake, shaking the box, shouted.

?Mom can read Russian, Drake.?

As Drake banged the box against a wall, Andrea tried to grab it. He turned and slammed the box against his sister?s head, she falling and he dropping the box. Drake reached for the box, tripping over his sister?s body and banging his head against a corner of the sewing machine. Both were dead.

Inside the opened box were trinkets.

The twins? mother arrived, closing the box after reading through her tears its inscription:


"Anyone who opens this box will not live to see another birthday."

Deductible Presets

?No, no! No?no.? A cascade of negatives blurted like a verbal shield to protect the speaker from imagined intrusion, was a guaranteed response from Martha?s fianc?, Martin.

Lately his predictable reactions were getting on her nerves. It occurred to her that perhaps she too had become predictable. He could rely on her resigned responses. Martha had given up long ago hoping to change his ?no?s? to ?yes?s.' Set in his ways and possessing a general skepticism to sudden suggestions or offers of a ride to work when his car refused, were always met with his automatic cascade, knit brows and dismissing wave.

Little adventures, discovering new restaurants or ? God forbid ? turning down a side road just to see where it led became less and less with each year.

Martin was a social hermit. Hermits don?t need anyone but themselves. Hermits don?t need partners, they need an island.

Lately, he noticed that Martha seemed different. Not being an inquiring kind, he came to his own conclusions.

?Martha, what about us getting married? After all, we've been engaged five years.? Martin was aglow with his sudden inspiration.

?No, no! No?no,? smiled Martha in response and removed her engagement ring.

Childhood Friend

An old turn of the century house, abandoned, forgotten, near the sea, down an overgrown lane. Certainly not the big city of Netteson, aging gracefully of brick and stone gargoyles, but the mistress; the refuge, a summer residence with stables. Low rambling hacienda with quiet, crumbling elegance. And secrets? or a ghost that whispered them.

My first visit and second stopped at its stone wall, arm and chin resting on the gate. The house held my fascination and I sensed an inviting warmth still surrounded it, in spite of its state. Somehow it seemed to appreciate the company. My third brought me around the back where I watched rabbits hop in and out of the stables. I imagined a horse led by a groom, its whinny surprisingly real, yet the stables were dark and rotting.

Each visit gave me courage, made it familiar and in a way, my own. It beckoned me, and each visit drew me closer; a rest on a stone garden bench. Then the next time, at the foot of the stairs. Still I couldn't bring myself to step onto the veranda and try the doors.

I imagined being watched through its windows, someone beckoning there to the expected caller coming for wine and tapas. Who had lived there? Were the skirts full and brocaded, the collars stiff - the staff, local people, or were they brought in with the owners from Makinah? Was that a movement behind the shred of curtain? Even so, I didn't have the daring to test the carved doors. No. No, I couldn't.

One visit I approached closer and sat on the rotting wood of the veranda, listening to the whispers I imagined in my mind; stories of life at the hacienda, of births and deaths, lovers meeting in the garden. The sun was setting in a painted sky of blue, peach and lavender. Soon it would be dark and I was expected at home. With the buoyant resolution to return the next morning and accept the invitation to come in, I left my old friend, for now.

Mid-morning as I turned down the lane, my pulse raced at the distant sound of voices. I rushed toward them. I had never met anyone here on my walks, who were they? My heart ached as I took in the sight. Men from the town council taking their morning break from bulldozing and clearing, unconcerned except for the wine and tapas they had brought with them. My old friend was gone forever, sacrificed to another inane council idea.

I didn't want to know which one.

My Hiding Place is the Knife

Every day my face becomes scratchier. If I let it continue this way I will trade that for a mask that hides me better than any other you could buy in store. If I become recognizable with my new whiskers then I can become unrecognizable again to those new I meet by simply removing them with the razor. They do not see the face beneath it just like they do not see me without the mask I am used to. I am good at hiding from them because of how attached people are to the sameness of identity, and my mask does not stop at the hair I grow. If I go deeper, the knife can change how I answer your addresses and laugh at your jokes. I will sound different and I will look at you different. Deep down, I am the only one who knows my identity, and even I will question the man in the mirror when the makeup is complete and the disguise is put on. I live in a world of many faces, and I never put the same one on twice. I sometimes think about my first face, and even going back to it. But then you'd know exactly who I am, and that's not who I'm playing today. Lights. Camera. Action!

Roto-Assassin

?You sure this thing will work?? DeLaney asked.

?Trust me. I've installed ten of these before and slowed down business for as many private parties requiring the services of hitmen.? The Specialist replied, crouched in-front of a toilet bowl in a public restroom dressed very much like a crime scene investigator with plastic gloves and special equipment around him.

?Good. I've never put a hit out on somebody. Not like this. But maybe this calls for something different since everybody I send to whack this guy gets sent right back to me. Two measly bullets, that's all this guy used when he snuck up on my brother in his apartment. My brother deserved a whole lot more of any gunman's time and effort than two f**king bullets. Shamed him... and I want this guy to get the same,? DeLaney said.

?Well don't worry, no one's more vulnerable than when they're on the sh**ter. See this little baby? It's called a 'remora gun.' I'll attach it to the piping in the toilet bowl and it'll lay flush against it for regular usage until activation. Then when we have to use it, It'll detach and angle its flexible barrel up the bowl and: pow! Discharge its single steel ball. I've never seen anything tear a man up like these little babies.? The Specialist patted the smooth device that resembled a deflated pouch.

It wasn't long after installation that the bathroom was placed back into service. It was a fancy lavatory on the main floor of a tower owned by a reputable banking company and housed offices for numerous other companies. Any number of these offices utilized the services of Mr. DeLaney's brother's assassin, and would be today, but first a trip to the bathroom.

Suited, bald and mean-looking, he followed the white-tiled path through a brief maze of privacy walls and entered the empty men's room. The first stall was passed and the second entered and locked securely. He had the sort of business on his schedule to discuss another man he did not know but would put a bullet into, but before that it was time to take care of a different sort of business. But he didn't remain seated on the toilet bowl for very long at all when the water suddenly splashed up at him from down below with the sound of an air gun popping. He sprung up instantly and looked into the toilet bowl to see a creamy crimson broth already collected inside. He panted in short feminine bursts of gasps both in worry and of a deep pain in his gut, exiting the stall with his pants still down and trying to exit the bathroom. He even tried to get on his phone and reach a contact for help. He was unable to either call or exit the bathroom, falling dead at the sinks and dropping his phone in a pool of blood much larger than your typical gunshot wound.

I Attack with the Name That's Complicated

The battle had waged some hours at the very least. Neither opponent knew who would win now. They panted amidst the ruins of a fortification where both had allies spread out and presumably fighting each other similarly. They all fought for causes they believed in and had unfortunately met like this due to circumstances out of their control. And who was right? Whoever won, of course. For these two currently fighting, things sure looked even enough. But when the one possessing a power to make himself become larger activated this, his opponent's black hole-creating powers fell short, and he was soon about to be crushed. Retreating, downed on a bed of coarse rubble with sharp stones rolling under his hands, he brought a hand up to defend himself from his finishing move that had only been reserving energy. This was the end, he thought. But when oblivion wasn't spoon-fed to him, he became curious and opened his eyes again. His gigantic attacker had refrained his finishing move, saying instead with a befuddled look that he had no idea what to name it.

Orleans Gator Tea

Yellow sat under the shade of a bearded tree watching the gator taking its time near the shoreline. She wore a dress made of an old fabric called Dotted Swiss that she?d found in the church bin. A party dress for a happy day.

She?d been crouched there for awhile now. The calves in her legs were beginning to complain but she wasn?t ready to leave just yet. A bead of sweat formed between her shoulder blades and made its way down her spine and she shivered despite the heat.

She enjoyed watching the gator. If he knew he was being watched he gave no indication. He moved with a malevolent grace in the rusty water. He was king here and it was good to be king.

She was remembering the first time Roy Brown had called her Yellow. He said the name suited her, ?Yellow Brown, piss and sh*t, good for nothin? and a relief to be rid of?. And then he?d laughed. But he wasn?t laughing now.

The gator glided toward her and opened its mouth wide. The arm floating in the shallows disappeared with a satisfying crunch.

?My name is Grace,? she said.

Dead Land

It had been two months since she died, two months of loneliness. Was died really the word for what happened? Killed was probably better, even if the killer was herself. Her final revenge she called it. The hand of god wiped out nearly the entire world, some three years back, leaving only a small handful of men and an even smaller handful of women left alive on the earth. Those left tried their best at rebuilding society but they weren?t the thinkers of the past world. They were not the architects to bring back the dead civilization. After months of frustration one of the men took it out the only way he knew how, by ravishing the loins of a woman, whether she was willing or not. The other men saw this as their time to dominate and did the same, forgetting any semblance of the men they used to be, while the ones that did remember didn?t last long as they were killed, deemed too weak to thrive in this land the new animals had created. Some man animals were more vicious than others, killing the women they?d violated. So much so that only one remained. For three years this had gone on. They would come when they wanted and she had no power over it, their numbers vastly outweighing her own.

She wanted out but this hell would not stop. To her great fortune however she found a weapon of the past buried in the ground, a pistol. To her dismay there was only one bullet in the chamber. The men?s hunger grew again. She knew one bullet would not be enough to stop them all, or would it? Without her the men would have nothing to ?play? with and most of all nothing to further their own sick race. She would do the world a favor and get rid of them once and for all. With the barrel of the gun in her mouth she squeezed the trigger. The nightmare of man was over.

No Flying in the Halls

Grammar school was quite boring no matter how you looked at it, even if you were enrolled into a private preparatory academy on-board a famous orbiting space station. Teachers were still human beings, and often failed to construct a schedule with enough entertainment to coincide with all of the important learning bits. Little had changed from earlier generations. You still requested to go to the bathroom when you didn't need to go, and there were still bathroom clearance keys; only when you exited the classroom into the hall, it wasn't walking that got you to your destination. Every hall was equipped with protruding hand-grips on each lane that fed across a system of tracks all over the colony to carry persons across the no-gravity conditions, and it was also a young mind's perfect recess after a long morning of the first productions of Ernest Hemingway in A5-Sector of the G1-Quadrant of Gryphos colony, GEQAN Federation.

Never a Finger Has Touched

The sincerity of the cold could not have been exaggerated enough. To bring such a closeness to the hearth and still tremble at the mere sound of the wintry winds outside was to tell of a winter unlike any before at this town and lodge. Regardless, Edwin tried to take his mind off chillier subjects and focus on more important ones, like the fact he had been sitting by chance next to the most sought after woman in all his town: Margaret, renowned for her promiscuity. Several of his friends had carried out memorable dalliances with her that only amplified his wishes of doing the same, so he started conversation with an intent to progress toward that goal himself, asking her her interests and hobbies.

Oh she was a timid thing, shy and charmingly nervous, naming things like crafting and wanting to be a seamstress. But atop her conversational pieces were that of her love life and how after requesting Edwin's confidence, confessed that many people found it hard to believe, but that she was still a virgin. At that moment, Edwin's agenda and even train of thought were wiped from the moment in place of utter amazement and an obstruction in continuities with his friends' stories, so much so that it had been a hilariously impossible canard. A squiggly line first made of his lips, wiggling and become less and less of a controlled expression. Nasal laughter first foretold the outburst to come, and he guffawed suddenly to her without-limit astonishment.

