Bindleswill grunted with the effort of turning the heavy iron wheel to unlock the door. He could hear the acid rain already hissing off his thick black rainslicker. The storm would arrive any moment.

With a final aged groan the wheel pulled the locks free and the door moaned open. Bindleswill hastily slipped inside, jerking the heavy door closed behind him. The first peal of thunder rang out as he slammed the door locks home.

Storms hated Bindleswill. He had meddled in their affairs far too often as a young man, and the weather had a long memory. He hoped his descendants, if he were to ever have any, would not be held accountable.

Descendants. He chuckled at that. He had past sixty winters by his reckoning; far past the age where a man can catch the eye of a lass. Women were hard enough to come by, and childbearing twice so. He had long given up hoping to afford one one day.

He pulled the clasps of his heavy rubber coat free of each other, shaking it as best he could to clear the acid off of it. Still wearing his thick rubber hat he lifted the coat to the nearest hook. Under the sudden strain the hook gave way, the rust in the walls long having eaten it’s anchor, and his coat fell to the floor in an unceremonious flop.

“Bollocks,” Bindleswill grumbled, reaching carefully around the still-damp exterior to grasp what he could of the inner collar and lifting the coat to another hook.

“Back so soon?” Grellis’ voice called out from somewhere around the entryway corner.

“Aye. Storm came up too quick. Barely had time to fill a bag with beets.”

Grellis’ came around the corner wiping something red and wet on a towel long since stained pink. He was the thinnest man Bindleswill had ever met. His eyes bulged from his sallow skull like a fighting fish. His spindly arms were abnormally long, with his fingertips almost reaching his knees. As Bindleswill regarded him at that moment, he decided that Grellis was easily the ugliest man he had ever laid eyes on.

“Weatherman said this will be the worst storm of the year,” Grellis commented, leaning back around the corner to toss the towel back wherever he’d got it from and then straightening again. “I really wish you hadn’t meddled with the storms. It does put a kink in things.”

“You knew what you were getting into when you moved in with me. The door’s there whenever you want to go,” Bindleswill replied, hanging his hat next to his coat.

“I meant no ill by it. I’m only saying…”

“You’re only saying that you wish you didn’t have to be the one to make the trip to the market in it.  I know. But here in Henge, that’s how it goes.

Grellis regarded him silently for a moment.

“Your’e quite cantankerous this evening, do you know that Bindleswill?”

Bindleswill heaved a sigh.

“I’m sorry Grellis. You’re right. Just disappointed in the haul is all. I meant nothing by it.”

“Right. No harm done. Still have all my limbs,” Grellis patted himself down and smiled. “I’m off then. There’s food in the cellar when you’re hungry, and wax on the stove. It should have another thirty on the fire before it’s ready for the wicks and to set.”

Bindleswill nodded absently. Grellis donned the black rainslicker and hat and rested his hand on the wheel to the door.

“Anything you want from the market?” he asked.

“Books if they’ve got any. Or a goat. It’d be nice to have cheese again.”

“If you wanted cheese you shouldn’t have eaten the last goat,” Grellis chided. “Besides, there’s no way for me to get a goat home in this.”

Thunder rumbled outside.

Bindleswill nodded.

“Just books then.”

“Just books then,” Grellis echoed. “Be back later!”

Bindleswill completed his transformation from traveler to homebody by slipping on a pair of soft leather moccasins. Stomach rumbling, he shuffled down the long hall, taking a plate from one of the inset shelves that former the cupboard. He rubbed it clean deftly with the cuff of his sleeve until he got to the cellar door. Then, taking the plate in his teeth, he twirled the wheel of the pressure door to unlock it and headed inside.

The “cellar” was not really a cellar. Rather, it was a deep hole Bindleswill had dug into the earth through a breach in the iron floor over a period of months, storms permitting. He had sunk it over eight meters deep and extended it’s walls to almost twenty before some falling dirt from a particularly close lightning strike encouraged him to stop.

Within the cellar against the wall was Bindleswill’s beet distillery, where he made a form of alcohol  that was one of his best sellers at market. He ignored it and instead approached the center of the room which held six glass aquariums, all but one filled with rich dark earth. Bindleswill grasped a wooden handle which hung mounted to a chain which continued up to a system of pipes and shower heads that were mounted above the aquariums. He pulled the chain and water began to pour out of the collection of shower heads into the aquariums. He allowed the water to run for a span, then released the handle and reached for a pair of tongs which hung from a curved rusty nail sunk into the table side.

“Come on up you beauties,” he said, snapping the tongs.

Earthworms, driven to the surface by the water, began breaching the loam in every aquarium. Bindleswill carefully chose this one or that, pinching them with the tongs and placing them on his plate until he had a squirming heap. Returning the tongs to their nail, he then covered the worms with a generous helping of a mashed tomato sauce Grellis had brought back from market one day and began shoveling the mess in hungrily.

He returned to the area of the home he and Grellis referred to as the ‘living room’ and settled into a beaten stained overstuffed chair with a contented sigh.

The storm outside rumbled its irritation.

“Aw, hush up!” Bindleswill shouted, banging on the nearest metal wall with his fist. The noise reverberated throughout.

He paused to listen. The hiss of the rain on the skin of the submarine sounded like radio static. He shoveled in another mouthful of worms and sauce and harrumphed his satisfaction.

A sudden staccato banging, coming from the door, made him jump and yelp through his mouthful of food.

Could the storms have learned a new trick? Bindleswill strained his ears anxiously.

The banging came again; a series of taps in rapid succession. Bindleswill set his supper off to one side, eyeing the heavy iron door suspiciously.

“What’s that?” he hollered at the door.

“Please, can you help us?” a muffled voice, barely audible over the noise of the storm, asked. “We’ve come for the Stormspeaker.”

Bindleswill’s mouth twitched.

“No Stormspeakers here!” he shouted back. “Just an old man and his dinner. You lot ought find shelter!”

“Please! Ah! Have some compassion! We’ve heard it told the Stormspeaker lived in the iron home at Henge! Please let us in!” another voice shouted.

A feminine voice.

Conflict squeezed Bindleswill. It was cruel to leave anyone outside in a storm, especially the worst storm of the year. And the chance to lay his eyes on a woman, a REAL woman, of any age? Still, they had come seeking a Stormspeaker; that in itself was dangerous. Not all men cared for Stormspeakers, and the first voice had clearly been male; there was no telling how many might be with them.

“Ah! Blimey!” another yelp came from outside the door.

“Bloody hell,” Bindleswill grumbled. He reached behind his chair for his cricket bat, notched and mustard-colored with age, and headed for the door.

Thunder cracked overhead the moment Bindleswill threw the locks and pulled the door open. Three rubber yellow shapes, amorphous in their raincoats and hats, stood huddled together so close to the orifice that they nearly toppled inside the second the door gave way. The acrid rain hissed where it found purchase on the entryway carpet.

“Inside now! Quickly!” Bindleswill rushed them. Off to one side, lightning struck one of the huge standing stones. The concussive roar of thunder almost threw Bindleswill off his feet. One of the strangers, the taller one, leapt to his side and together they wrestled the door closed with a decisive clonk.

Bindleswill fingered the pommel of his cricket bat absently as he watched the strangers shed their stormclothes. The one who had helped him with the door was a stocky man, shorter than Bindleswill but with shoulders nearly the width of his girth, with a bushy beard in the style of the men of the north (Bindleswill had met a few), and, more concernedly, the hilt of a sword sticking up from a scabbard at his side.

With a glance at the other two travelers, Bindleswill stood transfixed as they shed their raingear. BOTH were feminine, though Bindleswill was unable to judge their age. Each were curvaceous in form, one broader of bust while the other more shapely in hips. Both wore the simple leather jerkins of the northern people, and both had heads of thick auburn hair, shot through with waves.

The man harrumphed loudly, and Bindleswill tore his gaze away from the two girls, wondering when his mouth had dropped open.

“Ah, Stormspeaker. Hello. My name is Toomas, Toomas  McDandry from the north. These are my two daughters, Adileweiss and  Adalaide,” the man spoke haltingly, as if reading a speech he had only practiced twice. “We have traveled many miles that you might train Adileweiss to speak to the storms.”

“Train…? What?” Bindleswill’s eyes darted between them in confusion. His grip on the cricket bat tightened reflexively.

McDandry crossed his thick arms in front of his chest and sighed heavily.

“Our stormspeaker died. Adileweiss was her apprentice, and will be our new one. You will train her and send her back to us.”

Bindleswill’s head buzzed. He could barely comprehend the absurdity of the situation.

“You mean to tell me you came all this way to ask me to train one of these girls? To…to…” he stammered over the words as he spoke through his confusion, “to show them how to control the weather when I can’t even go out in it anymore?” A peal of thunder outside resounded it’s agreement. “Mister McDandry, I…”

“Thoomas,” the man interjected.

“…Thoomas,” Bindleswill continued, “I don’t speak to storms anymore. I haven’t for quite some time. I’m sorry if your storm speaker was too shortsighted…”

“She was my wife,” McDandry said, eyes narrowing.

“…I… I’m sorry for your loss. At any rate I can’t just…”

“Stop your yammering,” McDandry said, making it clear by inflection it was not a request.

Bindleswill fell silent.

“You’re the closest stormspeaker for a thousand miles. The elders said to take the girls to you, so I take the girls to you. Now here they are and I’ve been gone too long already. I don’t care what you do with them. I’m leaving.” McDandry stepped deftly past Bindleswill and practically wrung the wheel from the door.

“Girls, do what the man tells you to,” he said.

“Yes papa,” the girls said in unison.

The door slammed and the locks moaned shut, and McDandry was gone.

Stunned, Bindleswill stared at the door for a full 30 seconds before comprehension sent him dashing for his rainslicker. Recalling vaguely that Grellis had taken it, he wrapped himself as best he could in one of the girl’s hats and coats and dashed outside, hollering for McDandry. The storm swelled at his sudden presence, sheeting it’s burning rain down and loosing bolts of lightning to divot the earth around him. His yells lost to the roaring thunder, Bindleswill skidded and slipped on the soppy earth, barely making it back inside.

The girls both stood where he had left them, hands clasped in front of them, eyes downcast. Bindleswill muttered curses as drops from the ill-fitting coat stung his hands and razed new holes in his thick woolen sweater as he replaced it on a peg.

“Not a man of much patience, your father, eh?” Bindleswill asked over his shoulder.

The girls cast sidelong glances at each other.

“No sir, not really,” one said.

“He was anxious to get back to the farm,” the other offered.

“Right. The farm.  Well then,” Bindleswill clapped his hands together and rubbed them absently. He was at a complete loss at how to handle the situation. “Out with it. Which is which?”

The taller of the two spoke first. “I am Adileweiss. I am to be your apprentice,” she said, raising her eyes only slightly to look at Bindleswill before returning them to the floor.

“I gathered that from your father. And that makes you…” Bindleswill snapped his fingers in forgetfulness.

“Adalaide, sir,” the second girl offered.

“Adalaide. Sure,” Bindleswill nodded as he sank into his tattered overstuffed chair. He looked to where he had set his supper. Several of the worms had crawled off the plate already, leaving tomato sauce trails on the table & rug. Bindleswill grimaced.

“Have you two eaten already?” he asked the girls.

“Yes stormspeaker. We had some tack yesterday morning,” Adalaide answered.

Tack. He had tried the northerner’s bread before. More like eating dried mud than biscuit. Bindleswill’s frown deepened.

“There are some pickled beets in the jars around the corner there. You’re welcome to them for a meal.”

The girls exchanged a look between them.

“Thank you stormspeaker. Your generosity is greater than is spoken of you,” Adileweiss said. She took her sister’s hand and disappeared around the corner.

“Don’t call me that!” Bindleswill hollered after them.

Clinking of glassware and drifting  murmurs told him they had found the beets. Bindleswill reached for his pipe and leaf. He needed some smoke around his head to think this through.

Women. Girls, really. Bindleswill couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a woman. Must’ve been, what? Five years ago now? At the market in Furl? And now here were two, delivered to his doorstep. He puffed smoke at that. Two girls, both of breeding age. Both easy on the eye. One could bring a man the wealth of a king. But two? If he sold them both he’d be the richest man in all of Scottsland.

But…he formed a ring of smoke and watched it drift lazily… There was the matter of their father. Clearly a man not to be trifled with if their short exchange were any indication. And that man wanted his daughter trained as a stormspeaker and returned to him. That pressed Bindleswill’s mouth into a line; the presumption that Toomas McDandry could waltz into his life and tell him what to do. After all, there had been a time when he had been Speaker for the king!

He blew another mouthful of smoke. Two kings had passed since that time, neither employing stormspeakers. The hope of the people now was that the weather would forget their meddling. No, Bindleswill concluded, there would be no protection from the king. Or from anyone else. He was a relic from a different time, one people wanted to erase.

He was so lost in thought that he jumped reflexively at the sound of the door banging open. The roar of the storm cut through the room in an instant as Grellis came stumbling back inside, throwing himself bodily against the door to get it to close.

“Crikey!” Grellis said, spinning the wheel to latch it shut once more. “Its like world war four out there!”

Bindleswill shook off his surprise. “Back so soon?” he asked Grellis.

“Forgot the strongbox,” Grellis replied, shaking the slicker hat out onto the pitted carpet. “Can’t sell the beets if I can’t make cha…” his voice trailed off as he noticed the two slickers already hanging from the coat pegs.

“What’s this now? Are you actually entertaining someone? And in this?”

Bindleswill frowned. How could he explain it to Grellis?

“We have… guests,” he explained awkwardly.

“Do we now? And who would…” Grellis trailed off, leaving his question unasked.

The girls had come around the corner, each with a steel plate piled high with pickled beets. They had been whispering amongst themselves, but at the sight of Grellis they froze.

Grellis stared at the girls. The girls stared back at Grellis. No one spoke.

Bindleswill became uncomfortable with the silence. “Right,” he said, “I suppose introductions are in order. Grellis, these are…”

“Bindleswill, what are these mongrels doing here?” Grellis’ voice was tight, as though he were speaking through an injury.

Bindleswill looked from Grellis to the girls and back, lacking comprehension.

“Mongrels? Grellis what are you…”

“Quiet Bindleswill. You’re in more danger than you can know.” Grellis’ hand had slowly drifted around his back as he spoke. “How did they get here?”

“Their father. He… He arrived soon after you left. Said one was to be trained as a stormspeaker.” Bindleswill glanced at the girls. Both held Grellis’ stare cooly. “He stormed off before I could even argue.”

“Was he a northerner?” Grellis asked.

“Aye. He was. Grellis what…”

“I heard talk in the market last week. Flannery was deep in the shine, and showed no signs of stopping. Telling everyone who passed by his stool about the things he’d heard. Things from up north.”

“Stormspeaker, who is this…”  Adalaide started, but Grellis cut her off.

“Flannery said the northerners had killed his cousin. Cut up the whole clan of them into pieces. Said people round those parts said the northerners were doin it to all sort of folk. Said they’d lost their stormspeaker and had turned to the blackest magics they could find. Flannery said,” Grellis grimaced so firm his lips went white, “they’d called the storms down and bound them to two girls with their magics; stuck them to the girls like a demon to a pig. That they’d given themselves soul and skin to the storms to save themselves.”