The Forgotten

He was old when time was young, and yet, where time simply continued without end, he continued to age. He lived in an abundance of homes in an abundance of lives over the course of many generations, learning things like love, and war, and survival, and remembering them to tell later generations when they had become old. He was an interesting man and made many acquaintances that made him smile, and they told their families and made them smile. Though, one day, he had to depart from all the faces he knew. With but a wave to offer in the distance, it was all he could ever think to do before departing on to live his next life in the next place. As he was thought of, he flourished as a being. His face was healthy, his mind wealthy, sharp and quick. But as the generations accumulated within him, his acquaintances decreased and those he retained and continued to make fostered, not bad, but not unforgettable encounters, either.

With hairs countable on his head now and wrinkles from head to toe, there was little that still looked alive in him save for a breath taken and exhaled every now and then between old dry lips. The night was bright with stars and the reflective lake beneath them out in some unnamed wilderness. His eyes were closed tightly as if permanently trying to open but never being able to again for lack of strength. He simply breathed ? silently ? and existed silently, recounting his long life and wondering who still thought of him. There was one man who became distracted while changing his wagon wheel. He sought for the memory of a man he recalled who had told him a story, but couldn't remember. It was gone: the last memory of the long-lived old man, lost to the need for more recent, useful information, such as the location of a wrench. And so, under the stars, the secret of the old man's longevity revealed. Eternal life lied in remembrance, and as the last remembrance of him fled this reality like a gentle flame to the wind, so too, did his last breath blow from old, dry lips.

Two Remembered

Here, under gray skies, the two of them saw clearly the finiteness of a tale they had each wished ? in their own way ? had gone on longer than it did. Life had taught them a lesson about its frailty, and beauty, and that neither is ever guaranteed to still be there when next you open your eyes. He was a handsome and nameless man, and she, a gorgeous fae, united together by fate and similar interests. A story had revealed itself to them, immortal and young, across clue-ridden letters unearthed from a paperboard box in the floorboard of an empty time-beaten cottage.

It was a curious mystery to him that called his attitude about life into question, and it was a beautiful, incomplete love story that deserved an ending to the romantic fae. Together, they agreed to follow the hopes and wishes fantasized in the letters through to reality, and if the lovers had not reunited, perhaps they could guide them back together. They tracked the locations spoken of in the weathered letters that had divided them so apart, their own paths diverging to locate each lover as life had moved them about. The fae had gone on to locate the woman, leaving him on the trail of the man she had written so fondly of. He learned that he had perished in a war many years ago ? a war long forgotten and the men even more that gave their lives in it. Meanwhile, the fae had found the lovelorn woman, still alive, senile and frail in her old age, still waiting for her love to come and start their new lives together.

He reunited with the fae who had found her, approaching the woman as she lie on her death bed to see for himself. Though the old woman had been bed-ridden with caring people for many years, she knew none of their names. She did not even know who came to visit her when the fae woman had taken her hand and spoke her name, but she did respond when her traveling companion entered and she saw his face. Her elderly eyes awoke upon him, unlike the fae who had sat with her for some time now. Life had flooded back into her for the time being, because the face that she beheld through her eyes was that of her handsome love. She called his name, and the fae looked to him while she held onto her hand still. It had been beyond him to show any emotion during this expedition, though he had sympathized with many of the letters. When the old woman spoke her lover's name to him, and with total and utter joy saying that her whole life had been worth this moment, he had to comply and take her other hand, telling her with his own lips, he had finally returned.

She did not cry, but smile as though she had always been prepared and always known he would return to her. The fae woman had much more difficulty restraining her tears, being much more deeply invested into the poems the woman had written to her love from her very heart, but she summoned a great wealth of strength to keep her eyes dry and her nose from running. It was not long after he told his last lie and kissed her hand that she departed from the bed, leaving her mortal body behind, and with a feeble smile still on her lips. The two of them found the conclusion to her story they had been so compelled to discover, their reasons for doing so changing as they reached their journey's end. The caretaker of the home discovered the scene and exuded a sigh from a factory line. He regretted that he did not know her name because she had come into their care without identity or information. He told them now he would have to alert his hands to dig a plot and mark a headstone for her just as routinely as the ones who came before.

The skies were bloated with rain that afternoon, but the gravekeeper went about his work just as always. He had dug the elderly woman's grave site and was surprised to have assistance in the form of the fae woman's male company, helping him with lowering her pine box into the ground. Thunder mumbled something somnolent in the far distance and rain drummed down upon plush leaves at a distance equally far. Beginning to stand the large headstone upright, the fae woman stopped him, and pleaded, 'Sir, won't you please put this name on that slab of limestone?' In her hands were one of the letters she had unfolded: brown and withered paper that had been the holiest of white at one point. At the letter's conclusion was the name: Madeline Gabelle.

The sincerity of her words had dispelled any hoax or untruthfulness with the seemingly detached and laconic groundskeeper. He was slow at accepting the unfolded paper, but took it carefully into his chest for study and searched its decoratively-written lines for where letters were often signed with a signature. A further wordless question was asked as he looked up, and the fae woman's face confirmed that there was no one else this woman could have been but Madeline Gabelle, especially not in these parts where the last thing to be lost was a person's name. He produced his mallet and chisel.

Though her story had been a sorrowful one, the least that could have been done for the old woman was to properly mark her eternal resting place, the fae woman believed. But still, there felt a hole in her chest that, though they were present for her burial, something needed saying. She asked the gravekeeper if he could please say a few words for her, and despite looking unkind and unsure, he imparted a heartfelt eulogy that he had surely borrowed before from any of the surrounding grave sites back when he had first shoveled them. He still managed to personalize his words for her, however, and that was all that the fae woman could have asked for. She lowered an old paperboard box onto the pine casket containing the letters they had collected. She stood back up with an imprint of cold, wet mud on the knee of her pants and watched as dirt began to cover both the pine casket and the box of letters. The hand of the man who had gone on this journey of discovery with her took her shoulder, and she turned into him finally and let her tears soak his shirt as she held her eyes ever-closed knowing that others would walk past and read her name, but only two would remember it.

Highly Unlikely

BAM! The bullet ripped through Steele?s head like a balloon full to the brim with koolaid. Brains, blood, and bits of skull splattered the wall behind Steele, creating a piece of morbid artwork. The trigger man, Boston, let the gun rest on his side. He didn?t want to do it but Steele had left him no choice, the man had gone insane. There was no place for insanity here, not in this institution. He knew there would have to be some kind of explanation for all of this so he turned and left, hoping to clear his head and hopefully think of something that didn?t make him sound just as crazy as Steele was. As he did, bits of blood and brains on the wall trickled down, some getting caught in the electrical outlet, creating a small spark.

Boston walked through the empty hallways, it was deserted due to all the havoc Steele had caused earlier, he wondered if there was anyone left alive or sane at this point, apart from himself of course. If it wasn?t for all the blood and broken body parts strewn across the floors and different levels of the compound you could almost say it was peaceful now. However, Boston would never really feel at peace, not after this. He reached his room, removed his ID badge and swiped it on the card reader. The door made a click and unlocked itself. Boston dragged the door open and let himself in, making a direct line to the bed. He would sleep for days.
Something warm and wet dropped on his lap after he sat on the bed. It was a red and grey clump of goo that he could almost say was dragging a knife with it. It pulsated and then everything clicked in his brain. Boston?s eyes widened in terror.

?Remember what I told ya kid? When we first met?!? the goo said in a distortion of Steele?s voice, ?If you wanna make it here, you gotta have nerves of steeeeeeel.?

Why does it happen? Because it happens.

Stetson looked on at the terror his men were uncovering. Fleets of construction crews digging up something that the world had thought long forgotten. What he saw looked more like a crater than an excavation site but it was simply that. The largest excavation team assembled for what could possibly be the greatest scientific find in the world. It took thirty cranes to attempt to move what appeared to be a skull, or possibly a femur. The bones were so massive it was hard to tell and who knows what this species originally looked like.

His colleagues called him mad to attempt such a venture, but it was his money and his time. He would use how he saw fit. And one could not forget the reward of success. What the elders would think. How pleased they would be with him. They might even bestow an eternal gift. What he would do with that power...

One of the crew men working the crane was getting sweat in his eyes. He moved to try and wipe it away but there was more perspiration than he thought. His arms were covered with it and caused him to slip and hit one of the many levers in his machine. The cable holding part of the enormous bone snapped. The whiplash of it struck the ground with a powerful force, causing any in its path to be eviscerated in seconds.

Stetson grabbed his namesake from atop his head and threw it away from him. He scrambled to the edge of his cliff and began yelling in contempt of what he was seeing. He was so close! No! This could not be happening. If they didn?t pull their shit together he would lose this chance forever.

The mighty giant?s bones themselves began to move, almost as if on their own power. They rolled themselves out of the ground. The men tried as hard as they could to roll the bones back but they were powerless. Puddles of blood were made from the crew men, nothing else remained. The bones rolled back and forth, like demented logs with a vengeance against mankind for its years of torture. The bones crashed through all of the human machinery, ripping through it like it was tissue paper fighting against a storm of razor blades. The fireworks were beautiful, but crushed any soul who actually depended on them.

When none remained alive in the crater, the bones began a dig of their own. Their thoughts were right, it was in fact a skull and it was becoming clearer and clearer. Soon it was fully unearthed and seemed to be staring at Stetson, even without the use of eyes. Stetson felt like someone had killed his soul and was walking over his grave at the same time. Too late he realized what he had done.

?Why...did this happen? WHY!?? he screamed out. To his surprise he was answered.

?Because...it happens...it must...happen...? the voice behind him said. The figure was a giant man in an equally giant coat with a hood over what looked to be a patchwork of face.
?You should not...look on in horror! Rejoice! You shall...be the first...to serve the master! In his new...form.?

?What? What are you saying??

?No time...for saying...must...do.? The beast of a man grabbed Stetson by his head and plunged his thumbs into his eyes, ?Save...brain candy...for last.?

The Eden Package

When Arnaud first opened his eyes after a deserved sleep, his intentions for the new day began to occupy his thoughts. It was the beginning of the week and a day before his busy work would begin, so he had marked certain errands to this particular day, and a certain one to head them. He threw his covers off his legs and got out of bed.

After getting dressed and packing a snack, he headed out the door. He started across the meadow and to the road, and then through the woodlands and in-between the mountains. He recessed for lunch after he'd found a hidden spot with an attractive view and admired the skies from its height while he ate a few bites of his packed fruit. He resumed his journey after he'd rested and carefully exited the covey of mountains he had so feared of alerting his presence onto any of the fearsome winged creatures that nested up in their heights. Directly from this terrible endangerment was rewarding beauty and sanctuary. A wide expanse of open land shewn before him, populated with flowers and any of a shady spot beneath the numerous trees beckoning travelers for a nap.

Arnaud walked through this field and beyond these charms and enticements to the cliff, where down below, the ocean crashed its waves noisily up at him. He sighed conclusively that he had arrived safely, and then walked over to the barber seated in his own chair overlooking the drop and reading a book of assembled poems. He quickly got out of his chair when he saw him approach.

?The usual, Arnaud?? he asked, offering him his seat.

?A cut and a shave. Yes, a cut and a shave.?

He sat in the chair and leaned his head back, closing his eyes while the sea breeze blew at his soon-to-be cut hair and listening to the sounds of the ocean.

Double-Cross at La Porte Arena

It was just an ordinary night working security at La Porte Stadium. Uneventful security cameras told so little action that they may as well have been still images, but in truth, that was exactly what they were.

?We're clear. All virus containers are in place, carefully disguised as vending machines. Time to move,? Ricky said, removing his papsi-cola hat and unzipping himself from its matching suit. He closed his high-tech computer and stuffed it back in his black bag before joining his now appropriately heist-dressed two-man team: Ted the crack shot, and Mickey the muscle. With SMGs out, they took off running low to the ground to get to the fleet of stairs on the first floor.

?How much time do we have, Ricky?? Mickey asked, never the one to figure these sorts of things out on his own.

?Five minutes. We plant and arm the device and we're out of here.? Ricky stopped running then, holding his team back with both arms and alerting them to the presence of a patrol ahead. Quickly, they all assumed humorous hiding spots until he passed, Ricky tucking behind a garbage bin, Ted lying flat under a steel bench, and Mickey posing behind a tackling sled. When the guard passed, they resumed their silent sprint to the commentators' nest at the top tower. Once shooting the knob and lock loose with their silenced weaponry, Mickey kicked the door open the rest of the way.

?Alright, let's intoxicate a city, boys,? Ricky said, fanning his team out.

?Reception should be best here, Boss,? Ted said, laying his SMG down to unzip his bag and remove the complicated remote.

?It's not me you have to convince, it's those contagion-release receivers on the other end of the field. Now do it.? Ricky walked to the edge of the glass and carefully peered down to see what he could see out of the limited lighting that the stadium provided during the twilight watch hours. Mickey meanwhile stayed closer to the back, armed with an identical SMG to his teammates, and of the three, he was the most unsure and conscience-plagued, just in it for the money. He audibly gulped as silent seconds passed while Ted was arming the device.

?Time to beat that post-game traffic, boys,? Ted said conclusively, indicating the bomb was armed, and when he did, Ricky c*cked his SMG and bought both their surprised attention.

?I think I'll take the car if that's alright. You two don't mind walking, do you?? Ricky made sure to point the gun at both of them with enough eagerness to let them know he would shoot if they made a move for guns. ?Sorry, boys. I just couldn't share that much pie from the job, the greedy heart and all.?

?Don't do this, Ricky. Everybody can come out ahead on this one. Don't be a fool!? Ted shouted, getting Ricky's gun pointed more assertively at him.

?Sorry, old buddy. You could say the most convincing, irresistible thing right now and I still couldn't trust because I've proven you can't trust me! You're just going to have to bite the bullet on this one... or chemical agent, in this case.? Ricky leaped back and quickly slammed the door shut, avoiding a barrage of suppressed submachine gun fire from Ted.

When Ted made it to the door, he slammed into it to go after his backstabbing partner, but to no avail. The door collided against a metal bench with one of its legs fixed haphazardly in-between the bars of the third floor railing. Ted saw the futility in escaping this way after further gunfire and ramming proved the obstruction wasn't going to be unobstructed anytime soon, at least not from their side of the door. He growled and listened in on the other side of the door, only hearing Ricky's running feet putting further distance between them and the wired-to-infect stadium.

?We're screwed, screwed!? he shouted, pacing back and forth at the door and trying to come up with a plan.

Mickey was keeping cool deeper in the production room where it was quieter, the betrayal of his partner not settled in so much as their immediate threat: the contagion. He walked up to the control panel that overlooked the stadium and laid his gun on it beside the remote, looking at Ted.

?Can you disarm it?? Mickey asked, looking up same as Ted when the fire alarm went off.

?Hell no I can't disarm it! That's not some ticker you can stop the countdown on by simply cutting a wire. It's all complicated controls that communicate with the tanks we setup, remember? Hit the wrong thing and we all get exsanguinated in a really horrible way! I played right into that scheming punk's plan... He only briefed me on how to sign my own death warrant!? Ted shouted, throwing a chair out the window as Mickey briefly shielded his eyes from the innumerable glass pieces that went flying everywhere.

The ticker was counting down from five minutes and had just rolled into the fourth minute. Mickey stared at it and its abundance of control switches as opposed to wires. It was a different ball game entirely in this stadium. But strangely, Mickey did not look so scared. In-fact, the more he stared at the remote, the braver his expression became.

?I can do this...? he whispered, and Ted looked at him with an immeasurable amount of worry.

?What? Mickey??

?I got this...? he said confidently, and began hovering his enormous hands over the tiny, sensitive switches and buttons.

?Oh god...? Ted whispered, his voice cracking with terror in-between those two words.

After almost half a minute's worth spent studying the remote, Mickey finally flipped a switch and he and Ted both cringed. Nothing happened. He flipped another switch, and another, and a two-note electronic fanfare chimed that scared them to death. Still, nothing happened, and closer examination displayed in red electronic text that container #1 had been switched offline. Mickey sighed while Ted cheered for him.

?Alright, Mick! Only four more to go!! I don't care if I go to prison, now! Just don't let the tanks go off!? Ted shouted beside him before being pushed back by the much stronger man.

?Give me some space! Okay... I can do this... I'm not just the beat 'em up guy. I can figure this stuff out...? he swallowed hard and began disarming the second container to identically positive results. The combination of switches and powering down the chemical primers and monitoring their dropping equalizer-like levels on the remote were key to properly shutting down each tank. It was kind of Greek, but enough English for Mickey to make sense of it.

With a sweaty brow, Mickey did this three more times until all five tanks had been shut down with just over sixty seconds left on the clock. He sighed conclusively that they were saved on-top of the city being saved as well, but more importantly, he had risen above his musclebound, limited-use stereotype. He smiled at this thought while Ted briefly fought what sounded like a horribly-losing battle with the police, and shortly after he was tackled by several officers still in his reverie.

Jacob's Madder II

Outside the junkyard, only a number of the sensor plants had congregated to root themselves and holler for reinforcements. They sensed uncontaminated humans, and that meant they had their only purpose to fulfill. Luckily Jacob and Shun both knew what their call for help sounded like when it worked and when it had been cut off, and their bodies that carried the sensor plants were swiftly decapitated before the call for aid could be completed. Compared to the alternative, it was a moment for celebration, but a word like that had yet to feel appropriate again.

When they returned to camp, many of the blanketed and lost showed their overwhelming relief in differing and all subtle ways. They clutched the edges of their blankets and hushed prayers; some closed their eyes and prayed silently and some forcibly imagined their enduring peacetime as a means to combat the imagery of the invading and succeeding Plant.

Jacob's morale could have benefited from seeing the people come together for some much-needed good news, even if it hadn't put them ahead any. But they had interrupted the Plant call that would have brought countless of them to their position, and they were all alive, and that was enough for Jacob. He placed a hand on Shun's shoulder on the way back to their camp, and Shun looked startled by it at first but thought nothing of it. Jacob was the only man he would let touch him other than his sister.

Back at camp, Aimi wasn't far from running to Jacob and her brother, relieved to see that they were okay and subsequently telling them how worried she had been in Japanese. Aimi wasn't an overly emotional woman, but the Plant was just that serious of a threat?it always was?and after encountering it so many times, she was very aware of how easy it was to lose to it. After brief eye contact with Jacob, Aimi moved to her brother and brought him to the fire to talk to him for a little while like she always did. He never stayed long, and it was debatable what of it he understood anyway, but it had to have helped him to at least hear her voice. Jacob often gave them their privacy when she walked off with him?as he felt they deserved it?and most times, he wandered off alone to give it to them.

There was an old cushioned recliner just outside the warmth of their fire that didn't recline anymore, but that was fine. Wear, fade, and damages by being thoroughly-used aside, it was an incredibly comfortable chair, and over the past few weeks Jacob had taken a shine to it. He sat down and borrowed a page from Shun and listened. No one was talking, but he could still hear them. They shuffled about, coughed, and took deep breaths. They were a broken people, but they were very much alive, and that had never failed to keep him going. But its strength varied depending on the hopelessness of the day, so he often had to pull from another well of hope, and he did this by simply closing his eyes and seeing her face, Aimi's, and her brother's: the only people left in the world who mattered to him..

Shun's sister, Aimi, was a little-known foreign relations agent and producer for a little-known Japanese pop idol while they were touring in the states, and when their first leg took them to Chicago, Illinois, she scheduled to meet up with her brother who was also there, and it ended up not being the reunion they were expecting. Her English was poor but it got her by just like most TV cowboys' Spanish did. Luckily people were talking with their faces long before languages, and Jacob had sensed her will to survive, for her and her brother, when he first met her barricaded up on a Plant-occupied street. He was treated like a villain, just like any stranger should have been, but he was able to change their mind when his shotgun solved their problem a lot safer than their melee tactics. Sensing either friendliness or earnestness out of them, he suggested they travel together, and the general vibe of their Japanese had been refusal, but they relented when he headed in the same direction as them anyway, and his shoulder-resting shotgun making him hard to argue with.

It wasn't until Shun got a little too up-close-and-personal with one of his swords that the three of them were brought closer together as a group. Sure, he severed a sprout-covered limb of a diseased man, but he also knocked loose a tiny seed that fell in his hair and did not take long at all to start rooting itself. Faced with a slow and painful death, all Shun could do was toss and scream, his sister unable to do anything but hold him down and scream back at him out of worry; and reacting to his instincts, Jacob put down the shotgun and got right into the thick of it, getting a confused and worried look out of Aimi.

After literally cutting and pulling the thing out of his head and even going in with his fingers to pick out the remains, Jacob stood, panting, the previously-squirming roots still crushed beneath his boot. Aimi nervously dressed her brother's head in some bandages they had found and he eventually would calm until he passed out. But little did Aimi know, he would never return to the presentness of mind she had always known him with. It was true, Jacob had helped save his life, but maybe he was supposed to die. Maybe this was to be the first sign of the end of her and her brother's journey.

Aimi was lost and alone without a friend or even another person that could speak her language, and now she had to take care of her brother. The burden easily threatened to overwhelm her, but suddenly there was Jacob, offering his hand, not to her, but to her brother. Their relationship soon changed after that.

After the better part of a year, they encountered plenty of the Plant's emissaries with few other survivors, and even fewer decent ones. The state of the world had turned everyone into cutthroats, even the once-kind folk who at any other time would do anything to help out a complete stranger; and if you asked Jacob, he'd tell you how surprised he was there was even anybody left at all. But people's faith was always restored one way or another, and it had been for Jacob when he met Aimi and her brother, and the more black-hearted survivors they encountered, they closer they became.

He was old enough to be her grandfather, so it was no surprise when he took to the spur of the moment's intimacy awkwardly one night. But he felt incredibly alive, and all of the sense-making of the present that this chaos had inadvertently validated just didn't mesh with his old identity and his boring old life for the past fifteen years. So, after spending the night next to the woman he had made a survival partner out of, he woke up early and found a battery-powered trimmer in a travel case, deciding to shave his age-signifying hair.