Bindleswill looked to the girls. Both were smiling slyly now.

“You’ve heard much, meatwalker,”  Adileweiss addressed Grellis. She stepped slowly to the side, putting more distance between herself and her sister. “We come for the stormspeaker, not for you.  Leave now, and we will speak to our sisters outside. You have no need to be tormented by them so.” Water inexplicably began to course from her shoulders, running the length of her arms and dripping from her bent elbows.

“Only the stormspeaker,” Adalaide echoed. Her eyes glowed blue-white and her hair began to rise, till it stood on end. Sparks crackled between her fingers and the plate she held.

“He hides in his iron home, and our sisters cannot reach him,” Adileweiss continued. A furious crack of thunder echoed outside. “But we can. We can go where they cannot, and we can give them what they cannot have.” Water pooled and poured from her eyes. Her hair was damp as it trickled down her neck.

“The head of the stormspeaker!” Adalaide shouted. Her skin had become pale as ivory and beneath it arcs of electricity crawled and climbed like Bindleswill’s dinner.

“Bindleswill, listen to me. Talk to them. They are storms, like any other. Talk to them.” Grellis had slid his other arm behind him while then girls had been speaking. Bindleswill wondered what he grasped.

“Faol om…  faol om slog on…” Bindleswill stammered. It had been long since he had curled his tongue around stormspeak, and his fearful confusion heightened his stuttering.

“Silence him!” Adileweiss screamed.

With a scream of her own Adalaide hurled the plate she was still holding into Bindleswill’s face. It’s edge caught him in his teeth sending him stumbling back across his chair, blood fountaining with spittle. Grellis brought his hands from behind his back in a sweeping motion, fingers threaded with knives, which he threw in deft grace at the girls. Adileweiss opened her mouth in a scream and raised her arms together in an arc, sweeping the knives headed for her from the air with a sudden jet of water that she then turned on Grellis. Adalaide, crawling with arcing electricity, raised her own hands toward Bindleswill, but Grellis’ knives found their mark, two sinking into her abdomen and one glancing off her skull. She fell back, lightning sparking from her mouth, fingers, eyes; her whole body luminescent. Electricity crackled and burned the air, dancing around the the room seeking purchase. The table burst into flames as did the rug. Grellis howled as the very floor became electrified, searing him instantly and sending his smoking body flopping forward, carried by his diving momentum. Adileweiss hissed and steamed as the lightning found purchase with her as well, cauterizing holes through her even as she gushed and fountained.

Adalaide’s body hit the floor. The electricity searing the air ceased with her fall. Bindleswill, his hand covering his aching bloody mouth, gingerly touched the floor; no shock. Adileweiss stood staring at her sister’s body, momentarily distracted. Seizing his chance, Bindleswill leapt to the door and wrenched it open. Adileweiss’ frustrated scream behind him told him he had succeeded it surprising her.

He had made the decision, even as he had fallen, that tangling with the storm outside was a much better idea than tangling with the banshee Adileweiss had become. Even as a torrent of water caught his back and tossed him out into the storm, he already felt better about his chances.

His skin was instantly alight with pain as he tumbled out into the acid rain. Scrambling to his feet he tore the heavy plastic tarp from the woodpile and wrapped himself in it like a cloak, being mindful to keep the dryer interior towards his skin.

Lightning flashed and thunder cracked almost instantly. With the brief glimpse of the landscape whitewashed into his vision Bindleswill trudged as quickly as possible over the soggy earth to his target: his small dirigible, his tool in stormspeaking for the king and his parting gift when he left the service (and to insure no one else attempted to use it, no doubt.)

He threw himself into the basket even as a gushing of water caught it’s side and fountained over him; Adileweiss had caught his scent. He pulled his pocketknife, chipped and dingy with age, from his pocket and sawed at the anchor rope that held the dirigible to the earth. It sprung free and began to rise even as the basket rocked violently from another blast from Adileweiss. One of her hands curled over the lip of the basket and Bindleswill swiped at her fingers wildly with his pocketknife. He didn’t recognize the language she screamed in but he was sure it was a curse all the same.

Without Adileweiss’ weight clinging to it the dirigible climbed quickly. Bindleswill hunkered down in a corner of the basket as it was rocked repeatedly with fountains of water. As these lessened with altitude the storm rose to the occasion, buffeting him with wind and rain, and slashing at the sky with lightning. Storms had terrible aim and Bindleswill knew it; but he waited until he knew he was well in the air before standing in his makeshift cloak and starting oily kerosene engine.

It took him seven pulls to get the old engine to fire up, rain stinging his hand each time he tried. Once it coughed to life he positioned himself over the control stick that rose from the floor so he could use his free hand to pilot.

He didn’t know if his plan would work. He had gambled with it the moment he took escape in the dirigible over running for the hills. (Although he knew he would never have outrun Adileweiss.) Bindleswill held the rudder steady, gathered his resolve, and began to speak.

He spoke to the clouds and the wind; he called to their rolling aggression, their never-ending thirst, their desire to cover the planet once more. Then he spoke to the lightning and thunder of their desire to crush, to burn, to glory in the destruction of it all. He called for his voice to be heard over it all in the tongue he had known for birth; Bindleswill challenged it, he accused it, he mocked it, dared it to sublimate him. And as he did, as he felt the pressure of the storm begin to creep across his body and enter his mind, he plunged the control stick forward.

Even as the dirigible sank he continued to bellow in stormspeak. He could feel the storm bend around him; feel the rushing energy of it’s torrent. He could make out Adileweiss on the ground now, thrashing as though taken by seizures, even as he felt the sparks crackle through his veins. He was more than power; he was destruction incarnate. Fury itself bottled and barely contained behind flesh. He was…

The basket shattered upon impact with the standing stone, carving new gashes into it’s millennia-old edifice. Bindleswill ricocheted off it to tumble barely conscious to the ground. He felt the pain of his bones breaking and tearing his flesh only for the briefest of moments before unconsciousness claimed him.

The light hurt his eyes.

Light?

Bindleswill squinted against the brightness as he cracked open his eyes. Sunlight fell through the open window he faced and beyond the glare he could see a sky bluer than he could ever remember.

The soreness came the moment he tried to move. He groaned against it, finding himself immobile which was probably for the best as it seemed he could feel every inch of his body, and all of it hurt.

“Ah, you’ve returned to us,” a voice said from behind him. He heard footsteps and then a man with a darkened lamp on his head came into his field of view. The man wagged a pencil towards Bindleswill. “We all wondered if you would pull through, if it was even worth the effort. But the king insisted. And now here you are. Welcome back.”

“Where am I?” Bindleswill asked. His mouth tasted like he imagined licking a tomb clean might.

“At the castle, in the infirmary. The king sent his men to check on you when the storm broke. He thought you might be up to your old tricks. Instead they found the kings man he had sent to keep an eye on you burned to a crisp, two girls no one has seen before, one with Grellis’ knives in her and the other with holes burned through her. That one died from a broken neck but she looked as though she’d been thrown down a mountain first,” the man took a pen light from his pocket and shined it first in one, then the other of Bindleswill’s eyes. “And then there was you and your crashed dirigible. To say that people have questions for you would be the understatement of the century. Looks good,” the man turned the pen light off and replaced it in his pocket, “no concussion at any rate. The king asked me to let him know when you were awake so that he could question you personally. I’m off to do that now. Try not to break anything else while I’m gone. We had a hard enough time getting you back together in the first place.”

The man strode out of Bindleswill’s field of vision, and he could hear his footsteps gradually growing fainter. Bindleswill turned his attention back to the day outside; so crisp & vibrant he could almost feel it. And faintly, a single note of thunder crawled across the cloudless sky.

(Picture used with permission via Creative Commons. Original by Michel Filion)

Once upon a time there was a girl named Lillian. Lillian was 14 years old.



One day while at school, Lillian’s stomach began cramping while in her science class. She also began to feel a slight wetness between her thighs. Her mother had prepared her for this day, and she knew what was happening: she was getting her first period. She raised her hand and asked to be excused to the restroom.



When she arrived at the bathroom she rifled through her purse looking for her maxi pad her mother had made her start carrying. She found it and unwrapped it, discarding the wrapping in the small trash can that sat between bathroom stalls.



When she pulled down her pants down to sit down and apply the pad though, she found something she didn’t had not expected; instead of bleeding, she had begun excreeting a thin string of silk.



Lillian was terrified. She was some kind of freak!! She hurriedly pulled the strand of silk free and flushed it down the toilet. She pulled her clothes back on and returned to class, resolving not to speak about the incident to anyone.



But the silk didn’t go away. There was more the next morning, and the day after that. Lillian’s thighs began itching constantly and it was all she could do to keep from scratching them in public places.



Other changes began to take place as well. She began to be hungry all the time and began eating constantly. But no matter how much she ate, she still wanted more.



A month passed. Lillian packed on the pounds, much to the chagrin of her mother, a former cheerleader and beauty queen. Her mother begged her to stop eating, but Lillian ignored her. She was having a hard enough time hiding all the silk she was now producing.



At school she would ask to be excused to use the restroom every class. Between her sudden weight gain and her constant bathroom trips the kids at school began to whisper about Lillian behind her back. And although she hated it, the silk came so often and in such large amounts that it was the only way she could keep it from creating bulges in her pants.



For two months Lillian struggeled with the horrors the changes her body was undergoing caused. She had gained close to 80 pounds. She had to sneak trashbags full of silk out to the trash can while her parents slept. She thought it couldn’t get any worse.



Then, Lillian began sleepwalking.



The first night wasn’t so bad. She woke up on the floor of her parents bedroom with no memory of how she got there. Her mother told her she had come in and lay down some time in the middle of the night. Her mother also clearly frowned at the fat that had built around her daughters midriff, but said nothing concerning it.



The second time it happened, Lillian woke up on the balcony outside her window.



It was the third time it happened that she began to get scared. Lillian woke up to the sun in her eyes. This confused her, because she always closed her shades before going to bed.



Opening her eyes, Lillian was immediately disoriented and frightened. Not only was she out in her front yard, she was also hanging upside down by her legs in their small tree. She quickly righted herself and snuck back through the open front door, hoping that no one had seen her.



That night after school, Lillian became I’ll. She began running a fever and got the shakes. Her mother was worried, but Lillian insisted that she didn’t need to see a doctor.



As her family slept, Lillian began sleepwalking again. Only this time she didn’t stop at her front yard. Out the door and down the street she went, walking the empty streets barefoot and unconscious, until she arrived at the park. Once there her sleeping form climbed the tallest pine tree it could find, and curled itself around a branch deep in it’s boughs.



When Lillian awoke, she thought she had somehow crawled under her covers. Fabric pressed against her face and held snugly to her body. She struggled to move her arms at her sides, but it felt as though someone was holding her blanket down.



Lillian yelled at whoever was holding her covers to stop, but there was no response. Struggling against the pressure, she tried to wiggle a hand up in front of her. Suddenly there was a tearing sound and light flooded her eyes. With a gasp she realized two things: she was vey high up in the air, and she was also now falling.



Lillian screamed as the ground rushed up at her with incredible speed. Instinctually she threw her arms out in front of her, as though to catch herself from falling. As she did, muscles in her back clenched and flexed. With a yelp she jerked to a halt in mid-air.



Lillian was terrified. She hovered 40 feet above the ground. Breeze caressed her face. A soft foomping sound came from behind her. Fighting her screaming emotions, Lillian slowly turned her head to behold what she already knew she would find; reaching out behind her flapping rhythmically, two brightly colored wings stretched to either side, holding her aloft. Softly illuminated by the suns early morning rays, the wings were primarily a deep shade of azure, with small yellow dots sprinkled around each one.



Lillian shook with emotion. Everything she had repressed as she struggled to cope with the silk and the weight gain came rushing to the surface. Unable to contain herself any longer, Lillian screamed. She screamed for the horror her body had become. She screamed as the life she had dreamed of died before her eyes. And she screamed for the normalcy she would never again have. Overcome, her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted.



The aching woke her. Her whole body hurt. From somewhere nearby Lillian heard a faint beeping. She slowly opened her eyes.



Sterile white walls and hospital machinery broke through her teary squint. Her mother sat in a chair by the door, crying softly.



Relief washed over Lillian. It had been a dream! The whole time she had been asleep in the hospital, sick or injured! She wasn’t a monster! She opened her eyes, grimacing against the pain of her protesting facial muscles. “Mom?” Lillian croaked.



“Sweetie! Oh baby!” lillian’s mother was at her bedside in an instant. “I’m so happy you’re awake! The doctors didn’t know when… If…” her mother sniffed back tears, “when you would wake up! How do you feel?”



“Terrible,” Lillian croaked out. “I had such horrible nightmares.”



“Well don’t worry,” her mother wiped away tears and put on her bravest face. “we’re going to get through this together. I’m going to find the best plastic surgeon in the world and we’ll cut those horrible things off.” Lillian’s face twisted in horror as her mother smiled. “you’ll be beautiful again in no time.”

(Photo used courtesy of Kjunstorm via Flickr)

Let’s get something cleared up: I am not a pussy. (Although I do enjoy it when available.) I did try to help the bums before they got eaten, and I did try to help the dude in the car before he ripped his face off and tried to mandibilize me. Those are both very non-pussylike behaviors. I understand that with my pink hair and “petite” rockstar frame you might be inclined to be drawing an unfavorable conclusion concerning my bravery as a result of my tales up to this point.

Let me and my aluminum baseball bat assure you that that would be a very poor conclusion to jump to.

Its been almost a month since the mouth-thing ate the bums (or dragged them off.) I still have no idea what was happening to me those two days I was seemingly unconscious. They’re a total blank. They did, however, serve to raise me to new heights of paranoia that heretofore I had thought unattainable.

For instance: right now my arm itches.

Specifically, my right forearm itches exactly where one of the blue circles of my tattoos reside. I don’t remember when this itching started and so I wonder… is this the result of something that happened to me while I was unconscious? Or is it just dry skin?

And how can I know?

Couple this with the fact that Klay is in Peru and I’m working sixteen hour days at the studio all by myself, surrounded by snow-covered trees straight out of “The Mothman Prophecies” and you’ll understand that I’m a little jumpy. As a rule I dislike nature, and so having the already shitty Detroit covered in a thick blanket of “hides-tracks-and-bodies-conveniently” is pretty unfavorable to me. (As is: having to dig my car out; constantly losing traction on the roads; avoiding the wildlife that has been induced to suicide-by-my-bumper by this lousy city; fucking cold in general.)

So yes, I’m in an unpleasant mood.

Which is why when the manager calls to tell me I just landed four tracks in various forms in a new Luc Beeson picture, I decide to celebrate with a little “La Femme Nikita” rental from the mom and pop video shop I hit up here. The Stahlimobile practically roars to life in anticipation. (That is to say my base-model Honda Civic finally starts after six tries.)