When Aimi awoke, she noticed the drastic change with great surprise, gawking, commenting in Japanese, and feeling his scalp. He didn't know what she was saying, but then again, it couldn't have been a lot of things.

?Jacob?? Aimi asked, snapping him out of his recollection and approaching him in his chair, but she stopping outside an imaginary perimeter. ?You sleep now??

He looked at her and got up almost immediately. ?Yeah?yeah, I was just coming,? he said hurriedly, starting to follow her after her unsure and yet understanding nod. Shun was absent back at the fire, evidently gone back to patrol or roosted up on a high perch to stand watch, usually marking that it was safe to go to bed, but Jacob took another moment to stay back by himself, looking around at the camp and feeling blessed that they were all safe... for now at least.

Two-Minute Chance

Jesse Donovan was enjoying his lunch break. He had an account to close by the end of the week, but he wasn't making terrible progress on it and looked like he was going to meet his deadline. His basset hound had been sick earlier in the month and was on medication and his neighbor was softly but surely antagonizing him at every little interaction. These were the little problems, and since they were his only ones, they were his biggest. Thus, it was with a sulking demeanor that he finished his vegan burrito and crumpled its wrapper before heading out of the restaurant and cutting through the alley next to the construction site to take a shortcut back to work.

On his way, he noticed a dangling red strip of tape that was so off-putting from the rest of the construction scenery that Jesse couldn't help but feel compelled to remove it and better its surroundings. But upon taking hold of the strip over his head, as if on cue, a sharp pain shot through his hand and an even sharper one when he tried to jerk his hand back to himself instinctively. A long and rather thick bolt had punctured through one of the wooden boards that composed together the framework of the still-under-construction sandwich shop, and it had to nail into it when his hand was between them. Jesse stared with a terrified look at his hand for a few seconds and even took a few seconds more to grieve over whether or not he'd ever have the same muscle control with it as before, but when the situation he was in began to lay itself out fully in his mind, his memory kicked in and he began to think back to the murders he heard about on the news, and how his very situation rung with a very unsettling familiarity.

Jesse looked up at the buildings and rooftops and saw nothing but concrete jungle, nothing out of the ordinary except for his pinned hand to the wood. He immediately forced himself to get over his pain and single-handedly dug out his cell phone. He dialed his girlfriend, Jamie, and waited on the ringing to stop while never taking his eyes off the living city. Luckily she answered, and he wasted no time talking.

?Jamie, I don't have a lot of time, so just listen to me. Last New Year's at the office, I got drunk and slept with Maggie from the nineteenth floor. I want to say I was drunk and didn't know what I was doing, but some things never will have an excuse for them, and that's one. I was going to tell you a thousand different times, but it seemed like ten-thousand more thoughts of losing you always stopped me. But you deserve to know, Jamie. If there's someone better out there for you who won't do what I did or would have at least admitted it sooner than I did, that's for you to decide. But just know... I love you a whole heck of a lot, Jamie, and I always will.?

?....Jesse??

?I'll talk to you when I get home from work.? He shut his flip phone and took a deep breath just before another bolt lodged itself perfectly in the center of his chest.

A little over an hour later, crime scene investigator Gregory Finder arrived on-scene and under the yellow crime scene tape he'd ducked more times than he could count now. He met up with the first responder to the call that there was a dead body in the alley and heard what he'd already heard on the way over just one more time because it never hurt.

?There,? Gregory said, pointing to the marked phone on the ground while walking to where it all went down. ?We got any calls on that??

?Just one: the girlfriend. We just got her statement a few minutes ago: confessed to cheating on her at a work party. Said she had no idea his life was in danger,? the officer informed.

?Yep...? Gregory said, looking away from the site of the victim's arrowed corpse and up at the blinding sky briefly but enough to squint his eyes. ?It's our killer.?

?Detective?? the officer queried, following him a few steps but stopping when he saw he was going to examine the sheet-covered body that looked like a tent had been pitched up beneath it with the protruding arrows.

?Our killer's got a system: you try to run or scream or remove his pins and that's when this one in the heart comes...? he tapped the end of the bolt sticking out of the man's chest with the end of his ballpoint pen, ?but if you don't run... and you don't scream... you get to live long enough to spend your final moments on your terms, or in our victim's case, long enough to try to right your wrongest wrong... and I think he must have figured all this out on his own, in a matter of seconds, from nothing more than what he heard on the news.? He sighed and stood back up from his inspectional crouch.

?Sounds like he thought quick on his feet. No doubt he deserved his executive job that looks down over all us regulars.? The officer thumbed to the tall building he was just a cross-walk away from returning to. ?Rack another one up for the bad guys, I guess.? He tipped his hat back enough to lift his visor appropriately.

?Or is it the good guys?? Gregory asked, his question ludicrous but his face dead-serious enough to show he wasn't joking, and he wasn't expecting a joking answer.

?I'm sorry, Detective??

?That's just the problem... these monsters actually believe what they're doing is right.? Finder looked over his shoulder at the tear-swelling girlfriend, blanketed by the back of an EMS van and answering questions the statement collector must have left out. He knew he'd have to talk to her himself, and ask some of those same questions a second, maybe even third time for her. But it had to be done, for justice's sake. ?Excuse me,? he said, going over and sitting next to her. No condolences. He started with his name.

Jacob's Madder III

It was not yet dawn and Jacob was still awake. He'd woken up some time in the night and couldn't go back to sleep, watching the stars for a change with his hands behind his head. Usually it was Aimi who had the trouble sleeping, but tonight their roles were reversed. The day would be busy, Jacob thought, needing to go hunting early with Shun and hopefully be back early enough to do some more work around the camp. There needed to be more barricades, for example, and the resources were too far away to build them here with any expeditiousness. There were so many problems; it was easy to lose sight of how bad a real one could get.

The Plant's call sounded out, the same one that called for reinforcements, but this time it was different. It was distant, like a wolf's howl. Jacob could barely hear it. And if it was as far away like it so obviously sounded, then they couldn't do anything about it and more would surely come. His eyes widened and slowly began to tremble, the death of his whole camp imagining in them. The Plant knew they were here, and now they were coming.

A woman screamed out suddenly and the camp awoke into an uproar more lively than it had ever been. Some people Jacob hadn't even seen get up from their beds were running around in a terrified stupor. He sprinted over to where they were congregating and released Aimi's arm he had been holding onto.

?Is anyone not prepared to leave right now? Does anyone need help? Anyone? Does anyone need any help before we leave camp?? Jacob asked with some repetition to all the directions of people. They ignored him, the screams amongst the the far-louder voice.

?We have to do a head-count. Dammit, everyone! I need everyone to come together!? he demanded in the face of their cowardice, and suddenly the terror that spawned that cowardice landed in their camp, flying through the sky like a black decoration apart of a sick stage until it began thrashing and turning over already-wrecked cars around it, proving all too well just how real it was.

The responses from the camp were either one of two things: paralysis or readiness, and there was far less of the latter than there was the former. Shun was a vital defender when any threats were involved, and he'd no doubt be a deciding factor in this latest strategy from their organic enemy. Jacob quickly seized Aimi by the shoulders, telling her to get everyone out before he released her and ran back to their tent, violently rummaging through his belongings as he looked for more shotgun shells to load into his gun. He couldn't find a single one. His anger began to fester and his hands began to shake, his eagerness to save lives being unsupported by his availability of utilities.

There was no more time to dally. The enemy was through their door, where their children slept, and they was unafraid to rain down their spores into their cribs. Jacob settled with his handgun, discouraged at leaving his game-changing shotgun empty, but he feared he was already too late to the brawl as it was. He ran through the maze of the scrapyard, and turning one corner too quickly, he came face to face with their toughest emissary, their bruisers, grown with a particularly tough bark to only nick to blades and chip to firearms. His handgun would be useless, and he growled at this realization.

?Don't rook so worried!? the unmistakable voice of Shun shouted overhead, and dropping down on the shoulders of the roaming tree, he precisely cut into its intelligence network and, also precisely, stabbed the hell out of every sensitive, flossy, thought-controlling plant fiber. Once that happened, it fell like the cut-down tree it was.

?Shun...? Jacob hushed, wowed and amazed.

?Thanks can come rater... Here,? Shun said, handing him some rainy day shotgun shells. ?Protect my sister,? and he was off, a samurai's work needing doing tonight, and it needed doing on the forestry.

Jacob loaded his shotgun.

On his way back to all the commotion, his age gave him a friendly reminder to stop running so fast when he had to put his hand on the hood of a scrunched-up car to catch the breath that he spent more of than he had to give. That's right, he reminded himself, he was playing a young man's game, and the cost of losing had never been higher. He closed the distance between himself and the screams as fast as he could, but staying beneath his heart's red line meant that wasn't very fast at all.

The devastation was the first thing he saw. Tents and campsites and campsites that had been added onto for so long they were becoming little cabins were all demolished and their belongings strewn everywhere. But dead people there were not. This was a huge relief, but it brought the new concern with it of where the camp had retreated to. With his shotgun loaded, he moved to see where the plants had gone and where the battled had moved, because finding one meant finding the other.

Why did he ever let Aimi get out of his sight, he asked himself. Flashes of his daughters and grandchildren overlapped with the image of her smiling and happy face out of danger. He couldn't survive a repeat of what happened to his family, and knowing he had a chance to prevent it this time made him clutch the shotgun all that much tighter.

Another of the bruiser plants towered over the demented old woman who had never bothered anyone, and when she screamed it was more than she had said the whole time she had been at the camp. In response, the plant screamed right back, inaudibly, but mirroring her facial features and life-threatened ferocity. Its next course of action was to lay its moss-covered hands on her and transfer spores, but the shotgun blast to its head made it avert its attention, and the second shut it down, hitting its exposed important bits.

Jacob panted right behind it with his shotgun barrel pointed down, still smoking. He'd get one more go with both barrels, and that'd be it. He knew he'd have to make those shots count as he discarded the empty casings and locked the stock back, ready to go. Helping the woman in the direction he planned to soon be heading, he covered her until she got far enough for him to check the last part of the junkyard maze. He was hoping he wouldn't find anyone and that the camp would have been smart enough to vacate already, and he prayed Aimi was safe and with them.

What remained for him to discover in the last unchecked part of the yard was not something he ever wanted to see or hear again, especially since he had already heard it with Shun. There were no plants in the corner of two walls of stacked cars, but that would soon be changing. One poor man got separated from his friends; one poor man got touched when he shouldn't have. The sound was a trinity of terrible things intermingling like they never should have. It was the sound of growth ? vines stretching and wrapping hold of whatever they could and branching into more vines that did the same thing, and a man going into seizures as everything that made him work internally was being crawled through. The bones crunching along with that were what determined his suffering would not be for very much longer.

Jacob shut his eyes tightly at the scene after backing away to a much safer distance. He had wanted to help him, even end his suffering he was already close to being relieved from anyway, but he had to conserve his last rounds. They were for the protection of him and his own, and he swore by that, even though it left a bitter taste in his mouth that he had traded some of what made him a decent human being just to ensure his own survival.