I used to think urban abandonment was cool. You’d get these awesome photographers that would do pieces on things like “The Abandoned Amusement Park of Chernobyl” or “Ghost Town Movie Theaters” and the shots were incredible. But here, having to drive through a constantly eroding landscape of failed factories and empty neighborhoods, its just depressing. (And tempting to my directorial urges. But you don’t go out exploring said places unless you’re wearing multiple high-caliber firearms and special forces body armor. Neither of which I own. So I keep my principal cinematographer urges to myself and drive as straight as the ice allows to the rental place.)

In the rental place (cleverly named “Family Video”) browsing row upon row of movies brings up good memories of weekends with friends growing up. There were countless times we’d pass out at 4 AM to Twilight Zone reruns after an evening of gratuitous violence. (An experience I think is healthy for every eleven-year-old.) I pass over Hackers and Event Horizon, (the old stand-bys,) and go straight for some French assassin goodliness.

Which is where my evening takes a turn for the worse.

Standing in the “Foreign” section reading the back of “La Femme” is a dude who looks like a bad “young Bill Paxton” clone. His hair is greasy and slicked back, shaved on the sides. He’s got the three-quarters black leather trench, the tweed pants, and the silk yellow shirt tucked into them. The thick horned-rimmed glasses are the only thing that throw off the illusion; if it wasn’t for them I would have thought I was suddenly in Predator 2.

“La Femme Nikita. Such a great movie” he says, casting a sidelong glance at me. “One of my favorites. You know why I like it?” He places the box back on the shelf and picks up the one next to it, continuing his description perusal. “Nikita is never really a hero. She’s just a girl who gets caught in a bad situation and has to deal with it. There’s no moral lesson or destiny. Just a poor lost girl and a fantastic experience.”

I nod, hoping my lack of movement and enthusiasm indicates he might be in my way. He doesn’t get the message.

“You know what I’ve always thought would be a great plot for a movie?” He continues, returning the film and retrieving another, “You take this kid. Good kid. Nice kid. Works hard. But then something happens. He sees something he can’t explain. Like a monster or something. Flips him right the fuck out. What does he do? What CAN he do? Go to the cops? They’ll throw him in the looney bin. So he ignores it. Tries to move past it. Figures it was something maybe supernatural. A ghost or a demon or something. Maybe he’s seen some stuff before this that gives him a certain inclination. Whatever.”

“Thing is… and this is where the movie gets good… that thing he saw? Its REAL. Sure it wasn’t supposed to be where it was that night he saw it. But its real. See, what happens is,” he puts the movie back on the shelf and turns to me now, clearly getting excited, “there’s a lot of people out there. Smart people, dumb people, people with money, people who ain’t got shit. So what happens when the people with money hire the smart people to figure shit out? Like, not your normal run-of-the-mill shit. I’m talking craaaaaaazy shit. Like, ‘what happens when you sew two monkeys together,’ or ‘make me a two-hour movie of black people getting killed by electric eels,’ or ‘make me a real sphinx for a pet,’ or…” he pauses for effect, “what would the result be if you pumped a human subject full of heavily modified arachnid RNA. You know… just to see what would happen?”

He gets this queer little half smile on his face. “Anyways, the monster gets back to the scientists that made it. See, they’re holed up in some abandoned factory or warehouse or maybe some empty neighborhood. They started moving in when people started moving out. They’ve been doing it for decades; following wars and natural disasters and stuff. When societies start really crumbling, when they reach this state of civilized anarchy, where its bad but people are still trying to act like it isn’t, that’s where these scientists go. It lets them work in peace without having to worry about cops and governments and stuff. They can grab people right off the street. No one notices.”

He licks his lips. “But our boy, he doesn’t know any of that, right? All he knows is he saw a monster. But anyways,” he swipes his hands through the air like he’s throwing baggage at the airport, “the monster goes back to these guys, and its seriously fucked up. Like, to get away our boy pulled some serious shit on it.  So it goes back to these guys to get itself patched up. And its PISSED. It wants blood. But the scientist guys are like ‘no you’re too fucked up, you can’t go,’ so they send ANOTHER monster out to get the kid. But that doesn’t work either. So now our boy is twice as freaked, and the scientists are running out of subtle ways of doing things, you know? Running out of ideas. So they switch tactics. They try diplomacy. Send a dude out to talk to the kid, try to see if he’s cool. Dig?”

Oh, I’m digging alright. I’m dug right to fucking China. I nod.

“Tell you what, lets get some food. You like Chinese? Wait, you’ve got great taste in movies, of COURSE you like Chinese.”

He pulls his trench aside to flash the butt of a gun shoved in his waistband.

Yup.

Expected that.

“You’re paying.” I tell him.

He laughs. It sounds like one of those tiny dogs thats only good for kicking.

Snow has started falling outside again as we walk from the video store to the little Chinese joint thats in the same strip mall. I’d like to say my mind was racing with MacGyver-type solutions to my current predicament, but truth be told I’d been abandoned by all smarmy mojo.

The Chinese place is warm and generic. He orders pepper beef and chow-mein. I order lo mein chicken. And sure as shit the douchebag pays.

“I love places like this,” he tells me as we wait by the pickup counter. “Just tastes so much better. I don’t know if its the rat meat or what its just… better, you know?”

I shrug.

The perennially pregnant girl behind the counter smiles at me as we take our trays. I’ve been in a couple times before and I’m guessing I’m kind of hard not to recognize. What I cant figure out is how she’s ALWAYS pregnant when I come in, despite the fact I’ve been patronizing the place for two years now.

My buddy clears it up on his own.

We’d just sat down in a laminate booth when he takes a huge shovelfull of his beef and chow mein, points at her with his chopsticks, and through loud smacking says “She’s one of ours.”

I look back at the girl who’s now on the phone resting her hand on her belly, and then back to my new friend.

“Incubating,” he says. “I’m not really sure what.”

This guy was incredible. I mean, I’ve waded through more than my share of human refuse since third grade. But this guy was on a whole different astral plane of asshole.

“You pay her for that? Cause I could use some extra dough.”

He laughed his yippie dog laugh again.

“Not exactly.”

We eat in silence for a bit, him enjoying his food and me watching for an opportunity to sink one of my chopsticks into him lobotomy style.

“You know,” he pipes up, “I really think you’re dealing with this well.”

“Guy flashes me a pistol, how else am I supposed to deal? Now, toss the cannon out that door and we’ll revisit how well I’m dealing.”

His face gets a sort of “you shouldn’t had said that,” look. I was able to recognize it from mom making that face a million times growing up. He throws his chopsticks into his empty bowl

“Alright fine. Down to it then,” his voice gets real tight, “the people I represent are offering you a truce. This is a one time, walk-out-that-door-and-its-gone, offer. The terms are simple: you keep your dumb mouth shut about anything you’ve seen or might see henceforth. In exchange, we refrain from allowing a certain level of retribution to be meted out and we’ll endeavor to keep from involving you any further with our projects. Straight and clear. Do we have a deal?”

A deal.

That starts nagging at me something awful.

A deal.

Nag nag nag.

What!? Why is that so important brain? I’ll just say yes and they’ll leave me alone and life can go back to its hideous shade of normal.

A deal.

Why?

Why… a deal?

Why would they offer me a deal?

It starts to come into focus. Why would a group like this offer me a deal? Ok… think this through quick. The first time the spider-thing tried to eat me was evidentially an accident. The mouth thing was intentional. So what changed? From what this jerk says they make people disappear all the time. Its not like the world would really notice if another two-bit musician dropped a couple of tracks and then evaporated from the scene. It happens all the time. So what about me was so important that they COULDN’T  just off me now and this was their preferred option? A sudden streak of benevolence?

I look back at the pregnant girl.

Nope, not that.

So… what then? And how do I figure it out?

“I’ve got a different idea.”

His eyebrows go up and he smiles like a dog that just got caught eating its own shit.

“This ought to be good. Shoot.”

Oooooh fuck, Bret. Here it goes.

“I want to join up.”

He bursts out laugh-barking. Makes the pregnant girl jump.

“You?” he keeps laughing. At least someone is. “YOU want to join up?”

I nod.

“Call ‘em.”

He stops laughing.

“You’re serious?”

I point at his jacket where I hope he keeps his cell.

“Call ‘em.” I tell him again.

He stops laughing. And smiling for that matter.

“Outside,” he says, thumbing at the door.

I follow him toward a late eighties navy blue Ford Taurus in the parking lot. He pulls his cellphone out of his inner jacket pocket (way to go me,) and dials someone while we walk. I obviously eavesdrop.

“Yeah its me. Let me talk to Injin.”

He waits for a few minutes with his back turned to me. I check the ground several times for something to glance off his skull but the snow has conveniently hidden anything I might use as a weapon. Thanks again, Detroit. The one time your garbage-ridden streets could have helped me out…

“Injin. Its Ben. I’m with the Stahli kid. He says he wants to join up.”

He gets quiet. I’m guessing Injin is talking.

“Uh huh. Uh huh,” he pulls his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door of the Taurus.

“Right. Ok,” he opens the car door.

“Alright. I’ll tell him. Yeah, bye.”

He slaps the clamshell shut on his phone turns to face me. He’s clearly irked.

“They want me, don’t they?” I ask with a smirk.

He frowns more deeply at that but nods an affirmative.

“He told me someone would contact you in a couple weeks.”

“So… that means you and I are on the same team then, huh?” I have to admit, I’m enjoying the turned tables.

“Yup, thats what it means.”

“Well then I guess I’ll be seeing YOU later, partner,” I cant resist giving him the two-finger guns.

Then I accidentally bump the open door of the Taurus, slamming his fingers in it.

I hope La Femme isn’t rented yet.

“I don’t understand Magistrate.”

“There is nothing to understand. The ruling is passed. This notification is merely a courtesy. Your estate and its lands are forfeit. You have seven days to remove yourself from the premises, or you will be removed by the authorities.”

“But Magistrate… I was not even allowed to defend my case. Surely there must be some recourse, some sort of appeal…”

“I will not hear of it Mister Cisneros. What you are dabbling in is unholy. Unnatural. I don’t like it. This Quorum doesn’t like it. And most importantly the Governor doesn’t like it. You are deposed sir. I suggest you spend your last seven days as a member of this city saying your goodbyes and preparing what effects you can carry with you. Because in seven days you will be put outside the walls of this city, and may the goddess have mercy on you.”

The judgement sphere came down with a crack.

Dim Cisneros pushed his spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose and shoved his fists into his longcoat, leather creaking at the shoulders. Dismounting the steps of the Imperial Courthouse he ignored the hansoms parked along the curb, electing instead the long walk home to think.

Deposed. The cruelest judgement that could be passed. Typically reserved only for rapists and murderers. And now he, Dim Cisneros, savior of Heatherdale, would be put outside the dome he created, left to the elements and the constant meteor strikes.

A death sentence.

How had this happened? How had it gone from parades and celebrations, from drinks on the house and his pick of the women? He watched as a passing mother pulled her two children closer to her, averting her eyes.

He had gotten bored. That’s what had happened. Creating the dome and its shields had brought him celebrity. It had brought him wealth. It had even brought him a treasured estate in the much-coveted countryside. But it had not brought him satisfaction.

After the completion of the dome, he had found himself with nothing to do. “A brilliant mind left to rot under the weight of its accomplishments,” was how he had seen it.

A low, resonating peal rang out as a particularly large meteorite rang off the dome’s shields. He stopped and looked up toward the roof, using his hand to shield his eyes from the intense irradiated lamps that served as Hetherdale’s sun and moon. There, in the haze of distance he could just make out the massive gears of the Cisneros Sentry Shielding System. Dim watched as they slowly grumbled to life, pulling the damaged plate away from the exterior while sliding a new plate into place. He knew that high up along the dome’s peak the damaged armor was being drawn by powerful machines into the foundries to be melted down and reforged into a new armored plate.

Conflict swirled within him. He took great pride that his machines worked so well. Indeed, his inventions had saved every life in Heatherdale. The interlocking armor system, inspired by the scaled hide of his golden thorntail lizard ‘Chesapeake’; diverting the river that divided the town to dead-end into a natural fault, giving them the endless geothermal power necessary to run both the entire city as well as the gargantuan machines of the CSSS; using the naturally occurring copper and tin veins running throughout the city’s foundation to demonstrate that bronze, not iron, would be the superior material for the interlocking scales of the shield; and all of these by age 25. And yet it was not enough. He was driven still – to create, to discover, to explore. And so he turned to the only unexplored reaches he could find: the chemistry of the mind.

A hansom drove by, horse hooves and banded wheels clattering loudly on the cobblestones as a half-heard insult drifted from its window. Dim had grown used to this kind of treatment the few times he had appeared in public after he had begun his research. People always feared what they didn’t understand; he knew that. He had long ago rejected the church and its taboos, but the majority of the city didn’t share his distain. They followed the words of the priestesses devoutly, and the priestesses said that dabbling in the sciences of the mind were the holy calling of the clergy alone. To experiment in such things without the calling or anointing of the goddess was the work of warlocks and heretics. And so as Dim’s work progressed, more and more the word began to be whispered around that he was violating the sacred rites.

And indeed, he had been.

The equipment had been the hardest part. Even with his immense fortune he had been unable to persuade any abbey, large or small, to part with their mixing apparatus. Knowing well he had already begun rumors by his inquiries, he turned instead to obtaining a copy of the sacred instructionals. This proved almost as difficult, until Dim had found an old priestess, long out of ministry. She lived in near-poverty at the heart of Heatherdale, forgotten by her younger more imminent sisters. He offered her millions (what was money in exchange for discovery?) and she had turned over the holy writings he would require to create his own sacrament machine, albeit with a warning:

“I urge you to reject the path you have chosen my son. The heart can always be relied on to break; the will to falter, and belief rot to doubt. If not in you, then in those around you. You are beginning a road that can only end in much grief.”

Dim had thanked her for the warning, and then left with the manuals.

Abbey bells began tolling throughout the city, and Dim grimaced at the sound. Irritated with himself now at his decision not to take a cab, he looked up from his thoughts to take in his surroundings. He was somewhere near Raven Street and Lakewood Avenue, placing him towards the outskirts of the city proper. Buildings were closer together here, newer built than the city center but much more real estate-minded, growing up instead of out. Alleyways snaked between buildings, constantly dark from the shadows cast by the brick edifices around them.

He had seven days left.

He resumed his walk at a quicker pace, hoping to escape the city confines before too many parishioners filled the streets. He was sure by the evening the news of his deposition would have reached the ears of the whole of Heatherdale. Better to be home before that happened.

After he had collected the books from the old priestess he had barely been able to contain himself. Life again became how it had been in the early days of Heatherdale. Back when it had been a much smaller city of a much larger world. Back when Dim had been young and life was filled with honors school. Back before it was discovered that their moon was dying, and barring a miracle the whole world would die with its destruction.