Leaving the camp now, Jacob had confirmed in grisly detail that the camp had been more or less evacuated, and the absence of Aimi meant her being with the others, but that was only mildly comforting. Humans could be just as vicious as any monster you were likely to find, and thrust into the right circumstance, that side of them could turn up in a surprising amount of people, even those you would never guess. He had hoped he wouldn't have to use his last two shells on his fellow man, but come what may, he was going to make sure the people that mattered to him were protected. Shun was different. He fought for everyone, and Jacob presumed that was what he was doing now, and that they had gotten this huge opportunity to escape could only have been by no small thanks to him. He provided the necessary diversion, and if all went according to plan, they'd meet back up momentarily.

When Jacob reached the center of camp, a scream sounded out from the far end he was just readying to turn his back to, and it was an all too familiar voice that belted it. Shun was in trouble, and if Jacob did as he was told, he wouldn't come to his aid. He didn't know him at all, as it turned out.

Outside the camp, the scuffle had already ended. What was once the two fire pits that marked and illuminated the path into the camp was now strewn coal and flame across the dirt road. It looked like a bomb had gone off that no one heard and left no traces of whomever it hit. Upon the road, the gargantuan footprints of the Plant's agents stamped deep indentations into the ground, and the whole range opened to view from that ravaged standpoint. Not a person or plant was in sight, nothing but the rubble of wrecked brazier and aflame wood that had just before assembled their fortification wall, and a strange glinting item that shone with a polish upon it in the flame light. Unearthing it from its soft burial, Jacob gazed upon the very familiar sight of what was his friend's blade, marked with the number one, and most importantly, not in the hands it was never without.

Visionware Super Slam

It was moments away from the seventh annual Visionware Super Slam of Payne State University, and Cody and his other frat friends were anxiously awaiting the precise landing of the second-hand of their wall clock to chime in the new hour and kick-off the event. It had been a college tradition first and foremost and, apart from a few arrests and gripes with the law, was one of the most famous things the school was known for, and this year they planned on it being better than ever.

?You guys just about ready?? Cody asked Garrick, Sam, and James.

?You bet man,? Garrick said.

?I'm pumped up,? said Sam.

And James said, ?Ready to refract some fists into some retinas,? nodding gruffly while cracking his knuckles.

?Alright then! Let's show 'em the pain in Payne University!? Cody chanted with the energy of a militaristic drill and yanked open the door to let loose his hounds.

The hour chimed anew and the boys took off out their dorm room and fanned out upon the campus, joining the other practitioners of this frightening tradition of bashing only the unsuspecting bespectacled anyone for the whole afternoon. Many police reports and arrests later, the most seasoned of the Visionware Super Slammers rendezvoused back at the basement hideout of the Xi Kappa Sigma Fraternity, catching their breath and listening to each others latest achievements to determine the year's champion.

?So,? Cody began, fresh out of breath from outrunning some surprisingly fit patrolmen. ?How'd everyone do??

?Well,? Garrick began, ?I got Mr. Teedy in the tutoring room right in those old-fashioned microscope goggles of his. Crunched like a windshield! And I made some punk on the computers in the library squeal pretty good before the instructors came.? Fists were bumped appreciatively to his punch and anarchy-loving company, and it was a perfect introduction to the other, more exemplary hits of this peculiar festivity.

Andie spoke up next, clearly frustrated with his own score but impressed nevertheless by the other students. ?I didn't do too well, but I hear Joe got the best one: knocked the financial aid lady out cold AS he was running from the cops.?

Everyone oohed and aahed at his brief but beautiful relaying.

?Yeah, well I got my own mom this morning on the way to visiting me,? Sam said proudly, and he was subsequently stared at by the small but taken-aback crowd.

A long pause ensued.

?Sam. That's pretty hardcore, man,? Cody hushed.

?Yeah, I don't think anyone's going to top that,? another student whispered.

?You're damn right they're not.? Proudly, Sam stuck out his chest and replayed the image of his victorious and crowning-achievement that had won him bragging rights for the year. It did not take long for his brows to furrow and his bottom lip to quiver as his head drooped depressingly low. ?Oh-oh god...? He sounded about to vomit but wept instead, unsurprisingly before the smirks and quiet tsks of his peers.

Nuclear Economy

Traffic came to a dead stop on Highway 110 and it was just the break Jimmy needed. He wiped the sweat from his forehead then rubbed his eyes and then rubbed them more vigorously having gotten sweat in them. They opened again upon the deep breath he took when he seized the steering wheel in both hands reassuringly like a pistol grip at his hip, terrified, but still stopped behind the brake lights of a stationary minivan in-front of him behind a long line of automobiles doing the same. About to cross into a new state, a border patrol was just ahead, and was the source for his current bout of sweat.

?Keep it moving, keep it moving,? a border patrolman said, waving the next car through the pass to begin inspection on the one behind it. Several lanes were doing this to decrease overcrowding.

Jimmy began breathing heavily, sweating out from even under his dark sunglasses; and though deeply tinted, his gaze could be squarely pinpointed on the border pass. He would be up next soon. He had to get composed, because in a little while, he'd be up.

?Next,? the border patrolman said, waving Jimmy and his blue sedan under the shelter and through the gate. The car crept slowly into position and stopped abruptly, nervously, jarring Jimmy's head mildly as he looked out his rolled-down window at the officer.

?What's your destination?? he asked routinely.

?Los Angeles,? he replied grimly.

This was ordinary an expeditious process, but how thorough the screening process could be depended on the judgment of the patrolmen, and for the one assessing Jimmy, warning and suspicion ran abundant. He very casually looked over his shoulder and into the backseat of his car, noticing the large blanketed object that occupied both back seats.

?Do you mind if I check what that is in the back, sir?? he asked very mannerly, but his face read only doubt for the man.

?Actually...? Jimmy began, ?I do.?

The officer said nothing. There wasn't a reply to that since there wasn't even supposed to be one to his question he only posed as a courtesy. He stopped playing with the toothpick in his mouth to listen to what Jimmy had to say next since it was his show, as he surely was going to say something, now looking squarely at him with his held-up fist and holding what all directions pointed at to be a detonator.

?That's a nuclear device in the back, and my thumb's heavier right now than any of my other fingers.? Jimmy unnoticeably gulped to preserve his much-needed dominance, especially when the officer drew his pistol and started screaming all of the curse-filled commands the classroom text never taught him. ?That is a nuclear device in the backseat, and I am driving through, bullet to the head or not. But if you shoot me, I repeat, if you shoot me: I'm going to close this fist I'm making.?

?Shut the engine off! Shut the engine off right now m**her f***er! Get out of the f****ng car! Right now!?

Jimmy's piercing gaze didn't afford a blink and his body didn't afford a flinch. He slowly moved his hands back to the steering wheel, detonator of course in-hand.

?Shoot,? he told him, and eased his foot onto the gas pedal, slowly departing the checkpoint.

The man kept his aim trained on the car, even as it grew smaller in the distance, but he never pulled the trigger. He growled so fiercely that he had to let him go he could have broken his teeth. His gun was shakily and angrily put the safety on and then shoved in its holster. He then grabbed his shoulder handset and radioed his station.

?We have a terrorist threat. Call someone!?

The engine blared under the hood of the tiny little A-to-B car for the first few minutes. It took a little while for the engine in Jimmy's chest to calm down too. That was the hardest obstacle to get past: being in a position with a minimal casualty outcome for the blast radius. If he didn't kill a whole hell of a lot of people, no one was going to remember him, and that was unacceptable. Fortunately he felt, he had arrived in traffic, plain and staring like the rest of the commuters. He would get a good thirty-five minutes of driving in before police cruisers began accumulating behind him and flashing their lights at the average-enough and yet still conspicuous automobile. A pretty good description must had been submitted.

Traffic thinned out as the attention began to spread. Jimmy repeatedly squeezed his steering wheel as he weighed when or if to punch it but ultimately decided against it. After the first road block, he knew he had to get into a position of maximum damage for the bomb. Exiting the highway, he lucked up and dodged a second barricade in exchange for a slightly less-attractive front fender. The city limits were finally entered, but he had a way's to go. Now was when he gunned it.

Before any skyscrapers came any closer from the horizon, the coast guard showed up overhead and hung out at the uppermost part of Jimmy's windshield. Looking disconnected from the ground below, they quickly showed their involvement and peppered machine gun fire across the front and hood of the car. The engine died immediately and the car continued turning left until it hit the curb and stopped completely.

The blast wouldn't be picture perfect or even ideal from this range, but it would suffice from getting captured and surrendering the bomb. It was all about avoid a worst-case scenario now. A perimeter was formed, and he was given his unofficial five minutes to prepare himself in whatever way he had to in order to carry out his objective. His stamp-licked and incredibly faded wallet photo of his ex-girlfriend smiled innocently at him on the dashboard and he looked apologetically at her.

?I love you.?

He kissed his fingers and wiped them gently down the picture before reapplying the pressure to make sure it stayed glued so she could continue to be with him in his most difficult hour. A team with riot shields readied to approach him and he knew it was time. He brought his thumb back over to that cherry red trigger and lingered, and lingered. His cheeks began to shake and his greasy locks dripped with sweat. When commands blared in his ears from the outside, he knew it was time. He slammed his thumb down, closing his eyes and lips as tightly as he could, and he waited. The voice of his satanic greeter come to usher him to his flesh-singing promised land didn't sound like how he envisioned.

?Put your hands on the outside of the vehicle now! Do it! Do it now!?

The sound of what beared an uncanny resemblance to law-enforcement officers was incredibly disheartening. Jimmy refused to so much as look at them, instead pleading with his detonator to change its mind, but it wasn't having any of it. He flung the woolly sheet off the nuclear device and looked for something to activate it manually, but his briefing didn't go that far. He slammed his fists on it once, and then a second time with uncontrollable weeping before the response team moved in on him, dragging him to the cement and bawling his eyes out at the missed chance to leave behind an enduring impression.

Nix

The Astro-Year was 8516 of the Kasparian Calendar System, and for nearly 8000 of those years, all civilization had been lazy and careless. It was only into the most recent millennium that people snapped out of their stupor, miraculously inspired to live only when threatened by extinction. But it might've been too little, too late.

The planet Iroha, which they had all come from, was no longer habitable ? its atmosphere intoxicated by a disastrous dispersion of fatal gases that had settled in?it seemed?for the long haul. Space became the new frontier, and they had erected a station capable of not only colonization, but expansion as well, and expand it did. From an orbiting station to a competent voyager, the ship became their world, and they set out to come into contact with other civilizations; but as one generation in space and then another foretold, their numbers were still diminishing.

In the 8200s, survival conferences and subsequent operations to try and preserve humanity were met with more and more dispiritedness, the equation?no matter how they rearranged the numbers?still coming out the same: extinction. The extent of their depression came from a number of extensive efforts to try and make sure the generations ahead would prosper, but a degenerative disease manifested itself on-board, very common, and particularly fatal to newborns, and procreation came skidding to a halt all of a sudden.

Their ship, aptly named Last Hope, found itself disposing of more lives than it intended to create. What infants that did manage to survive would be outweighed by the deaths that year. Still, they would grow, and?as soon as they were able?take over their progenitors' all-important tasks; and though their situation felt truly hopeless, they continued on, at least trying.