Seven years. That had been the conservative estimate of the lunar geological society. Life had seven years before their satellite began to break up and rain debris down, pulled into the atmosphere by the planet’s gravity. The impacts would be catastrophic. Dust would block out the sun. Oceans would boil and evaporate creating violent storms and intense climate change. Billions would die unless mankind discovered a way to counteract it. So man began to search for an answer. Every school and learning institution commissioned its best and brightest students to the task. Think tanks formed around the globe, and stratagems set forth. Domes, such as the one surrounding Heatherdale, were quickly set upon as the best protection against the approaching doom, allowing cities and their inhabitants to be enclosed rather than requiring an entirely new form of dwelling to be created from scratch. A few of the intelligensia disagreed, arguing that inhabiting subterranean cave systems and waiting for the violence to subside would be the best way to ensure survival for the species. Both alternatives were hastily pursued, with domes going into construction immediately. As the world descended into chaos and governments collapsed it became clear that only cities that had access to all the materials required would be able to complete the projects in time.

It had been then that an eighteen-year-old Dim, already in his third year of graduate schooling, had proposed the Cisneros Sentry Shielding System to a collection of city leaders and officials, outlining how the city dome could be covered with a series of interlinking armored plates using the abundant natural resources that existed within the city limits, making Heatherdale impervious to the coming destruction. Sweeping change would have to be made to lifestyles of its citizens, but life, at least in one city, would continue. Dim had worked night and day, architecting machine designs on the fly, calculating power consumption ratios, until at last the shielding was in place. Six days later the moon had begun to break up and radio communication was lost with the outside world as all exterior portals were sealed.

But Heatherdale was saved.

And it was all thanks to Dim Cisneros.

There had been talk of renaming the city after him but he had refused, saying he wished to retain what heritage remained in memory of the fallen world outside. He had, however, accepted a sprawling estate in the little bit of countryside that had been preserved within the dome. The rolling fields were the most wide open space that could be come by within the city, and they quickly became a coveted commodity, one that Dim valued greatly. As he had begun his new pursuits the property in the countryside had been a valuable lure to the downtrodden and destitute that he needed for his experimentation.

Yes, he acknowledged, his experiments had eventually required him to take some liberties with Heatherdale’s citizens. None of them had been permanently harmed, of course. And all had been handsomely paid. But the mind had proved a tricky thing, a much greater advesery than Dim had anticipated and there had been some collateral damage.

The parts of the sacrament machine had been easy enough to come by once Dim had re-copied the diagrams from the sacred texts without the accompanying mumbo-jumbo. It had been a simple matter to have each piece fashioned by a different craftsman, thereby keeping rumors and suspicions at a minimum. Once his machine had been assembled, Dim had begun studying how to operate it. This had brought to the surface the first real difficulty with his plan when he realized that unlike the priestesses, he did not have a library of thoughts to choose from. While they moved freely through the hospitals, taking a sampling of the first thoughts of every child born in Heatherdale, he had begun his work with none to work from. And without thoughts: hopes, dreams, fears, desires… he had nothing with which to operate the sacrament machine.

Without thoughts his new pursuit would die in its infancy and he couldn’t abide it. So he improvised. Creating a design garnered from reverse engineering aspects of the sacrament machine, Dim constructed a padded table with a “thought extraction apparatus” attached to it. The table allowed the subject to lay face down comfortably and still breathe, while the triple-jointed arm of the extraction apparatus allowed Dim to position it correctly no matter the height of his subjects. It’s surgical forked “tongue” would enter the subject slightly above where the spine meets the brainstem after a powerful local anesthetic was administered. (Having them unconscious would muddle the thoughts that were extracted.) When activated the extraction apparatus would monitor the subjects as Dim read them a series of questions, recording their responses to a chemical mixture that was then labeled and stored for use in the sacrament machine.

His first tests on his house servants went flawlessly. The vials of thought filled up, black and crimson and a purple so deep it was difficult to tell from the black. Dim mixed a small amount from each one, eight in all, into the retaining bowl of the sacrament machine. With trembling hands he had poured the mixture into a newly acquired syringe and then injected it into his arm.

A rock glanced sharply off his head, breaking his train of thought. Dim turned to see five or so boys behind him, laughing and hollering at their success. Another wound up and threw, narrowly missing his ear. Pulling his longcoat up around his ears to shield his head from the projectiles Dim began to run, cursing himself for not taking one of the cabs. After a block the boys gave up their pursuit and he was able to resume walking, head still throbbing form their direct hit.

After he had collected the first samples from his household servants and experienced his first real sacrament, Dim had been hooked. He had quietly gone about the city at night, hiring vagrants and the poorer families to come to his estate. Each spent a hour or sometimes two upon the extraction table, and every one was handsomely paid. The problem, he had discovered too late, was that the destitute were also the most prone to rumormongering. The whispers that had begun during his inquiries about the sacrament machine grew into open questions from the media first and city officials later. As Dim struggled to build his thought library, word began traveling around the city. He had gone mad; His experiments were unholy; Children had disappeared after entering his home; all manner of rumors spreading like a fire. After all, the only thing more exciting than a celebrity to a closed populace is a celebrity’s fall. Volunteers became harder and harder to find as pressure mounted from inquiries.

He broke from the confines of the city onto the wide open space of the country road that would take him home. Conflict swirled within him. Seven days. What could be done with seven days?

And then… inspiration.

The thought darted in and then out, like a pesky insect. He lunged for it mentally.

Comprehension snapped shut, devouring it whole.

His heart quickened. Could it be possible?

He sprinted the last half mile to his soon-to-be former estate, too excited to give thought to his body’s protestations. It seemed an eternity between the key’s insertion into the door and its tumbling of the lock. Still longer to shove the doors of the estate open wide.

“Millicent! Millicent!” Dim yelled.

Millicent Polifunnel, chief stewardess of the estate, came bustling onto the upstairs landing visibly upset. “Mister Dim! What’s happened? Are you alright sir?” She was used to Dim’s typically calm demeanor, and his shouting was very uncharacteristic. She was visibly shaken by it.

“Oh yes yes, everything’s alright. Well…. I’ve been deposed, but that’s not important right now.

“Deposed?!” Millicent’s hands shot to her mouth in surprise.

“Yes. In seven days the magistrate will remove me from the estate and put me out of the dome. But that’s not important right now. We don’t have the time. I need to you get me the following…”

“Deposed! Mister Dim, I don’t understand….”

“Millicent! You’re not listening to me! I can reverse it!”

“Reverse? Mister Dim what are you talking about? Deposed? I don’t understand….”

“Millicent Millicent!” Dim grabbed her by the shoulders, smiling broadly. “Have you ever understood a word I’ve said? Rarely at best. Now I need you to focus, dear woman. I’ve figured it out. Dim Cisneros has done it again.”

“Done what sir? What are you going to do?”

“Millicent, I’m going to reverse the whole process. Start to finish. I’m not going to take people’s thoughts and mix them into a sacrament.”

He paused, distracted by the fiery ache he was just beginning to notice coming from his legs.

“I’m going to mix myself IN. Into the sacrament mixture.”

“I just don’t know, sir. I mean, deposed? You? The hero of Heatherdale? You saved all of us…”

“Millicent, now isn’t the time. I have too much to do. I need a list, er, I have a list of things I need you to get me. I’ll be down in the lab. I don’t have much time.”

And so he began. Dim didn’t sleep at all the first night, or the second. By the third day the only way Millicent and the other servants convinced him to rest was with the argument that he was losing his edge. His mind raced; new ideas crawled from every recess of his brain all begging for a chance to be borne into the world. He workshop became more and more cluttered has he worked feverishly, discarded brass housings and sealing screws creating a dissonant symphony as he shuffled through them from workbench to workbench. It was the old days reborn, with the fires of creation burning bright in his eyes as Dim flew from test to test.

The fourth and fifth days rose and fell. On the morning of the sixth day, Dim pushed himself back from his workbench with sleep-dry eyes and beheld his handiwork.

“This is it, Millicent. This could be the greatest thing I’ve ever done.”

Millicent, asleep with her husband in the servants quarters at the rear of the house, didn’t hear him.

He stroked his fingers lightly along the brass scrollwork of the outer housing of the cylindrical body of his invention. Dim had sacrificed his best brass fireplace screen to make it, but he had not had another container large enough and of similar dimensions to create the proper housing, so he had heated the screen until pliable and then wrapped it around the entire device. One halved brass banister sphere now formed the domed top and bottom of the casing to complete its armored shell.

“What to call you?” Dim mused to himself, scratching absently at the stubble threatening to claim his face.

His fingers traced the top cap, caressing the hose that protruded from the end and following it up to what he called the “harness,” a wide leather collar that contained a tight round collection of needles set on a small brass housing. One side of the collar was much longer than the other, allowing the wearer to cinch it tight around the neck with only one hand. The needles were positioned on its interior so that when the collar was tightened, the needles would penetrate the skin and sink partially into the brain stem, making the vital connection.

“The think tank?” Dim snorted at himself in amusement. “Ah well, maybe another day. We’ll have all the time in the world to think about it, wont we? And now, to fill you up.” He set the container back onto the workbench.

Dim unhitched the heavy lock he had kept on his thought storeroom. Only half of one of his twelve shelving units were full, bringing a disappointed frown to his face. He had hoped to crowd the room from top to bottom one day.

“Dreams best left undreamed,” he sighed to the storage room.

He began checking each laboratory tube label, casually hoping something would jump out at him, occasionally scribbling a note onto his clipboard. He was still thusly engrossed when Millicent came and announced that brunch was ready.

“Its an impossible question,” he told Millicent between bites of ham steak. “How can I possibly choose? I have one day to to create the perfect mixture, my own personal heaven. And yet, What will I need? Its agonizing.”

Millicent nodded, dusting a bust near one of the dining room windows.

“Do I simply fill it with happiness? Then what of triumph? And if triumph and happiness, what of love? And if happiness and triumph and love, what measure of each? AAAHHHH!” Dim threw his knife and fork crashing to the china in frustration. “Its impossible,” he said again with finality.

“Begging your pardon sir, but impossible or not you’ve only got till tomorrow morning,” Millicent reminded him. “The magistrate said…”

“Oh I know what the magistrate said,” Dim growled at her. Then he sobered. “I’m sorry Millicent. I know you’re only trying to help.”

“What if you mixed in equal amounts of each? Minus the bad?” She asked.

“I suppose thats what I must do,” he conceded with a sigh, “yet I can’t help doubting its the right mixture.”

“Course, with NONE of the bad, there’s nothing for you to conquer,” Millicent, clearly lost in thought now, said.

Dim considered that. “You’re right of course. What do I love more than a challenge?”

“Then maybe that’s it, sir? Mix this moment. Right now. Everything you’re feeling and each in its measure.”

Dim looked at Millicent, speechless and dumbfounded.

Millicent, seeing his look, cast her eyes down. “Begging your pardon sir. Just the ramblings of a foolish old woman.”

“Millicent….I….thats…” Dim stumbled over the words as his mind raced.

She was right. His nirvana didn’t come in the form of euphoria or wealth or power or past successes. It came in the fight; in the conquering of foes to great to be beaten by anyone else. He was Dim Cisneros: Master of the Impossible; he would only be happy if he had problems to conquer.

“…That’s brilliant.”

Returning to his lab, Dim cleared away everything on the workbench except for the sacrament machine, his new device, and a single sheet of paper with a pencil. Perching on his work stool he began to write, noting each emotion he was feeling and in what amount he though best represented its intensity. Using this as a recipe, he began shuttling back and forth between his storage room and the workbench, carefully measuring each amount of thought mixture into the receiver of the sacrament machine. It took him until dinner time to complete the concoction, and when it was done he carefully poured it with shaking hands into his new device, sealing its airtight container shut with clamps. Millicent joined him briefly to help hold the device upright while he poured. When he was done, he wiped away the sweat he hadn’t realized was there from his forehead and stepped back to regard his device.

Millicent patted him on the shoulder, “Dinner’s ready sir. Shall I keep it warm for you?”

“No, no,” he started towards the door and then looked over his shoulder at the device once more.

“I’m coming.”

Banging on the door woke him, and the thought came before he opened his eyes.

“Today is the day I die.”

Dim climbed out of bed, listening to the muffled voices downstairs as he got dressed in the clothes he had laid out the night before: his favorite gray suit with matching vest; a freshly pressed white shirt; a thin tie the color of ripe apples; his best loafers; and, of course, his spectacles and brown leather longcoat.

Millicent knocked on the door gently just as he finished adjusting the knot of his tie in the mirror.

“Come in,” Dim said.

“Magistrate’s men are downstairs sir. They say they’re here for you,” her eyes were already filling with tears.

Dim walked over to here and took her by the shoulders.

“Thank you Millicent. And thank you for putting up with me these past years.”

She quickly threw her arms around him in an embrace, a choked sob escaping her. She let him go just as quickly, face red with embarrassment and sorrow.

“Twas always a pleasure serving you sir. You were a good master.”

Dim tugged at his jacket to straighten it out.

“Right. Now then. Lets see to my guests.”

The magistrate and a few members of the Quorum stood waiting in the foyer as Dim descended the staircase. A constable stepped forward with irons, but Dim waved him away.

“If its all the same to you Magistrate, I’d like to go willingly,” Dim said to the gathered men.

The constable looked to the Magistrate who nodded an affirmative to him.

A stalemate of sorts hung in the air. The Magistrate crossed his arms in front of him. A member of the Quorum coughed nervously. A constable fingered his baton absently.

“So… what happens now?” Dim asked with raised eyebrow.

The Magistrate cleared his throat.

“Dim Cisneros, you’ve been found guilty of sacrilege and questionable actions taken towards the people of Heatherdale. The time allotted for you to prepare your affairs has passed and it is now time for the judgement of deposition to be enacted. You will be carried from the estate in a constabulary hansom to the dome’s edge where you will be escorted outside the protective walls of the city as punishment for your crime. At this time you are allowed one final request, should you choose to make it.”

“I have chosen my request, Magistrate,” Dim said with no hesitation. “I request that my final invention be allowed to accompany me outside the dome. It is neither weapon nor treasure and has no value to anyone save myself.” Dim motioned to his new device which sat on an otherwise bare entryway table.

The Magistrate eyed the contraption warily, focusing on the cluster of needles protruding from the collar.

Dim saw his trepidation and continued.

“If you like I can wait to put it on until we reach the dome, and it can ride under the care of the constables.”

The Magistrate nodded gruffly.

“Very well. Your request is granted.”

The constable who had sought to put him in irons stepped forward again.

“Constable Furler will take your invention sir. If you’d please follow me?”

Dim followed the constables out into the drive where several hansoms sat awaiting their passengers. Constable Furler took Dim’s invention up with him to ride next to the driver while the other took Dim around to the rear and opened the barred door.

“Inside if you please, sir,” the constable motioned to the sparse interior. “Any bench will do.”

Dim climbed in, stumbling over one of the thick eyelets sunk into the floor.

“Those is for the chains, when need be,” the constable explained, hoisting himself up after Dim and taking the bench opposite.

“Didn’t see them,” Dim replied. “Its my first time in a constabulary wagon.”

“And your last, as I understand it,” the constable retorted, making a show of removing a gold charm on a chain from under his collar where it hung hidden and allowing it to lay across his chest.

Dim noted the charm was a common one amongst Heatherdale citizenry: the Hands of the Goddess.

They rode to the dome wall in silence. As the hansom jerked softly to a halt, Dim noted the quiet murmuring of voices outside; like he was two doors down from a cocktail party. The heavy lock turned and the door swung open revealing Constable Furler and Dim’s invention. But the Constable was far from the only one there.

In addition to the Magistrate and the Quorum, a large crowd had gathered around the airlock. Dim saw several members of the press, flashbulbs beginning to fire even before he exited the hansom. Faces young and old met him everywhere he looked; a sea of people, all owing their lives to him, and all come to see his ended. It was a rare day indeed when a celebrity was deposed; much less the savior of Heatherdale.

Dim climbed down the steps of the hansom, ignoring the questions shouted from the press, opting instead to take his contraption from Constable Furler and slide it on. He tightened first the leather straps that went around his shoulders and his chest, and then the collar, grimacing as the needles dug into and then through his neck.

Two constables stood at either side of the pressure wheel to the airlock door. At the Magistrate’s signal they deftly spun it open and slowly pulled the thick door open. The constable who had ridden in the handsom with Dim took him by the elbow.

“I’ll be walking you out, sir.”

Dim nodded at this and walked with the constable toward the portal. The sound of the crowd grew louder as they walked.

“Any last words?” one reporter shouted.

“How do you feel?” shouted another.

Dim paused at the threshold to the airlock and turned, looking at the crowd. Quiet descended as they strained to hear what he would say.

“Its been a long time since I’ve seen the sky. I’m looking forward to seeing it again.”

The constable pulled the inner door shut behind them and stepped to the outer door, twisting the pressure wheel until its locks released.

“This is it. Off you go lad,” he said with a grunt, shoving the outer door of the dome open.

A fog of dust blew in with a howl, coating them both instantly. The constable made a vain lunge for the outer door as the wind caught it and threw it open to crash into the bronze outer dome. Dim threw his arm over his eyes in an attempt to shield them from the grit that whipped around them.

“Go on then! Out with ya!” the constable yelled over the wind, grabbing a woven strap from the wall that was attached to the outer door. The strap was designed to allow someone to pull the door closed without exiting the relative safety of the airlock.

Dim coughed and pressed himself into the wind, striding forward in what he hoped was a courageous manner. He could hear the zips of small meteoric debris falling from the sky at incredible speed. This close to the dome’s edge the millions of tiny impacts sounded like it was raining bells. He passed the threshold of the airlock and the constable began the arduous task of pulling the door closed.

The wind tore at his longcoat, throwing it out wildly behind him. Dust choked his nostrils. Through squinted eyes he could make out the bleached and splintered bones of those who had been deposed before him littering the ground; none had made it far from the door.

The world was the color of rust; The ground, the sky, almost seamless in its separation. The dust and the wind obliterated everything from view. There was no sun; only a dull glow dimmer than the UV lamps of Heatherdale. Dim could make out no horizon, the blowing dust formed an impenetrable wall only yards from him. He remembered the mountains that surrounded Heatherdale before the breaking of the moon, but they were nowhere to be seen.

He knew he had only moments; flaming stones fell from the sky all around him, each singing its own demise. Dim raised his arms to the heavens, pulling in a breath choked with dust, he screamed in defiance of the sundered world around him.

His shout cut short as a meteor blazed through his skull, cauterizing the wound even as it tunneled through him. It happened at such speed that Dim was aware of the impact as his body began to fall.

He was gone by the time his body hit the ground, already riddled with holes.

“I don’t understand Magistrate.”

“There is nothing to understand. The ruling is passed. This notification is merely a courtesy. Your estate and its lands are forfeit. You have seven days to remove yourself from the premises, or you will be removed by the authorities.”

“But Magistrate… I was not even allowed to defend my case. Surely there must be some recourse, some sort of appeal…”

“I will not hear of it Mister Cisneros. What you are dabbling in is unholy. Unnatural. I don’t like it. This Quorum doesn’t like it. And most importantly the Governor doesn’t like it. You are deposed sir. I suggest you spend your last seven days as a member of this city saying your goodbyes and preparing what effects you can carry with you. Because in seven days you will be put outside the walls of this city, and may the goddess have mercy on you.”

The judgement sphere came down with a crack….

Cover Image originally by Jennie Faber. Used with Permission.

“Are you’re sure you’re ready for this?”

Maria, kneeling on the bed, undid the clasp of her purple polka-dotted bra exposing even more carmel colored skin as her response.

Shane started towards the bed, but she held up a finger.

“Wait,” she said.

“What?” Shane’s stomach dropped. Getting shut down this close to….

“Turn off the lights,” she said, hesitated, and then continued “and turn my stuffed animals around.”

Shane’s hand hovered above the lightswitch as he looked down to the trunk on the floor covered in stuffed creatures of various colors, shapes, and sizes. He looked back to Maria.”Seriously?”

She hesitated again, a strange look passing over her face. Biting her lip, she nodded.

“Ok. Sure baby. Whatever.”

Shane flicked the switch, plunging the bedroom into darkness. He paused for a beat, hoping she would think it had been long enough for him to turn the plush creatures around, and then threw himself over the gap and onto her bed, bedsprings protesting as he landed.

Maria curled against him in the darkness.

“Did you turn them around?” she asked.

“Nobody here but us,” he answered, avoiding her question.

“Good,” she said, and kissed him.

And from their vantage point on the trunk, the plush animals stared unflinchingly into the darkness.

The next morning Shane sat at his desk at his father’s law firm. At nineteen he was just beginning to consider what career he would pursue, the decision of which was made more difficult by his current job, which was to sit at a desk, occasionally look at papers, and get paid for it. Ambition hardly seemed worth the effort when he considered it. There was no way dad and his stepmom Lisa would stop supporting him; it was the best way to get back at his mom.

His cell rang. Maria. He answered.”Hey baby.”

“Hey, um,” she paused, “did you turn my animals around again before you left?”

What was it with her and the stupid animals? “Yeah baby,” he lied. “I didn’t think you’d want them left that way.”

“Ok good,” her voice brightened.

“What is it with those things anyway?”

“They’re from my abuela. My grandma.  From when I was very little. I don’t like them… I dunno… watching,” she explained.

Whatever. “Oh ok.”

“You think I’m weird don’t you.”

He thought about how he could use that to his advantage. “If I did, would you prove me wrong tonight?”

Maria laughed at that. “You’re terrible.”

“No, just horny,” he smiled at himself.

She sighed in mock exasperation. “Ok, you can come over tonight. My dad has bowling league and my mom is going out with one of my tia’s. I’ll tell Marco he has to go to bed early again.”

“Two nights in a row. He’s gonna be pissed.”

“He can deal with it,” she replied, and then purred “And then, I’ll deal with you.”
“Come on!” he yelled at the car in front of him which refused to accelerate as fast enough as his hormones required.

Turning on to Maria’s street, Shane slowed down to make sure her parent’s cars weren’t in the driveway. It was empty. He pulled up to the house and put the car into park. Maria was already opening the door.

“Hi baby!” she said as he strode up the walkway.

“Hey yourself,” he replied.

“Marco is just finishing dinner. I told him he could watch Fighting Force and then he had to go to bed.”

“Awesome.” Shane slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss.

“Maria!” Marco yelled from inside the house.

Maria put her hands against Shane’s chest and pushed off. Shane sighed.

“What?!” She yelled, walking back into the house, Shane following behind her.

“Where’d all the knives go?” Marco yelled from the kitchen.

Maria and Shane walked through the living room. Shane brushed his fingers against one banister of the stairs as he past.

Marco was standing at the island in the kitchen with peaunt butter, jelly, and bread spread out before him.

“What do you mean ‘where’d all the knives go?’” Maria asked him.

“Look,” Marco said, pointing at the knife block. There were several empty slits of varying sizes.

“I don’t know. Mom was making salsa on Wednesday. They’re probably all in the dishwasher. Here,” Maria grabbed a butter knife out of the sink and rinsed it off.

“Ew gross!” Marco exclaimed.

“It only had butter on it. Relax,” Maria rolled her eyes at him.

“Hey bud, you need help making that sandwich?” Shane asked him.

“Naw, I’ve got it,” Marco shrugged at him, scooping some peanut butter with the knife.

“Well hurry up. Fighting Force is on in ten minutes and then its bed time,” Maria told him.

“How come I always have to go to bed early when you come over?” Marco asked Shane.

Shane smiled at him, looking to Maria for help.

“Well, uh…”

“I watch scary movies when you go to bed. Shane comes over to make sure I don’t get THAT scared,” Maria told him.

“I’m not scared!” Marco protested, “I could watch them too! Abuela told me the spirits keep us safe. She said she made sure of it!”

“And Abuela used to tell ME that the spirits would be upset if I didn’t go to bed on time. So guess what?”

Marco sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” He said, picking up his sandwich and heading for the family room.

“What is with your grandma and spirits?” Shane asked Maria as she began making her own sandwich.

“My grandmother was a priestess from a tribe in the jungles of Peru,” Maria explained, spreading peanut butter as she spoke. “My grandpa was a Catholic missionary, a very strong man. But loving. Like a bear. While on his mission he met my grandma and they fell in love. She always used to tell me she could see people’s auras, their spiritual energy. She said no one glowed like abuelo.” Maria smiled faintly at the memory.

“How old were you when she died?”

“Me? Twelve. But Marco, he was only four or five.” She used the butter knife to cut the sandwiches she had just finished. “Abuelo died of cancer, and she followed him a week later. She told me in the hospital she was dying of a broken heart.”

“Wow, she loved him that much huh?”

Maria smiled softly at the thought. “Yes. She really did.”

“Maria!” Marco’s voice came from the other room, “I got some jelly on the couch!”

She rolled her eyes and sighed at Shane. “Coming!” she yelled back to Marco. Turning to Shane she asked “Baby, could you go get my sweatshirt from my room? I’m kinda chilly.”

“Now why would I want you to put MORE clothes on?” he asked her with a smirk.

“Just until you can keep me warm. Now go.”

He sighed and nodded, and pounded up the steps to Maria’s room. Flicking the lights on he saw everything as it had been the night before. He scooped up her hoodie from where it lay crumpled on her bed.

“I’ll be seeing you later,” he told the bed, giving it a firm pat.

Marco protested and stalled for another half an hour after Fighting Force ended, but eventually Maria’s threats drove him to his bedroom. Shane waited downstairs on the couch for her, idly channel surfing. After a few minutes Maria came quietly down the stairs holding a blanket which she threw on the floor in front of the television.

“What’s that for?” Shane asked her.

“I thought we might try something different tonight,” she told him, raising one eyebrow suggestively.

“Down here? Seriously? What about your parents? Or your brother?”

“My brother’s door is locked, and we would hear him coming. And I just talked to my dad while Marco told him goodnight and he said he won’t be home until late. And mom NEVER comes home early when she’s out with my Tia. Relax. We’ve got the place all to ourselves.”

She pulled him to his feet and tugged his t-shirt over his head in one fluid motion and then kissed him passionately. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, returning her fervor. He slid his hand inside her shirt and reached for her bra strap, but Maria suddenly pulled away, looking at him.

“What? What?” Shane asked, confused as to why she had stopped.

“Do you have a condom?” Maria asked him.

“Uh…..” Shane pulled out his wallet and checked all its pockets. No condom.

“We don’t NEED one…” Shane started.

“Uh huh. No way. You’re not the one that ends up knocked up.” Maria stepped back and crossed her arms, regarding him as if appraising something for purchase.

“So um…. what do we do?” Shane asked, clearly antsy.

“Well….” Maria paused, enjoying the position she had him in, “I guess you COULD use one of the ones I bought. Up in my top dresser drawer…”

Shane was sprinting up the stairs before she could finish.

“Quiet! Marco is trying to go to sleep!” she yelled after him.

“Oh, right.” Shane, already upstairs, walked over to Marco’s closed door. “Sorry Marco,” he whispered to it.

“Don’t worry about it,” came the muffled reply.

Shane continued down the hallway to Maria’s room. He opened the door and set his sights on Maria’s dresser on the far wall.

Agony bloomed in his right ankle, climbing his leg and exploding at the base of his spine. He toppled forward with a howl, throwing his arms out to catch himself and only half succeeding, slamming his right cheek into the carpet. In his confusion he barely registered hearing the door close behind him.

“FUM…!” he tried to yell instinctually from the pain, his eyes clenched tight against it, but something soft and cottony was already forcing itself into his mouth. His tongue shoved against the dry fabric, trying to dislodge it and clear his airway to allow for his gasp of pain. Instead it pushed further in, gagging him as he struggled for air. His eyes snapped open, blurred by tears. His vision was obscured by something blue and white pressing against his face, making it difficult to breathe and clearly the source of the esophageal assault. From his prone position with his chest against the carpet his left arm was useless so he made to reach for the obstruction with his right.

A new slash of pain erupted across his knuckles. Another came from his left calf, this one biting and deep. Two soft impacts on his back were accompanied instantly with stabbing pains that curled him into a ball. He reached again for his face, white lights clouding his vision.

Shane found a handful of something soft and furry and flung it across the room, pulling the obstruction free from his throat. A new pain blazed hot in his side and he gasped from its intensity. Bringing his palms to his eyes he rubbed the tears from them so he could get now get a clear look at what was going on.

Maria’s stuffed elephant, Mister Snuffles, lay against the closed bedroom door. The fake fur of his trunk was matted and wet with Shane’s saliva. In horror Shane watched as Mister Snuffles sat upright and then extended one of his stubby arms to steady himself as he climbed to his felt-padded feet. His face was as passive and friendly as ever, but as he curled a blue-white paw around the handle of one of the missing steak knives Shane began to understand where his injuries were coming from.

Maria’s stuffed animals surrounded him, each holding a different bloodied kitchen instrument.

“What…?!” He began to scream, but another animal jumped from the bed onto his back, thrusting its knife against Shane’s spine. He felt the serrations bump against bone as the blade sank.

“AAAHHH!” He yelled in pain.

The other creatures advanced on him, brandishing their knives. Shane threw his forearm across his face as a bunny slashed at his eyes, taking the damage to his arm instead of being blinded. He grabbed for the bed next to him, using it to pull himself to his knees and then climb unsteadily to his feet.

The plush animals moved slowly and silently, closing in on his ankles. Blood poured from the wounds on his back, hand, arm and leg, turning the waist of his jeans and the carpet where it soaked in crimson.

Mister Snuffles made to join the group around Shane, but was brushed aside into the wall as Maria opened the door. Confusion and fright twisted her face as she beheld her bloodied boyfriend surrounded by her stuffed animals brandishing knives and cleavers. She screamed.

“Maria! Help!” Shane yelled at her. A turtle which had gotten close enough to Shane to take a swipe did so, cutting his jeans but missing his leg.

“Ohmygod! Ohmygod!” Maria ran to Shane kicking the stuffed animals out of the way as she did. Some squeaked as they bounced from wall to floor, others made loud crashing sounds as they hit the venetian blinds. She threw an arm around his waist and pulled his arm around her shoulder, bearing up under him to help take some of his weight off his damaged foot. Half dragging half hopping she pulled him out of her room. She put Shane’s hands on the stairway bannister and turned back to her room.