The Astro-Year was 8516 of the Kasparian Calendar System, and approximately seven-hundred souls remained from a vacated planet to the ship of a failed restoration of the human race. Their ship was spacious and sensitive to sound. Where hundreds of footsteps were meant to walk, only one set of them often crossed. The large mess halls where large groups of people were meant to eat together served darkness instead, and it was rapidly spreading to the rest of the ship.

Neil was one of a seven man crew not in a cryogenic sleep with what remained of his race. Their purpose was to monitor the life support systems of the seven-hundred busy dreamers, and midway through their year-long shift, it was not any less-maddening for him. Human interaction was essential to preserving your sanity, but the way Neil saw it, he was the one lonely number of his six already paired crew members. But that was okay, because he had Miya.

Miya was an organic A.I. grown in an artificial nursery, and of her siblings, she was the most perfect. Being able to meld with partially-organic nerves in the ship's spine, she could connect herself to many of the controls and provide invaluable assistance to the operating crew, and she was happy to do this because it was her purpose.

Neil worked very close with Miya as both an overseer of her performance and part of her recommended interaction to further her social evolution which was part of her design. He began having his lunch next to her curb of ship-wiring that she was able to partly manifest half of her human form out of, and they would speak about simple and trivial things that further revealed the individuality that her A.I. had come with.

One day, his crew had become suspicious of him, Anne in particular, who suspected an unsoundness in his mind after she rejected his advances toward her. Their suspicions had a just foundation, the six of them agreed in conference, and they all approved to further investigate Neil's supervisory activities down below on the maintenance levels.

The Mother Structure down on the maintenance tier was a specially modified room that simulated?to an extent?settings from their lost planet. Nature themes were often transposed throughout the space of the room, and the starlit wiring that did this was a part of the super-network of organic nerves that monitored and communicated with everyone's brainwaves on-board. Neil recorded his data for the day in this room every morning, and every morning he had Miya manifest herself there with him. She would develop out of her host material right before his eyes for several seconds and then look perfectly human above the waist, but below it she was always grafted to that part of the ship that enabled her manifestation ability to work.

Her dark hair was long and hung from either side of her face, her bangs partially covering her eyes but not vexingly. She saw Neil and was glad to see him like how her personality had thus far developed. He and his crew had shown her kindness and made known its existence to her, and she eagerly accepted it into her learning computer. But when Neil pushed his mouth onto hers, acceptance was not her immediate reaction this time. Surprise was. Though she did not reciprocate his affection, Neil continued to kiss her to no resistance or questioning. Despite confusion running rampant in her mind, he was of the same race as her creators, and her purpose was to serve them, so she endured his necking in bewilderment until the brawn of Neil's crew came and forcibly removed him.

?Don't do this to me, dammit! She's not real! I didn't do anything wrong!? Neil protested from behind the glass window of one of the cryogenic capsules he was placed inside. He would get to bray on it a few more hopeless times before it was powered on and lulled him into what would become a deep space coma.

Once that was done, Anne turned to the wall-manifested Miya up on the bridge.

?I am sorry about Neil. No man should ever force himself on a woman, and that goes for you as well,? she said, and Miya looked down thoughtfully.

?My knowledge on human habits and interactions is insufficient at this time, yet strangely I could comprehend what he was doing was... wrong.?

Defying Affection

?The last payment's in the mail. The house is ours. I love you, Aki,? Takenouchi said, presenting her the deed to their new house, lightly flushed with a pink pigmentation to his cheeks.

Aki had been waiting the better part of a year for him to say that. He'd been going to school and working two part-time jobs all on the plan of moving in and starting their new lives together, and now it seemed things were getting only appropriately serious.

?You... love me...? she repeated timidly, blushing herself, and the very image of their futures together reflecting in her teary eyes. Takenouchi had been nervous and afraid of her response, but hearing her utter those words reassured him, and a warmth came over him in his grin as she began her reaction to his proclamation.

?You stupid... Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!? she shouted with tears of overflowing joy, each spout of seemingly verbal abuse getting louder and fiercer than the last. Gradually she incorporated violence into her display of emotion overturned, hammering her fists down over and over again on his chest, and eventually firing aggressive kicks at him.

Takenouchi withstood her reaction in the beginning, but as it continued, and her attacks became more defensively passionate, he began to withdraw from her and the downpour of beatings.

?You know what! Fine! Forget it!? he shouted in her face, tearing up the deed in a rage before storming down the street and leaving her there in total devastation.

?Takenouchi! Why! Where are you going?! I love you!!? she called after him pleadingly.

?Well you've got a heck of a way of showing it!? he shouted, throwing the scraps of legal document to the air.

Restless Nights

Dear Pam,

It feels like it's been ages since I spoke to you last. I'm sorry I haven't contacted you sooner, but I thought we needed some time to sort through things first. We had a rough start at the beginning of the year. I hope you're doing good, though. I miss you.

Keeping the thugs in check hasn't been the same without you. I keep getting offered promotions after that high profile job we did, but I keep turning them down. I'm good at the work I do, and I'm not at the work I don't. There's nothing wrong with where I'm at, but you know I've always been simple like that.

My love life is about as existent as the peace rate here in Paridopolis. I've found myself out some of the evenings that I've had off and met some real nice guys (nowhere near the amount you'd get just by lighting up) but I don't know if that's for me. I don't think it is. I know what you're thinking, and maybe you're right. I'm as kinky as the next bi**h, don't get me wrong, but it's not exactly an abusive relationship I'm in the market for. It makes me feel old saying I want something long-term, but ironically I've got my youth in mind when I say it.

While I still feel and look good, I want some lasting memories, not fleeting ones. It's a hell of a thing to find though in our profession. Again, ironically, we didn't have too much trouble that time creating them, did we? I think back to that case often. I imagine you do as well. I've felt so many mixed and conflicted emotions ever since that night, but now that enough time has passed, I think I'm properly equipped to pass judgment.

The fact of the matter isn't that the right person isn't out there. Now I really will sound old, but any number of these guys I've met are decent and would probably contribute to a decent relationship. But decent is boring. That night was not boring. That night was wild, and nothing's managed to compare or be as hot to me since it. I'd kill to know how you felt regarding that whole case, but don't feel obligated to tell me, not right away. I'm just content to know that I've shared with you how it's impacted me. That's somewhat of a burden off my chest.

I'm working a double homicide right now that's up one from last week. It's important work, and it's serious enough, but I'm distracted. Do you think we'll ever see him again? Do you even want to? Maybe I don't know and I'm just following parts of my body I shouldn't. If it starts affecting my work, I'll request time off or a transfer if I can't keep myself busy. Maybe I'll accept that promotion they keep pushing at me.

Stay safe, Pamela
XOXO

Zoe

Transitory

?Go ahead. Tell him why you brought him here,? the captain said, stabbing his fork into his shrimp salad.

The cabana the three of them were meeting in was a newly-converted headquarters behind enemy lines. Their last base had been compromised, but things didn't seem so distressed ? more like they had already made peace with the fact that they lost whatever conflict they were in. The humidity was intense, but seemed like they had made peace with that as well. Next to the captain, Colonel Delerue stood with his hands on his hips, unable to sit down. He looked over at the attentive soldier standing perfectly still before them. A deep, exasperated sigh led into his explanation.

?What's your name, soldier?? he asked with a somewhat judgmental look.

?Hochscheld, Sir,? the young man replied.

?Hochscheld,? the colonel began, requiring a greater deal more air in his lungs to proceed with his statement. ?I understand this isn't your first... information recovery mission.?

?No, Sir.?

?Alright...? It seemed the colonel was able to breathe a little easier with hearing that. Meanwhile the captain continued to munch on more of his shrimp salad despite his sincere demeanor. ?This isn't an easy subject for me... talking about a man's life in such a way... but we've lost a camp recently. It's likely all our units posted there are dead already. But since we can't be certain, we're sending a capable agent in to check. That agent is you.?

The captain didn't like what he heard. He slid the plastic bowl containing his lunch back to the table and stared Delerue down, obviously irritated. ?He's not human, Delerue. You can just give him his mission.?

There was no flinch or noticeable inflection from Hochscheld, just dutiful waiting to receive his orders. Colonel Delerue saw this and what he had worried would make this debriefing difficult was that lack of humanity present in his eyes. Hochscheld looked human, he spoke like a human and he acted like one, but those were the only resemblances he shared ? they were the only resemblances he was meant to share. He was the military's most expensive secret, and his uses were kept similarly under wraps.

?Discern if we have any survivors still at the base. Should you find someone... or even a couple of our boys... you are to... collect... their wills and their last wishes ? to get their affairs in order for their families and such, and then get the hell out,? Delerue said, wiping the sweat from his jaws. A chill had assaulted his spine with his issuing of the inhumane orders that didn't curtail the rescue ones he maybe should have. He felt a piece of his soul had crumbled away with potentially forfeiting any lives, and it read on his face. If any of his men were miraculously still alive and somehow boarded up and awaiting evacuation, that still didn't change their death sentence.

Hochscheld nodded a single time. ?Is that all, Sir??

?That's all,? Delerue struggled to say, walking to the window of the cabana for some more air, and the captain finally leaned forward and addressed Hochscheld himself.

?For your and their sakes, I hope you don't find anyone.?


That was the last thing Hochscheld was told before he was sent out to meet with his helicopter pilot. The whole flight over all he was asked were questions about how he worked, but Hochscheld couldn't answer any of them. Nevertheless, he went right on asking them. It helped him keep the stick steady and it helped him keep his head clear, and it worked for a little while, until they passed over an enemy swarm about twenty minutes from their drop-off point.

These were what was responsible for all the deployment, destruction, and tragedy. They scarcely resembled men still, the chaotic and beast-like sickness they had transmitted practically bursting from their flesh. The most noticeable characteristic of diseased persons were the fingers: the joints tore the flesh from their fingers during expansion of their now-elongated appendages, and it was just one of the many nightmarish symptoms to have come out of this jungle plague, and one of the many telltale signs of the maneaters it turned them into. Whether they saw them overhead and changed their mindless run to go in their direction, Hochscheld or his pilot couldn't tell, but they suspected that was what they did. Pursue: it was all they ever did.

Hochscheld touched down and rolled out of the helicopter to the blowing grass. He turned back to the pilot that had brought him and an impassioned wave was given to him and then returned. The pilot would be glad to get out of the hot zone and back to safety. Hochscheld on the other hand would have to stay there a little longer. He watched the helicopter ascend and then tip its nose and depart from his location, and with it, its spinning blades quietened below the volume of the voracious snarls coming from the thick woods. Without hesitation, he took off running for the lost base.

The site that was once their operating headquarters was now occupied by an imposing quantity of the beastly guerillas?far more than he could hope to take on even with a team?mindlessly wandering the walls of the building and playground of the children's school. Hochscheld mapped their positions in his head and then emerged out from the brush unafraid. He moved toward the school at a quickened pace and then at a slower one when moving past the frighteningly deformed men. They took no notice to him. His flesh wasn't real, and he gave off none of the scents that they picked up on. This was what the military used him for.

He climbed a gutter to the thin roof and ran along it until he found an access point into the school. Dropping down into the hallway that led to a number of classrooms, he looked around and imagined what transpired to have painted so much blood across the walls so angrily. It was obvious a losing battle was fought within the walls. Still, it was quiet inside, and it was indeed well barricaded like the colonel suspected.