Mister Snuffles had emerged from being crushed against the wall by the door and was now advancing towards them past the threshold, holding a steak knife. Behind him the other animals were already climbing to their feet from the places Maria had sent them flying, each reaching for their own discarded weapons.

“Oh god!” Maria said again. She stepped behind Mister Snuffles and punted, sending him over the banister and down into the family room. Her hand found the doorknob to her door and she yanked, slamming it shut.

“Maria, what’s going on?” Marco stood behind her in the hallway, sleepily rubbing his eyes.

“Marco go back to you room,” Maria told him, rushing to Shane’s side. From her vantage point she could see Mister Snuffles already at the foot of the stairs, beginning his ascent.

“I heard yelling,” Marco mumbled.

“Get in your room NOW!” Maria yelled at him again.

Blood poured from Shane’s wounds, dripping from the bannister as he slumped over it for support. His right achilles tendon had been slashed, keeping him from putting any pressure on his leg at all. He had stab wounds on his left calf, his side, and covering his back. The skin was split open across the fingers on his right hand and there was a gash across the meat of his forearm. His breath came in gasps through clenched teeth.

Marco’s eyes suddenly grew wide. “What happened to Shane?” he asked.

The door to Maria’s room thumped softly as it pressed against its doorframe. Colored fur began to appear at the crack between the door’s bottom edge and the hallway carpet; the animals were pushing themselves under. On the staircase below Mister Snuffles had gained three steps already and was boosting himself up onto the forth after throwing his steak knife up.

“Quick Marco, into your room. Hurry!” Maria told him, putting her arm around Shane and helping him hop towards Marco’s room. Her shirt and shorts were wet with Shane’s blood and already she was having to support him more and more as he weakened from blood loss. As quickly as she could she ushered Shane’s limping form behind her brother into Marco’s room and locked the door.

Maria helped Shane over to the bed where he collapsed. Marco stood in the far corner hugging himself in fear.

“What happened to Shane?” Marco asked her again.

“My stuffed animals. They… attacked him,” Maria’s mind was reeling.

“Your ones from Abuela?” Marco asked.

Maria nodded, tears rimming her eyes as she looked at Shane who lay on the bed breathing shallowly.

Marco started. “Are mine going to do it too?”

Maria hadn’t thought of that. She turned warily to face Marco’s dresser where his own collection of plush animals rested. They sat idly, giving no indication of animation or malicious intent.

“Marco, open the window,” she said.

“Why?” Marco asked.

Marco’s door began to rattle. A carving knife arced underneath the door grasped by pink and purple fluff.

“Marco, open the window!” Maria yelled at him as the door began to rattle louder and more soft appendages appeared at the crack below the door. “We’ll climb outside and call for help!”

Marco began fiddling with the window latch as Maria backed away from his stuffed animals and bent down to lift Shane.

“Come on baby, you’ve gotta get up,” she wedged one arm underneath his back and tried to muscle him into a sitting position. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”

Shane’s eyes fluttered open for a moment. “Maria?” he rasped.

“Thats right baby. Come on, we’ve gotta get out of here. They’re coming.”

Shane cried out in anguish as she half-helped-half-yanked him up to his injured legs again. Maria grunted, supporting Shane almost entirely. Marco was still struggling with the window lock as Maria began dragging Shane towards him. Mister Snuffle’s head had emerged from the door crack along with a bunny and a few others.

“Marco!” Maria shouted, seeing how close the animals were to getting in.

“I’m trying! Its stuck!” Marco shouted back, jerking on the windowsill for emphasis.

Maria leaned Shane against the wall nearest the window and joined Marco in pulling up frantically on the window. Mister Snuffles gave his body a last twist as he popped free from the constriction of the door. He bent to retrieve his steak knife which slid under the door from outside. The pink and purple bunny came through as well, brandishing a carving knife.

The window shuddered open two inches. Maria and Marco pulled frantically. A yellow teddy bear pulled its leg free and joined Mister Snuffles and the bunny in advancing towards Shane.

Marco left off pulling on the window, leaving Maria to yell at him.

“Marco, what are you doing!”

Marco slid back his closet door and reached inside, fingers curling around a small aluminum baseball bat he has used for teeball when he was younger.

“Keep pulling!” he hollered at Maria. Placing himself between Shane and the advancing plush animals he swung with as much might as a nine year old could muster. His dipping golf swing caught Mister Snuffles and the yellow bear sending them and their knives flying. The pink bunny dodged the bat, slicing at Marco’s ankles. Marco leapt back and swung again, sending the bunny behind his bed and embeding the carving knife into the drywall.

By this time several more animals had emerged from under the door, some standing to pull others through quicker.  There were easily eight or nine more in the room.

With a grunt Maria jerked the window free of its impedance, slamming it up into its frame so hard it rattled.

“Come on!” she yelled at Marco, throwing her arm around Shane and pulling him towards the opening.

Marco brandished the bat in front of him like a samurai sword, walking slowly backwards towards the open window. The stuffed animals advanced, spreading out in a semi-circle.

Maria, her arms around Shane’s torso, had already climbed out onto the small overhanging roof that composed the entryway to their home. Shane, exhausted from blood loss, had lost consciousness.

“Marco, get his feet! I can’t lift him!” she yelled.

Marco felt his back touch the bedroom wall. Mister Snuffles and the yellow bear had regained their feet and had begun advancing with the rest of the animals. He hurled the baseball bat in an arcing pattern at the attacking animals, sending them and their weapons flying in every direction. Then he knelt and grabbed Shane’s legs, helping Maria pull the unconscious teenager through the window before climbing out onto the roof himself. With a mighty jerk he sunk the window back into its closed position.

“Help! Help!” Maria began yelling. Across the street and two houses down a porch light came on.

Marco cupped his hands over his eyes and peered back into his bedroom. Maria’s animals all stood staring implacably at the window, their paws still curled around their knives. Mister Snuffles walked to he front of the group, tilting his head as he peered at Marco. With a heft he threw his steak knife straight towards Marco, who jerked back as the knife glanced off the glass. If the window had not been between them, it would have sunk right between Marco’s eyes.

On top of Marco’s dresser, Marco’s stuffed golden lion Roary stood up suddenly and jumped from its edge down to the floor, retrieving Mister Snuffles knife from the floor. His stuffed baseball, Mister Baseball, followed next on thin floppy legs.

“Help!” Maria yelled again. More porch lights came on.

“Um, Maria…” Marco started.

The rest of Marco’s animals climbed to their feet and hopped to the floor. His dragon, Fire, leapt from his dresser to his bed, stalking slowly along the edge with its back arched like a prowling cat.

Maria’s animals turned to face Marco’s. Roary the lion brandished the steak knife in front of him much as Marco had the bat, curling both paws around the hilt. Mister Snuffles turned from Marco and walked to Roary, taking a meat cleaver from a green kangaroo as he did so. There was a moment of stillness as the plush animals faced each other.

“Help! Please someone!” Maria yelled, holding Shane’s unconscious form in her lap. Up the street one of the neighbors stepped out onto their porch.

Mister Snuffles struck first, swinging the cleaver overhead like an ax at Roary. The lion dodged to the side, using its momentum to swipe at Mister Snuffles in a slicing motion.

Marco’s room descended into silent chaos. The animals rushed together like warriors on a battlefield, Marco’s unarmed group throwing themselves at Maria’s creatures heedless of danger. Fire the dragon pounced on the yellow bear, causing the bear to lose its grip on its knife. Fire scooped the blade up into its mouth and tossed it to Mister Baseball, who’s girth sat on top of the struggling green kangaroo. Mister Baseball snatched the knife out of the air with a single hand and with a smooth motion severed the stitching holding the kangaroo’s head to its body.

“Maria, come look at this! My animals are fighting yours!” Marco said.

Stuffing filled the air and covered the floor as the animals grappled and slashed. Arms, legs, ears, and heads of various colors and fabrics littered Marco’s carpet. Fire the dragon now held a bread knife in its mouth and was thrashing its neck around wildly as Maria’s goat and valentines day heart jockeyed for attack position. Roary, who was shorter than Mister Snuffles by two inches, had his steak knife pressed up horizontally against the elephant’s cleaver as Mister Snuffles pressed his weight into the blade. The lion tilted his blade to the side, deflecting Mister Snuffle’s cleaver to slide harmlessly down to the floor with a muted thunk. His blade now free, Roary plunged it up through Mister Snuffle’s chin just behind where his trunk met his face. The lion spun and lunged, and his knife came splitting forth from Mister Snuffle’s face. The elephant stumbled back, trunk hanging to one side and stuffing blossoming like clouds from his ruined visage. He took one last swipe with empty paws at Roary, and then fell to his back and lay still.

Marco’s animals had won. They quickly fell to dismembering the remains of Maria’s animals as Marco watched in amazement. Finally, when there were no two parts connected, Marco’s animals all turned to the window to face him. Roary gave a final wave, and then they all fell to the floor, lifeless as they had been the day before.

The paramedics arrived minutes later. Shane was taken to the hospital where he remained in a coma for three weeks. Marco and Maria were placed in juvenile detention after the authorities refused to believe their story. It wasn’t until Shane awoke and corroborated their tale of the murderous animals that they were released to their family on probation.

Marco’s room had been left untouched, considered part of the crime scene. As he and Maria entered for the first time he saw everything just as they had left it. the floor was covered in stuffing and torn animal limbs. Mister Baseball had been disemboweled and lay in a mess of his own synthetic entrails. Marco picked up Roary and hugged him first.

“Thank you. You were great,” he told the lion.

He did the same for his remaining animals, what few were left.

Maria shuffled through the stuffing, poking at it occasionally with her foot. A golden glint caught her eye, and she bent to retrieve it.

“What is it? What did you find” Marco asked.

“I’d forgotten she’d given this to me,” Maria said, holding a golden locket. “It was in the kangaroo’s pocket. I never even wore it.”

“Is that from abuela?”

Maria nodded.

“What does it say?”

Maria turned the locket over and read the inscription. “My dearest mija. Always stay pure. Love abuela.”

Chains. They’re the only thing I recognize. Here in this dark, so thick it chokes, these chains are both jailer and savior. I’ve been here so long now, I’ve lost track of everything. When they first threw me in here, the day the chains went on and the lights went out, I tried counting to keep track of the time. First in my head, then out loud. But eventually I fell asleep, and when I awoke I could no longer tell what time it was. That first night, I didn’t dream.

In a lot of ways, it was the best night I can remember.

In the dark, you go to sleep and you wake up, but you can never tell if you’re really awake. I think my eyes are closed, but it looks the same even when I think they’re not. I’m not sure anymore. Heavy on my wrists, old iron manacles locked and bolted. Chains running to two eyelets driven deep into the stone. I saw them on the day they put me here. How long ago was it now, I wonder? A day? Two? A week? Years? Who can say? I don’t even know if my eyes are open.

Its the dreams that are the worst. You go to sleep, you think you wake up but you’re not really sure. And then something moves in the darkness. The air shifts. Something scrapes. Skin on stone. Wet on dry. I feel the air move. Is something there? Is it my imagination? Is it a rat? Have they put something in here with me while I slept? Am I still asleep? Dreaming, right now? I try to wake up. I don’t feel any different. Am I awake? Then I hear the subtle clinking of the links together. And I’m relieved.

The chains. They hold me here, and yet at the same time they rescue me from the darkness by their very presence.

And then someone comes out of the darkness. A woman. I think I know her. She approaches, and I know I do. She is my wife, on the day we met. Dripping wet from her fall into the pond; shivering from the cold she comes to me. Embarrassed. Eyes downcast. Blushing as I offer her my coat. I hear the chains move as I hold it out to her, dragging against the stone. Chains? I don’t remember chains that day. I remember the birds. I remember her smell. Her white shoes. The sky so blue it hurt.

A serpent slithers between her feet. No. Thats not right. There were no snakes at the park that day. But it is there anyways, curling now around one of her legs. Its enormous. I can’t see its tail because of the dark. It just keeps coming, coil after coil, encircling the woman who would be my wife. No. This isn’t how it happened. Its not. “No!” I scream at the snake and the dark, but it ignores me, choosing instead to loop itself around her again. Her legs are gone now, buried beneath the massive body. Her waist is consumed by its writhing and still the snake climbs ever higher. I don’t want to watch so I try to shut my eyes, to look away. But the vision doesn’t go away. Its squeezing now, and she’s dying; her face first red then purple as she tries to draw breath. Her ribs are cracking, eyes bulging from their sockets. I’m screaming, hot tears streaming down my face as I watch her choked before me, the snake rearing up at last to strike. It hisses as it does, unhinging its jaw to better fit her head into its mouth. I’m straining at the chains, begging, pleading in unintelligible incantations for the horror to stop.

And it does.

I’m on my back.

I think.

It feels like there are stones beneath me. I move each arm carefully and there is soft restraint to my movements. The chains are still there, still holding me like a lamb for slaughter or a penitent wretch before the altar. I don’t know which.

You miss simple things. You miss the wind. You miss the heat of the day. I’d more gladly bake in the driest desert than stay here another moment. Perhaps thats it. Perhaps I’m in a desert right now, so delirious from thirst that I’ve begun to hallucinate this prison. I stretch out my hands for the pail of water and find it where it always is, half full, cool to touch and taste. Every day it leaves and every day it returns full. It is the only way I mark time. It brings with it a bowl of what I think is bread, it feels like bread, floating on the top. This is what time has become for me. Bucket-leaving and bucket-returning. It is the only time an exterior influence breaks my days. I have no way of knowing if my captors remove it at the same time every day, or if it is at different times. To me its all the same. The bucket leaves, and it is dark, and the bucket returns, and it is still dark.

The bucket leaves through a hole in the roof. At least I think thats where it goes. There is a rope tied to the handle that ascends towards the ceiling, and when its bucket-leaving the rope becomes taught and it rises beyond my head. My chains keep me from reaching above my head, so I am unsure if there is a hole or if it leaves by some other method. For awhile I kept the bowls the bread arrived in, hoping I might contrive from them some means of escape. But after weeks (Hours? Years?) of working with them I gave up. They did nothing against the stone or the chains and I was unable to break them to fashion any sort of tool. If I could have, it would have been a daring escape.

I’m here for a crime long forgotten. I spoke out against someone, I think. Perhaps it was a man. Or a government? I dissented. I disobeyed. I disagreed with their actions; their ‘policies.’ But what good is one man against a system? You can’t match power no matter your determination. These chains are the proof. No one was more dedicated to the cause than I. And yet here I am. No daring rescuers to save me, no uprising on my behalf. Just an old forgotten man chained to a hole somewhere they can forget about. And forgotten they have.

My water is gone. My food is gone. It feels like its been days since I’ve eaten. I would have rationed it if I knew it was going to stop coming, but how would I know? I hear nothing save for the chains and my mumblings. A little boy comes from a corner to hand me a loaf, but a crow snatches it from our hands before I can take it. Crying, he melts into the darkness as the crow flies off with his prize. Thank you my little friend. At least you tried.

A scraping sound. Not bucket-leaving. Something different. Another dream? Am I awake this time?

Bumps. Jingles. Clanks. More Scraping.

And then light.

I shout from the shock of it. Unintelligible words pour forth as it cuts a line through the darkness. Its been so long I’d forgotten what light looked like. But there it is, standing in front of me like a razor-thin ghost. Haunting me. Welcoming me into its ranks of dead, perhaps?

But no! It is spreading! The scraping brings it, grows it, spills it as it crawls. The stones, so heavy with the dark they too have forgotten it moan for its alightment, drinking it in like a river. Warming to its touch. Dismal shale and yet in their visibility more beautiful than the skies of Andromeda.

And then, the unthinkable. With a final groan the light gives birth to a doorway and a shadow. The monsters who share my cell howl at this insolence, furious at the intrusion. The doorway, as the light before it, has come bearing gifts. A cool sweet breeze ushered in by its rending of the dark claws at my skin igniting a thousand lost memories at once; bright hot suns burning just beyond touch. I shudder from their birth.

“Here!” shouts the shadow of the doorway and I fall as a dead man from the sound. My ears have long since lost their meaning and so to be so violently attacked is both shocking and profane. Yet, though I fall back, my chains keeping me from splitting my head, the shadow lets loose with still another ejaculation.

“I’ve found another one! Bring the Marshall!!”

Language. Dancing and free. Known and yet so foreign to me after so many bucket-leaving and bucket-returnings. I scarce know how to respond to this apparition.

Clacking. Steel on stone. I have heard this enough in my time to know it. It grows in fierceness and complexity. The doorway and its light grows dark again, but this time it is from crowding shadows. The dying light pierces my heart, but the shadows persist.

“Here now,” one of the black blobs says in a commanding tone, “can you speak sir?”

The monsters cannot contain themselves any longer. The light of the doorway had relegated them to the dark of the corners but now they brave it, smoking and burning as they do, for they see their prize slipping.

“It is your jailers, come to finish you!” one squeals, curling its tentacles around the chains to creep towards me, collapsing eyes pouring puss and ichor.

“Our masters have come to take you,” says another, row upon row of teeth glinting hungrily.

“No, its the devil and his minions! Flee! Flee!” says a third, taking flight up the hole for the bucket, which I can now see.

“Sir,” one of the shadows says again, stepping toward me, into my cell, “sir, can you speak? Alphonz! Get some light in here!” it yells.

“Here sir,” another says, glowing light blossoming from somewhere within it and flying across the cell to spread itself haphazardly.

I cannot remember when I have seen so much.

The sticks of illumination the shadow threw shed a soft green light. By it I can now see that the shadow before me is no shadow, but a man. Only he is not just a man. He is a conquistador. A god among men. A warrior-poet, commander of legions. His bladed helm gleams in the light, his breastplate reflecting me as an amorphous blob. His arms armored but free moving; his legs as well.

It is his boots that tell his tale. His boots are dented, tarnished, nicked in a hundred places. They are boots of a man who has seen much, traveled far, and destroyed many. The boots of a savior. Or executioner.

His face, still shadowed by his helm, remains a mystery. I cannot judge his intentions.

Words seem foreign. My lips, lazy with disuse, have trouble forming them.

“I…. I can speak,” I try.

The conquistador kneels at my side. I can smell war on his clothes.

“Your captors fled days ago. Monsters. They knew we were coming it seems. How long have you been here?”

“I…do not know,” I say, tongue fumbling each word.

“No matter, we will learn that soon enough.” He claps a strong hand onto my shoulder and smiles at me, trimmed goatee rising as thought saluting me. “You are a free man, sir.”

Tears bubble from my eyes. I reach to wipe them away and the chains pull at my hands, feebly clutching to their fading power over me.

“Delnachio!” the conquistador says over his shoulder to one of the shadows in the door, “cut these chains off this man at once. He comes with us.”

A shadow steps forward and soon I go with them.

But the chains remain behind.

3 AM. Greek Town. I’m standing on the roof of a parking garage, overlooking the neon. Its one of the few places that seems safe to walk around Detroit at three in the morning, so I like it here. I’m with a girl, someone I met. She’ll probably end up abandoning me for something different. I’m already getting used to the idea. It happens so often its like they get a merit badge for it or something.

Its been a few weeks since my ‘encounter’ with that whatever-it-was. Spider Man? Body Snatcher? Who knows. I haven’t decided yet whether I think its an alien or a monster. When it comes down to it I guess it doesn’t matter. Its off in the woods being monster-y, and I’ve got music to write.

I just released my fourth single, “Throw Away” out into the big bad world. If people knew what it was about they’d probably give me a Nobel Prize just for surviving it. But they don’t ask, and I don’t tell.

Have I told anybody about the monster? Hell no. Lets consider my options: I call the police. Tell them there’s a crazy human-impersonating THING out running around the woods of Detroit. At best I get fined for “pranks.” At worst, I get shipped to a mental institution. And while I should probably be in one anyway, when it happens it will be on MY terms.

As it is the pathetic excuse for police here have already demonstrated their intense and unjustified hatred for me. I get pulled over at least once a month. Not for speeding, or anything illegal, mind you. When I asked the officer what the problem was the last time it happened, his question was “Do both you have jawbs?” (I had a different girl with me in the car at the time.)

Excuse me?” I asked, more than a little confused as how my employment status had anything to do with this guy protecting or serving.

Jawbs,” he said slower, presumably so I could hear more clearly how stupid he sounded, “Do you two have jawbs?”

Um… yes,” I told him.

Detroit cops. Proven worthless since 1865.

So no, I haven’t told anyone. It wouldn’t do anyone any good. Least of all me.

Which is usually how it is anyways.

After Greek Town I drop the girl off. A quick make-out session fails miserably so I head off to the supermarket. I’ve landed a couple movie trailers, but ASCAP takes months to pay out, so for the next few days until I see some fundage from my releases its sardines and rice for lunch and dinner.

Ah, to be a rockstar. If people only knew.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but supermarkets are pretty depressing. Here is shelf after shelf, aisle after aisle, of products brightly packaged in an attempt to manipulate you into buying them. They’re one huge monument to who can trick you better.

Changing three CMYK values will cause you to be more sympathetic to that box of crackers. It cost them three trillion dollars to figure that out, but don’t worry, you’ll pay them back in spades for it, and think you’re getting a deal.

But I’m not here for crackers.

In the canned meats aisle I give the various fishes a good once over. No one ever teaches you how to shopped for canned fish. Its like aluminum-tinned russian roulette. Pull the wrong trigger, twist the wrong key, and you’ll sure as hell regret it. I make my choice (because I like the blue color of the mascot) and turn to head for the checkout.

But there’s a guy standing in my way.

Scratch that.

There’s a guy standing almost ON TOP of me.

I don’t know how I didn’t hear him come up next to me. I’ve got pretty good ears and an overdeveloped (I call that “healthy”) sense of paranoia. But he’s here and I’m almost running into him so my step falters and I take a step back to avoid it.

He just smiles, squints one eye, and points right at me.

Hey, don’t I know you?” he says.

This dude does not smell right. He’s got a filthy corduroy jacket on that was probably beige at one time over a dark blue sweatshirt thats missing all of whatever lettering used to be on it except an  “E” and part of what I’m guessing is an “S.” His jeans are stained with God-knows-what-but-it-was-reddish-brown and frayed and torn in all kinds of places that are probably uncomfortable given the temperature outside. And his shoes…

His shoes are brand new. White running shoes. No swoosh, look generic, but still clean as a whistle. I resist the natural urge to step on them.

I think I’d remember if we’d met before,” I tell him. “Sorry for almost running into you.”

I make the move to pass him, but he’s having none of it. He side-steps so he stays in front of me, scratching his three day old beard and squinting at me again.

Yeah…” He says, “You’re that Blues Trolley guy.”

Blue Stahli,” I correct him, already wishing I wasn’t having this conversation.

Yeah, yeah! Man I saw you at a coffee house a few weeks back.”

I remember all five of the people who were at that coffee shop, and this dude was none of them.

I…I was outside in the alley,” he continues. “You probably didn’t see me. But I heard all your songs. Wanted to meet you afterwards but you were talking to that girl. Didn’t wanna be a cock block.”

Fantastic. Exactly what I need more of in my life: Considerate vagrants.

Listen, I wanted to tell you…” he stops. I’m guessing he’s choosing his words carefully.

Your voice is kind of sissy.”

He shoves out his hand which is as dirty as his clothes. “I’m Mort. Mort Greenley. Its good ‘ta meet you.”

Something in me resigns itself to my fate. I grasp Mort’s hand. “Hi there Mort. I’m Bret.”

Hi Bret,” Mort says.

His face does this weird twist and my stomach instinctively drops to my balls. Mort tightens his grip into a death-clasp and jerks me suddenly into an aromatic and extremely awkward embrace,  throwing his free arm around my neck so I can’t pull away. (Which believe me, I’m trying to do.)

I know you saw one of ‘em,” He hisses into my ear.

THAT gets my attention. I stop struggling and he lets me stumble back into my own personal space. I open my mouth to speak but he holds up his hand.

Not here. Out back,” He says with gravity, turing on his new sneakers and disappearing around the corner of the aisle.

I have a scale I measure bums on. I had a lot of opportunity to develop it when I worked at a downtown coffee shop back in Phoenix.  On one end you have your ‘normal bums,’ the guys who either choose to live that way or have the kind of luck that I would refer to as “a good day.” On the other end you have your batshit crazy ones, the ones who’s jars just don’t hold any marbles. Mort was fairly normal according to the scale. He certainly didn’t meet nickname status like some of my favorites from back home such as“The Thruster,” or “Bird Lady.” I didn’t really trust him but I figured a back alley meeting for a little more information on what the hell had happened a few weeks ago was worth the risk. I headed to the checkout to pay for my rice and sardines.

Mort was waiting for me behind the store.

Mort was also not alone.

He had two other guys with him. From their state of dress I’d guess they were also fairly homeless. One had a dirty “formerly black” trenchcoat on over a couple of old christmas sweaters and a few pairs of sweatpants. His shoes were definitely not new. The other guy looked a little bit cleaner, but not by much; curly salt and pepper hair frizzed out in all directions, gray vinyl ski pants and a hoodie sweatshirt in about as good a shape as Mort’s. I couldn’t help but feel a certain disgust at the realization that Detroit humiliated even its homeless. These guy were dressed bad; even for bums.

This is the guy Jim. The guy from the car,” Mort pointed at me as I approached. “Bret this is Jim and Reggie. Jim told me about that thing you saw. He saw it too.”

What’s proper etiquette for saying ‘hi’ to a group of homeless guys in a dimly lit alley? You’d think I’d know this by now.

Evening gentlemen.”

Th…thats him! H…he’s the guy!” trenchcoat guy stutters out. The guy’s eyes looked like his skull was trying to squeeze them out like a couple of boiled eggs.

It was about this time that my paranoia kicked in like a mule. Here I was standing in an alleyway with a single dying streetlight talking to three guys about a creature I didn’t know the first thing about. Maybe they were connected to it somehow. Maybe they were talking to me to make sure I was ‘the guy’ before the lead pipes and boards with nails came out and I ended up another tragic Detroit statistic.

I th…th…think this is yuh…yours,” he says, interrupting my considerations and holding out something from his pocket.

My cellphone.

Jim found that after you cooked the critter and took off,” Mort said, pointing to the outstretched phone.

I muh…made a couple of calls. But they wuh…weren’t long distance or nothin,”

I took the phone from Jim and held it up to the light. It was scuffed from its tumble down the embankment that night but otherwise fine. I flipped it open but the screen stayed dark.

Battery’s duh…duh…dead,” Jim explained. “They duh….don’t last long in the cold.”

I put the phone back in my pocket, making a mental note to soak it in a gallon of bleach when I got back to the apartment.

Thanks,” I told Jim the bum.

People’ve been disappearing,” Mort said, looking at me. “Out on the streets, you get t’know people. We all stake our territory and do our best not to get in each other’s way. But you help each other out too. If someone’s handing out food or blankets and you find out about it, you let the others around you know. Its kind of a code.”

Lately though, its been different. People just vanish. One night they’ll be at their spot, the next night ‘poof!’ gone. So we got to talking. Started trying to get people to group up before they bed down. Then a few weeks ago while Jim there was settling in a drainage pipe he saw you and that creature. We’ve been looking for you ever since. We’d hoped…” he licked his lips, his breath rising like a cloud, “We’d hoped you might know something.”

I told Mort you had hair like a fuh…fuh…faggot!” Jim says, obviously pleased they found me.

I weigh my words carefully in silence while the bums look on. What do I really have to tell them? I didn’t know the first thing about the monster. It had showed up, tricked me, ripped its face off and tried to eat me. End of story.

I’m not sure how much help I can be,” I start. “The thing…”

I stop there.

Something isn’t right, and I know it.

There’s a new noise in the alley. Thats whats doing it. A sort of scraping dragging noise. I think it must have started while Mort was speaking and I’m just now realizing that its both picking up speed and getting closer. The bum’s are hearing it now too. They start glancing around, no longer concerned about what I might say. My paranoia kicks my heart into high gear. Jim’s eyes look like they’re gonna shoot out of his head. Mort bends down and picks up a piece of a broken pallet with a couple rusty nails jutting out of it.

Who’s there!” he yells, his voice echoing into the darkness.

We wait. I got the shit kicked out of me in all kinds of ways growing up, so I’m ready to get right the fuck out of here. I don’t have any kind of training to take someone on in a fair fight so I rely on speed and nerd rage, both of which I’ve made very good use of in the past.

The guy steps into the edge of the orange flickering light. He’s got a trenchcoat on like my buddy Jim and a knitted beanie pulled down almost to his nose. My “time to go” meters shoot through the roof.

Whossat? Barry?” Mort hisses.

Then a lot of things happen at once.

The guy throws his coat off and rushes us. Only its not a “guy” its… mouths. Hundreds of mouths. Maybe thousands. All snapping, chomping, gnashing silently. Covering a body shaped like a naked fat dude with really skinny legs. And I mean COVERING. There are mouths on its legs; mouths covering its bulbous jiggling torso; mouths all over the arms so the thing doesn’t even have hands, more like a couple of fleshy snapping tentacles.

And then there’s the head. Its shaped like a human head, but everywhere there’s supposed to be a hole there’s mouths. Mouths in where the eyes go; mouths where the ears go; and something that seemed even more horrific, a mouth where the mouth went.

With lipstick around it.

The thing pounced onto Jim. Full on belly-flop.  Jim started screaming and blood started shooting out from all directions.

Mort yelled “FUUUUUUUUUCK!” and splintered the piece of pallet across the thing’s back. His bravery was rewarded by the thing wrapping one of its arms around his head and putting him into a headlock. I can’t really describe the sound a dozen mouths makes as they tear into a man’s face, but it was covered quickly by Mort’s screams so I didn’t hear it long.
Something funny clicked in me and it was like I was suddenly outside of myself, watching this all happen. I watched me swing my plastic grocery bag full of tuna cans at the thing like a morning star. As soon as the bag touched the thing a bunch of mouths shredded it and the cans went scattering in different directions down the alley.

Then me and Reggie were running, sprinting towards the end of the alley. I could still hear Mort screaming, but Jim had stopped. The me-outside-of-me knew this was probably a really bad sign.