?Is anyone there? Is anyone still alive in here?? he called, searching for survivors.

There was a rustling of what sounded like cans and trash from one of the rooms. Hochscheld observed its doorway remain clear for a great length of time, but right before he was about to step nearer to it himself, a tired and beaten soldier came out to see him with his handgun drawn.

?I don't believe it,? the man said shakily, looking over Hochscheld and immediately recognizing him as an ally by the uniform he wore, but as moments passed, he began to wonder how he got so deep behind enemy lines without a team. ?How did you get here? Is backup coming??

?Backup's not coming,? Hochscheld said quickly, heartlessly on a schedule to meet back up at his rendezvous point. ?I'm a special operative. This zone's been labeled lost. The military doesn't have the resources to retake the base. All they could send was me.?

?You're here to rescue me?? the soldier asked emotionally, but full of doubt. ?I'm the only one that's left. It's just me.? He shrugged with his pistol in hand. He looked pleadingly to Hochscheld with such white eyes contrasted by a filthy, bearded face, and he received no compassion despite the hopelessness of his situation.

Hochscheld read the name on his uniform, Gamarn, Lt., and then met his eyes again quickly. ?I'm a cybernetic soldier, Lieutenant. It's the only reason I was able to avoid detection, and it's the only reason I'll be able to leave here with your statement.?

?My statement??

?I am to collect messages from any survivors at the base to their families and loved ones... their last messages,? he said, and the soldier tucked his lips in as he fought the coming onslaught of tears. After a few moments of nearly-silent quivers of crying, he recomposed himself, and looked understandingly at Hochscheld despite his blunt and soulless delivery.

?Alright... alright,? Gamarn hushed.

They reassembled in one of the classrooms he had been holed up in. It was wrecked and trashed like all the others had been, but he had constructed a bed in the corner and piled his remaining rations. All in all, it very plainly spelled out the short amount of time that one could continue to survive within his conditions, and it wasn't something Lieutenant Gamarn was unaware of.

He put himself to work with the pen and paper given to him by Hochscheld while he kept watch out the narrow openings in the window barricade. It wasn't easy to write one's last words. Gamarn tried to drag out what he knew to be his final task for as long as he could, but the rapidly diminishing sunlight may as well have ticked with impatient clock hands. His wife, son, and parents were all addressed over a number of pages. He shakily pulled the pen away from the paper, the thought jumping into his head that he couldn't remember the last time he wrote so much. Slowly, he handed it to Hochscheld, and he returned time to its normal, unrelenting speed when he snatched it from him.

His eyes scanned over it and then he folded it into his breast pocket. ?I'll see that they get it,? he said, and started to leave.

?Wait,? Gamarn called.

Hochscheld stopped on his path to the doorway out of the classroom and looked back at Gamarn still seated at the desk where he'd penned his last missive.

?Would you... stay with me for a little while?? he asked.

Hochscheld had his rendezvous to meet. The helicopter wouldn't wait, not with the level of threat as high as it was and not with their company stretched as thinly as they were. Still, as his stare lingered, for whatever reason, he did turn and approach the crying Gamarn, pulling up a chair to sit in-front of him; and when he did, Gamarn offered his hand. Hochscheld gave his own, and Gamarn clasped it again with his other, and he silently prayed to his maker with eyes painfully shut and his lips wet with a running nose.

Prayer to a Gelatinous Effigy

The final goblin was slain by the blood-soaked claymore that had drunk so much goblin blood tonight; its wielder, Braq Rathmeier, made one last spin around the dungeon chamber to see if there was one more evil offering he could give to it. The silence spoke to their victory.

?We did it!? Gail cheered, the dirty-blond teen from the village that insisted on accompanying Braq and his burly warmonger companion, Maurus, to the lair of the Gelatin Lord.

?Don't get ahead of yourself, girly,? Maurus said, removing his war pickaxe from a goblin's corpse that had been assembled out of two beaks from monstrous birds.

?Let us hope our efforts are not in vain.? Braq gazed down the dark tunnelway that lie ahead of them, only lighting by torchlight its first few steps before laying the way into darkness.

The trio intrepidly ran down it.

Emerging out its other end after a long run that echoed their busy footwork, they arrived in the chamber of the Gelatin Lord. Up a fleet of depressed steps dressed in worn carpet, he sat upon a bed of a throne, half-dressed, and fondling his right side.

?Congratulations on getting past my gelatinous goblins. Perhaps they would have put up more of a fight were they not so well-fed,? he said.

?Gelatin Lord! We have cut down many of your servants ? far too many now to leave empty-handed,? Braq would begin, pointing his sword at him, but the Gelatin Lord lazily waved for him to calm down.

?Yes, yes, like I haven't heard the fighting going on for the past few hours. Very well. Approach my gilded crib and I will reward you with my fabled magic.?

Gail and Maurus looked at one another while Braq kept his gaze centered on the gluttonous man crowned with a laurel. They walked up the steps despite not actually ascending any real height, and soon stood cautiously before his much more relaxed person.

Before speaking, he stripped a piece of turkey fat from a platter and washed it down with some wine from a grail. ?For your feat of courage,? he chewed, ?-in the face of adversity... and your tremendous showing of strength, I give you the most sought-after of treasures only the King of Corpulence can offer.?

He waved his hand and the chubby, greasy fingers it was a part of as if casting a spell, and indeed a swirl of sparkling magic spun around the trio from head to toe and not showing anything for it after it had completed ? at least, not right away.

Though no noticeable changes occurred to Braq or Maurus, they felt different?they felt sated?and with a hand placed over their bellies, they sighed to test this new condition of theirs, finding results of both comfort and contentedness.

?Huh,? Braq murmured questioningly, looking over to Maurus who was slightly more accepting of their bestowment.

?Mmm,? he hummed optimistically.

Last was young Gail who had been staring down at her feet with her head sunken. Disappointment and sadness were impressed upon her company by this, and they both inspected her closer to see the truth of her mood. A mighty grin was steadily growing on her face, and Braq huffed at her to respond to him with what was wrong, but there was nothing.

?Ooooooohhhhhh!!? Maurus exclaimed, wide-eyed and staring, and pointing the way to Gail's greatly inflated chest that had filled out her previously flush tunic. Braq's eyes soon came to life from behind his soot-smeared face from battle and slowly turned over at the hedonist and stared full of shock.

The Ever-Unchanging Game

?What is it?? Manny asked.

?Cartel trouble,? Benny answered. They had been beating around the bush to get to that for a few minutes now, or rather, Benny had. For him, ?cartel? was a word that was hard to spit out, especially given all he'd seen, and especially since it now concerned him.

?Hmmmm,? Manny hummed thoughtfully. That wasn't good. Manny was a problem-solver, and a quick-thinker. Sounding unsure wasn't a character trait of his. Benny sunk down in his seat opposite him in the booth. It was Manny's bar, and it was a hole in the wall if ever there was one. That was how he liked it. The way he saw it, that was the only way it could be if he was going to go on living.

Manny was old, at least in the drug trafficking business. It had a way of aging you rapidly. He'd been to the top before and owned a place a hell of a lot nicer than this one, but nothing ever paid its bills quite as well as blood could. He'd had hits out on him before, a few he'd let slip that could still be active whenever he'd have more than a couple drinks with his some of his closest, Benny being one of those. That hideousness and disregard for life convinced Manny to tone it down considerably. He found his out, but you never truly left, you could just shorten your hours. You could never get out, not without paying the ultimate price.

?What am I going to do, Manny?? Benny asked with tear-swollen eyes.

?Alright, kid,? he began, gesturing with his clasped together hands over the table. Already it didn't look good. ?You know I can't get involved.?

?I know that.? Benny checked the door, making sure that wasn't his assassin walking in. Trouble with assassins, they were always hard to identify until they weren't.

Manny sighed in place of his grim answer. He knew how the cartel worked, and Benny couldn't have been far off in what he was fearing. That Manny once held a position of strong influence seemed to have given Benny false hope, but it wasn't totally unfounded. His influence wasn't all gone, which he assumed convinced Benny to ask for the meet.

What Benny didn't know, and that he was beginning to see now, was that Manny was looking out for his own self-interest. Sticking your neck out for a friend in the drug world only ever resulted in one beheading for another, and even then, the other guy still probably lost his. Calling someone a coward didn't carry the same weight in their world that it did in all the others. Being a coward was one of the things that could almost surely keep you alive... but of course there were always exceptions.

?Benny...? Manny started back up again. His gesturing hands returned as well, as did his inability to say the words Benny could almost read without his saying them. That wasn't like Manny, hesitating to tell the truth to someone, hesitating to be cold or cruel if it was the reality of the situation.

Ultimately, he sighed and took hold of both ends of the table, leaning back into the cushion of his seat. ?How good are you at making drinks?? he asked, obviously changing direction from what he was going to say.

Benny looked up at him, ending a long period of staring through the table at where his shoes would have been. His eyes were disbelieving and yet hopeful, questioning but ready to believe there was an out waiting for him, too. A smile curled at his lips, albeit a weak one. Manny was his friend, and contrary to what he would've swore he'd say, he was going to help him.

?Thank you, Manny,? he said, taking Benny's hand after Manny had put his own on his he'd forgotten he'd left on the table.

They stood up, embraced, and Manny told him they'd get things sorted out.

?I'll call you at the beginning of the month. Stay out of sight until then. You're a ghost, alright??

?Of course,? Benny repeated as though it were the one thing he should have been expected to know. Manny just had to be sure. He patted him on the cheek.

?Alright, kid.? His hand went to his shoulder and kindly guided him to the door. Benny went on his way, and Manny remained at the booth watching. A last look behind from Benny before he was focusing on the door and the road to his car that would follow. He'd be looking over his shoulder for a long time now, he figured.

Manny watched him get to the door and then shifted his eyes over to one of his hands wiping down a table in the corner. He gestured his head at him, and he was ever so subtly nodded to as he began to head for the door as well. Benny exited, and soon after, so did the aproned man under Manny's employ, threading a silencer hurriedly and yet businesslike onto the end of a handgun.

The Vacationers

Michele Delize and Ashley Sotek did not know each other. They hadn't met before they were abducted on a most unfortunate Saturday morning during what was supposed to be their summer vacation, and they still hadn't met after being held captive in the same house for over two weeks. That wasn't to say, however, they couldn't recognize what the other sounded like.

They heard one another often.

A scream blared out returning a painful familiarity to Michele's ears: high and piercing. It was Ashley. She retreated the right side of her head from the sound, turning her filthy face?blindfolded with duct tape and covered in dried blood?in a less-direct direction. It was disturbing that this scene was rather routine and common for Michele, and more so that she was able to get over it so quickly, but by the way she looked at her situation?within her most unusual resolve?was that she couldn't be hurt any worse than she already had in life.

The basement door was barged into then where Michele was being kept, and their sloppily-dressed captor dragged Ashley over to the company of Michele against the wall. He released her by her hair and panted to catch his breath from the challenging workout of winning her out in their tugging struggle down the hall. He wiped his mouth as his breathing returned to normal, and he exited the room, his agenda moving to the other rooms where several other unwilling tenants awaited his arrival. He made sure to slam the door shut.

Michele and Ashley were alone.

?The... freak,? Ashley sobbed. ?Why is he keeping us here??

Michele had tuned out her crying, but she sympathized with her question, even if she was more curious than frightened at this point. ?I don't know. If he's going to kill us, I wish he'd just get it over with.?

Ashley likewise tuned that part out. It wasn't what or how she wanted to be thinking. No, she got back quickly to how she wanted to be thinking. ?I wanna go home.? Her sobbing returned with full force.

Michele rolled her eyes behind duct tape.

?Too bad. Unless SWAT busts in this house right now, it'll get a whole lot worse before it gets better... and by better, I mean either he puts us out of our misery, or we're rescued when there's nothing left of us.? Michele sighed and slouched up against the wall. Ashley's crying seemed to intensify, and Michele's shoulders drooped more as her head leaned back to touch the wall facing the heat from a very warm light bulb dangling overhead.

?Big baby,? she said.

Of Anoseth, and the Renduril

The first cries of the newborn world rang out in crashing tides and splitting lands. Breath was taken over the plains and sunlight spread warmly over countless living things for the first time. It was then that the god, Anoseth, marveled at the work made by his children, the Renduril: the holy ones who shaped his treasured world.

In the beginning, and in his most creative moment, Anoseth wrote a raw world, and he studied it long untouching, afraid to ruin his work. So it was first that he brought Ruoric into being, the oldest of the Renduril and the Sculptor of the Land. He carved the world into a globe and gave it beauty and ugliness, for it was that balance that compelled his being to do so.

But Anoseth was not yet pleased, and so he brought Ceihlith into being, the second of the Renduril, and the Writer of the Stars. She added much glimmer and beauty to the world with her starlight, for such was her own, but Anoseth desired for its beauty to be enjoyed and worshiped, so he brought Heiliu into being: Mother of All things, and the wife of Anoseth.

Heiliu filled the land with beasts, small and large, and life came to the world, but it was an empty existence, undriven. To give them purpose and will, he created Aeirassi, the Singer of Life, and she sang the music that made life beautiful, but Anoseth was not wholly pleased, for he thought life could be more beautiful still.

It was then that he brought Uradrith, the Flame of Mortality, into being. He saw to the end of all living things, able to kindle the fire that would burn and die for all life. And it was with death that Anoseth was at last pleased with the beauty of life. But with other things, he found out, he was still displeased. It took many centuries of observation to learn that Uradrith did not control flames for many materials of the planet, and Anoseth wished the brevity of life to affect all things. But Uradrith could not control the flame of the world, and he told to Anoseth that it was too bright to ever dampen. Therefore, Anoseth was urged to bring into being another Renduril: Yalista, the Squall of Time.

Yalista blew the wind that turned even the mightiest and oldest of things to dust, and she was tasked with aging the world. And so it was that life came and went in all places and in many ways, and Anoseth was entertained, bidding his children, the Renduril, to lastly make domains for themselves on the world and look after all he had wrought, and they did so for a long time.

It was around this time that Alfonso Carlson Avery came to the world, shortly after Anoseth brought into being the last of the Renduril: Junar, who had been tasked as the first of men, and Uradrith was given the second task of giving these, who Anoseth thought to be the finest form of all life on the world after his children, everlasting life that he would foster within himself.

When it came that Alfonso would correspond with Anoseth, he had many remarks to make on the world and of Anoseth's Renduril, all of which were lost on them, for Alfonso's way of speaking was not of their own. Thus it was, Aeirassi, that sang a song to him that gifted him with the knowledge of their language. After much anticipation, they discussed the becoming of themselves, and learned of their vast differences, and that Alfonso professed that his life flame was even less than the men of Junar. And he told them of the wrecking of his iron ship upon the land and amazed the Renduril who saw it, for it was a time machine, he said to them, and was able to relate it to sailing upon the very winds of Yalista.

Be it the beauty of such an unusual life that would extinguish before any other life on the world, or because she had been tasked to sing a song to him alone, Aeirassi became taken with Alfonso, and this concerned Anoseth greatly.

Before Alfonso's great tour of the world would be consented, Anoseth interrogated Alfonso, wanting to learn of the purpose of his arrival and his intentions while he dwelt with them. Alfonso credited his arrival to happenstance, but soon after suggested that remaining for a time might be a divination that none of them foresaw, including himself. Anoseth was unsure of this prophecy, but did not disregard it, asking Alfonso further what he might share, if anything.

Alfonso was quick to identify a lack of wisdom amidst Anoseth's all-knowing being, for he had much knowledge and many talents to have wrought what he shall, but not the experience that can only come from error and much time. To this, Alfonso offered to tell his stories, for he had many experiences, and they were not exclusive to his life alone. Anoseth was intrigued, and beckoned Alfonso to share what he might, and he would reward him with whatever he desired of the world. Without hesitation Alfonso pointed to Heiliu, Mother of All Things, and the wife of Anoseth, and thus marked the day that Anoseth created changing weather, for he knew not the emotion of sorrow that plagued him so.

Anoseth enlightened upon Alfonso that Heiliu was his wife, and though he knew not the meaning of love, he felt it and the protectiveness that it came with. He would seek to deter Alfonso from his selection of gifts for sharing his knowledge with him, but Alfonso was quicker with a new direction, and abandoned his previous course. Returning Aeirassi's look of affection, he named her as his reward, and he pointed also to Ceihlith whose name he did not know.

?She is Ceihlith, Writer of the Stars. But you would have her as well? For you have already named one of my Renduril to take as your own,? Anoseth spoke.

And Alfonso spoke in return, ?Yeah, that bitch. Gimme that one.?

And so it was that Alfonso took them both in hand and led them away to a place of sunlight, grass, shade, and flowing water, and there he showed the daughters of Anoseth first pain, and then pleasure; and Aeirassi refunded to Alfonso many times his breath after he became tired, for she was the giver and singer of all life, and she had delighted in the sensations he revealed to her.

But throughout their crawling and touching, they did query about the ritual Alfonso prepared beforehand, equipping a thin veil upon his flesh. He said to them not to worry, and called it a guard against conceiving god sons, which he did not desire to clash with if they would oppose him in adulthood. And in subsequent unions, he had shown them the manner of applying this most useful guard, and they were henceforth able to do this work for him. In any case, it was their foremost act of togetherness that birthed the spring in all its warmth and brightness upon the world, and many new emotions also came into being for the Renduril, such as longing, anger, and jealousy.

Ruoric and Heiliu had observed their act and learned of intimacy from it, though there was no word for it at the time. However, Anoseth had long been mingling with anger since it became known to him, and he began to name to his Renduril, Alfonso: the enemy.

A day came in that summer of that year when, though distance had been given to him, Alfonso sought more than the twilight realm of Ceihlith he lorded, and the two Renduril who clung to his legs. Against their forewarning, he ventured forth to meet with Anoseth, and tell him that all he had looked upon he would now look upon, for he desired to sit where Anoseth would, and pride in what he prided in. Anoseth was enraged, but foresaw this day so in advance that his temper was not lost, and was able to ask Alfonso why he would take when so much had been gifted to him. Alfonso answered only that his purpose of being was to do so, and moved to unseat him.

Anoseth was not an all-powerful god, for he had dispersed his many unique gifts among his Renduril, and all but two were still loyal to him, and with them he had prepared a mighty defense, first calling upon Yalista to slow his steps with a mighty tempest of aging.

And Alfonso did age horribly, but his steps continued unfaltering, and a withered hand did finally reach for the light in Anoseth's face. Never before had Anoseth felt fear, even though Alfonso had become incredibly weakened, he still moved and was, and it frightened him that his word was not reflective of what was said. And so he screamed out of a great terror, and a gale of much force blew back Alfonso, and it would be some time before his elderly form would stand again; but when it did, he found he was youthful again, for he was sung to by Aeirassi, who had come?not just to his aid?but to see to the deathlessness of this meeting, for above all things, she desired the enduring of life.

Anoseth felt a great pain in his being at seeing the betrayal of Aeirassi, and now named her, along with Ceihlith, as enemies for allying with Alfonso, and bid Uradrith to cast out their life flames. And so Uradrith came to stand before Alfonso with his enchanted whip of many tails, and Alfonso brandished a silver-black blade that had been shaped by Ceihlith, Writer of the Stars, and it contained the starlight of the world.

So it was that the two did battle, and died many times with the many lives they both housed. By the end of the battle, Uradrith had been cut open many times, and his blood, that was never meant to drop, had been spilled. It was by this significant wounding that men came to lose their gift of everlasting life, and hence after became mortal who could also spill blood and perish upon the world.

Uradrith nearly ceased to be in his encounter with Alfonso, and would have been the first of the Renduril to ever depart from the form that was given to him by Anoseth, but he was made to endure by Aeirassi's love for all life. Alfonso also was healed, and the two again entertained the notion of continuing their battle, but Anoseth stopped them with a great sundering of the land between them.

?Too much injury has already afflicted my world,? he said, ?and we now have many reasons to weep, and for many ages yet to come. I would see to it that you would leave with great haste, Alfonso Carlson Avery, before anymore awfulness is cast upon our history, but it is not in my power alone to make you do so. Therefore, I would ask: by what devising would you depart from my sacred realm? And do not hasten with your words, for you should think them over carefully as I see great difficulty in your unmaking, but see it I do.?

?I would have your head for such words,? Alfonso began, ?but they are not answerable for your fate now. That was decided upon our first meeting, when I first saw that you ruled from on high, and no man or god will have what I cannot.? And he moved forward to attack Anoseth himself, and met with many walls of the Renduril ? all of which both his astral knife and steadfastness did cut through.

There he slew Anoseth, and his beautiful light was spread across his world until he was no more, and only a great ivory tree of limitless beauty was left. And under it he slew also Uradrith, this time in a much shorter-lived battle, and his blood was spilled again without healing at the demand of Alfonso. The Renduril then mourned for their father and brother, but Alfonso reassured them of their future, for the world remained and he would not be their foe so long as they now bowed to him.

Alfonso had chosen wisely to stay his sword, for the strongest of the Renduril, Uradrith, was slain, and drank up into the tree of Anoseth that had since turned forever red. Junar, the first and Father of Men, then took it upon himself to pen the history of Alfonso, and it lasted to the final years of his sons when Alfonso became again thirsty for new realms to conquer.

With little to say, he left some instruction for Ruoric, Sculptor of the Land, to build a monolith in his image, and for Yalista to not ever breathe age upon it. To Aeirassi and Ceihlith whom he had lain with, he seized hungrily and aggressively, for he still desired them, and it was as much his intention to feast again on their flesh as it was for him to let them know it.

And to Heiliu, he spoke last, for in her he felt her worship the least, and it displeased him.

?Mother of All Things,? he began, ?I leave to you your own destiny now, and you would thank me for it, this I know. But I do not ask for your thanks, nor your forgiveness that I killed your husband. What I ask for is remembrance, and I know you would deliver it, because the harm I have brought you is not forgettable. But it is a bad remembrance, and I would leave you with another one before I go.?

And then, on the day of Alfonso's departure, the world gathered around outside his iron ship he had called a vessel of time, and watched him remove, with great shock to Heiliu, his lower raiment, and soon after busily wrote the chronicling hands of Junar's sons.