Fifty feet.

Forty feet.

Thirty five.

Mort stops screaming too.

Thirty.

Twenty five.

Reggie’s not beside me anymore.

Twenty.

Ten.

Silence.

I burst out of the alley, arms pumping like an Olympic sprinter. I run as fast as I can to the front of the store. The automatic doors almost don’t make it out of my way.

“Call the cops!” I yell at the nearest cashier. “There’s a thing in the alley! Its killing people!”

She looks at me for a second, half-gallon of milk in her hand, and then goes back to swiping.

“Did you not fucking hear me?” I yell, “People are DYING back there!”

A dude with a combover comes out of an office behind the lotto counter and heads my direction. I can read the look in his eyes perfectly. It says “Great. Another whack-job hopped up on meth.”

“You gotta… you gotta call the cops,” I tell him, out of breath from my escape. “There’s something in the alley behind the store. Its killing people!”

“Okay okay, calm down,” the dude, who I’m guessing is named ‘Bill’ if his managerial vest and nametag were any indication, says. “Lets go have a look.”

“Did you not hear me? Bad things! Dead people!”

“I need to see it for myself before I call the police. Its policy,” Manager Bill tells me, hoisting up a 3-cell Maglight. “Lets go.”

Against my better judgement I go with him. Its a tough sell to the 80% of me that’s still in “Oh Shit!” mode, but I know we need dudes with guns and we need them fast. Manager Bill and his delusions of grandeur walks about five paces ahead of me, flashlight on even though we can still see clearly thanks to the light from the storefront.

We round the corner of the store and keep heading for the alley. The closer we get the faster I’m breathing.

We reach the final corner and I grab Manager Bill’s arm to try and get him to go slower but he shakes me off and marches around it like the pompous ass he probably is. I slowly walk up behind him.

And see nothing.

The alley is empty. No body parts. No blood. No dead bums. No monsters. Nothing.  Just a dying orange streetlight, some boxes, and a lot of loose garbage. Manager Bill calls me a couple choice names he reserves for people who waste his time and takes off back to the store. I’m left standing there, totally stupefied.

Am I losing it?

Am I seeing things again?

Did I even meet Norm in the store in the first place?

I don’t know how long I stood there.  When you think you’re losing your mind you start to spend extra time thinking about things to make sure they don’t sound too crazy.

I’d almost come to the conclusion that I’d made it all up when I saw it. A glimmer of cleanliness amongst all the garbage. I approached it slowly, still wondering if the mouth-thing was going to jump out again and finish me off.

I kicked the cardboard boxes and empty energy drinks aside and there, buried beneath it all, hardly visible, was a formerly clean generic white running shoe.

It was almost completely covered in motor oil.

That shifted things in me. A lot. I started looking around the alley, realizing that there was a LOT more puddles of oil than when I had been back there earlier.

Almost like someone had come along and poured it back there.

I don’t know if hyperventilating is the right word for what I did. Panic came back tenfold. Not only had the mouth-thing killed the bums but SOMEONE HAD COVERED IT UP.

…and I was the only one who knew about it.
My phone rang and I flipped it open, hoping it was the girl from earlier. I wouldn’t tell her what had happened, of course, but I needed some sort of anchor to reality.

“Hello?” I said into the handset.

Now I know what you’re thinking. And you’re right. Jim had told me the battery was completely dead. I eventually remembered he had said that.

After I woke up in my car.

Two days later.

I’ve been listening to Ladyhawke a lot lately. She did a fantastic job capturing that elusive “feel” that the 80′s had. So much so that her album seems more like a great soundtrack than a plain old album. One night while driving home from my weekly poker game (while blasting the album with the windows down) I started to really wonder “What would a movie with this soundtrack look like?” So in my best attempt to retain that fantastic spirit of the 80′s, when even the lousy movies were awesome, here is the synopsis I came up with for “Ladyhawke & The Living Dead.”

Ladyhawke & The Living Dead

Samantha Mills was your normal small town teenage girl with big dreams. She went to Hollywood hoping to become a star and got more than she bargained for. Backstage at a Curries concert she met her rock idol, Raz, who took a liking to her. So much so he promised to make her into what he was. Problem was, Raz wasn’t only a god on guitar, Raz was also a vampire. Now, a screaming banshee on the axe in her own right, Samantha has returned with her own band “Ladyhawke & The Living Dead” to the town she grew up in to play a benefit concert for the town church where her brother pastors, leaving a trail of woozy groupies in her wake.

Rumor has it a scout for Island Records will be in the crowd. But as the curtain rises, so does the body count. Fans start turning up dead. Even worse, Sam is attacked by a couple of vampires and barely escapes. As the band takes the stage to play the second half of their set, Sam drinks enough from her brother to allow her to see what he sees and communicate telepathically with him, and then sends her brother to unravel the mystery of the murders and her attackers.

The story comes to a head as the scout for Island turns out to be the vampire thats been killing everyone and turning some into vampire slaves to hunt Sam. She too had been turned by Raz before he shunned her for his new turnee. (Samantha) The scout, Melanie Beckheart, had learned enough to know that the turnee had something to do with “Ladyhawke & The Living Dead” so she had begun following behind their tour, trying to learn more. But her patience had run out, so she had chosen this night to end it by killing the band. But when the attack on Samantha by some of her turned zombies failed, she had been forced to feed & to try and form another plan.

Sam’s brother, Isaac, discovers this independently and finds Melanie on the catwalk scaffolding above the band. Seeking to confront her, she grabs him by the throat and hoists him into the air. Sam, playing their last song, sees this, smashes her guitar, and then runs to the edge of the stage, severing the rope to the curtain. The curtain falls, jerking Sam upward into the air. Holding the splintered neck of her guitar, Sam impales Melanie as the curtain hits the stage, stopping her ascent. In the end, Sam saves her brother, the concert pays for the new church, and a scout from Atlantic no one knew was in the crowd signs the band. As the Atlantic rep closes the door to the band’s dressing room he smiles, showing off a gleaming sharpened incisor.

I light a cigarette. Not mine. I’m lighting it for the bleached blond beauty in front of me. Right now she’s the best looking thing at this joint. And in this city, all that really means is she still has all her teeth.

The city: Detroit

The city I live in.

The city that hates me.

The feeling is mutual.

I’m not looking to get laid. I’m pretty sure this number’s got Cthulhu hiding somewhere beneath her skirt waiting to wake from his city of R’lyeh and give me a bad case of itching / burning / amputation. Plus the way she’s giggling at everything I say tells me she’s just out tonight looking for someone to punish mommy and daddy with for not getting her that pony. With my tattoos and pink hair, I bet I’d fit that bill perfectly- but its not going to happen. So if I’m not looking for action, why am I going through the motions? I’m lighting her cigarette because I’m a gentleman, and I happened to have a lighter on me when she asked.

Why do I carry a lighter if I don’t smoke?

Easy. Sometimes I like to watch things burn.

Its 3 AM and its cold outside. I just finished playing an acoustic set at a no-name coffee bar for a crowd of all of five people, three of which worked there. It doesn’t matter much to me. I knew what I was getting into from the moment I stuck the keys in the ignition. You don’t pass up an invitation to work with a rock god, even if its a one-way ticket in the wrong direction.

The Celldweller – Klay Scott. ‘Klayton’  to his fans. Most of them don’t know his real name. I do. I’ve followed his work since I could go to the bathroom by myself.  I own every piece of music he’s released, and a lot he didn’t. In many ways I’m the penultimate fanboy when it comes to his work; but its more than that. It inspired me, reached places in me long thought dead. And then, like a rain cloud grows into a tornado it twisted itself into my adversary. It began challenging me. Drawing lines in the sand wherever I heard it.

‘You cannot match my strength’ – it said.

‘Bullshit’ I said, and I played louder.

That was the first time I electrocuted myself with my guitar.

It was not my last.

I began writing, recording, producing. The music was my escape; my release valve. Instead of caving heads in with an aluminum baseball bat when they deserved it, I walked away and recorded. I filled up an album with broken hearts, crushed dreams, and all the filth that was dumped on me every day of every week of every year. Some of it mine, most of it not.

Some nights, the music was the only thing that kept me alive.

Against my expectations, people liked it. A lot of people. It sold out of its first independent pressing in two weeks. I officially became part of the ‘underground’ scene, which is a nice way of saying I still couldn’t afford to eat but people liked my music. Its both heartening and horrific that people found things to empathize with on that album. By the time I was done with it I couldn’t stand the thing, so I gave all the proceeds to a shelter for battered women. Seemed like the right thing to do.

I kept releasing singles here and there, mostly in December because I couldn’t afford to buy Christmas presents for friends and family.

Then one day my phone rang. It was James “Jimmy” Rhodes, manager for Celldweller.

I called him a dick and hung up on him.

Figured it was someone playing a joke only they’d find funny.

He called back. Explained he & Klay had a proposition for me. They wanted to expand their production music business and had been scouting talent. He heard my stuff and thought he’d give me a call to throw it out. I’d have to move to Detroit to do it, but I’d be working with The Celldweller every day, using his gear, learning his tricks, and helping him out in the studio 24/7.

Jimmy called me on Thursday.

I was there in time to start work on Monday.

I’ll gloss over my cross-country road trip with a born-again burlesque dancer named Danni Danger, because while I’ve been reminiscing over what brought me to this hellhole the blond has pulled the cigarette out of her mouth to blow some smoke and ask the inevitable question.

‘So what are you doing tonight?’

What do I tell her? Should I be honest and tell her ‘I plan on going back to the apartment and trying to stay up as long as possible to avoid the nightmares waiting for me in my sleep?’ ‘I’ve got a track due for a movie trailer on Monday and you look about five diseases and two kids over my limit?’

‘Just gonna head home and get some sleep.’

‘Oh. Ok. You play here often?’

‘Not really. First time, actually.’

‘Cool. Well, see you around.’

I see the car seat through her rear window as she drives off.

I made enough from the gig to get some gas and maybe a bite to eat if I can find somewhere still open with a dollar menu. Thats good news because I’ve been on ‘E’ all day in both instances. I fire up the car and let it warm up a little before heading to the nearest gas station. The night seems like a typical Detroit evening / morning. Lousy. The cold isn’t crisp; its oppressive. The city skyline isn’t majestic; the buildings are tombstones. And the guy running in front of my car  would probably be better off if I ran him over. But I don’t. I slam on the brakes and skid to a stop.
‘Hey! Hey man!’ The guy is yelling at me through my window, but he’s not pissed. (Which is the first thing that should have indicated to me something was wrong. No one in Detroit isn’t pissed.) He’s scared.

Being typically too compassionate for my own good, I roll down my window so I can talk to the guy.

‘Hey. You need help?’

‘Yeah. Yeah. I need help. I ran my car off the road and down the embankment. My daughter is still inside! Come help me get her out!’

I unbuckle my seat belt and climb out of the car, leaving it running.

‘Hurry!’ the dude is yelling at me, running a few steps and then turning to see if I’m coming.

I’ve been in a lot of life and death situations. Admittedly, a lot of them were my fault, but not always. Over time you become a kind of numb to them. Experience, I guess. So even as I’m running toward the edge of the road and pulling out my cell phone I’m still pretty calm. Sure enough, there’s a car down the steep embankment, flipped on its roof, undercarriage in the air. The guy, panicked, grabs me, helpfully sending my cell phone skittering down the embankment & off into the darkness.

Awesome.

‘I already called the police. Hurry, She’s down there!’ he yells at me, starting to scramble down.

I decide that I’ll talk to him about replacing my cell phone AFTER the kid is ok.

The car is in bad shape. All the windows are blown out and the safety glass looks like raindrops in the headlights. The roof is pancaked. But there’s something weird about it, something off. I can’t wrap my head around it, so I ignore it. Write it off as my natural paranoia. After all, life has given me a lot to be paranoid about. Ignoring the crunching glass I grab one of the door handles and try it. Jammed. Shocking.

‘What side was she in?’ I ask.

Thats when things get weird.

The guy, who has suddenly become the picture of zen,  digs both hands into his forehead and rips his face off like he was splitting a melon.

I kid you not.

Of course its right after I watch this happen that my brain figures out what it was trying to tell me before, and takes that moment to share with me. Specifically, none of the doors on the car were open. And with a wreck like that it would have been impossible for someone to get out of the car without opening one.

The guy / thing’s new / real face is pretty different from his old one. For starters he’s got three eyes, all black and shiny like a spider and all clustered dead center where his nose should be. Oh yeah, I said SHOULD be. Because he doesn’t have a nose. Just the eyes. And a mouth. But instead of normal human-type omnivore teeth he’s got nasty little needle-teeth. A LOT of them. I can tell because his mouth is open and he’s squealing at me.

He’s got short mandibles too, and these must be shiny because I can see them kind of  gleam in the reflected light of the car’s headlights. His whole head is covered in a sort of grey-black fur that ends where the jagged pieces of his earlier face still peek up from his collar.

In the few seconds I take all this in, I achieve a sort of clarity I rarely experience. Not a revelation, exactly; more of a reminder of sorts. My brain, pushing aside the confusion caused by watching someone rip their face off, speaks to me very clearly:

THIS is why you just keep driving.

Touché, brain. Touché.

I would have loved to consider that point more, but the guy was already charging at me with surprising speed. I wish I could say that I took him out with a single punch and donated him to science, but that just didn’t happen. I was still confused at seeing something that could have been from one of my tamer nightmares here, in Detroit, during what I was fairly certain were still waking hours for me. He had me by my throat and in the air before I snapped out of it.

It was instinct that saved me.

Maybe when I tell the story again I’ll make me more badass and tell you that I meant to do it, but it really happened without thinking. I shoved my hand in my pocket, grabed my lighter, and with a flick of the flint I set his head on fire.

The whole thing.

I don’t know what kind of product this thing used on its fur, but whatever it was it was very flammable. He went up like an old newspaper soaked in gasoline. (Something I’m fairly familiar with.)

Its scream turned from one pitch to another, and the musician part of me wishes I had been recording because it was a fairly cool noise. Then two things happen.

It drops me, which I was pretty pleased about.

It runs off burning into the forest, which was conveniently close.

Let me be clear on this: I hate the forest. I hate the trees, I hate the bushes, I hate the streams and the deer and the ferns and every other green thing in there.

They give me panic attacks.

Concrete, asphalt, steel, and neon. Those are the four food groups of my world.

So I let it run off.

Think me a coward if you want. I’ve been called a lot worse.

The bottom line is I don’t go after it. A combination of pissed flaming monster and 3 AM forest exploration just does not sound like a good decision given the tone the evening is taking.

I climb the embankment after a quick once over looking for my phone, which reminds me that I’ve been meaning to start working out.

The car is what really tops the night off for me.

It won’t start.

It won’t start because its out of gas.

Its out of gas because I left it running while I went to help the monster that tried to eat my face.

Perfect.

So I walk two miles to the nearest gas station, using my gig money to buy a gas can and a few gallons of gas. This gets me far enough that I can get the car gassed up the rest of the way.

The gas can cost what I was planning to use on dinner.

Looks like no one gets to eat tonight.

Fucking Detroit.