Clip-Clop

I watch her march to the counter in her calfskin boots. The way they make a clip-clop on the slate tiles of the coffee shop. The way her blonde pony tail sweeps back and forth as she walks with her latte back to her seat. The way her tired eyes roll across the ceiling as she thinnks about whatever it is she's working on at her little netbook at her table in the corner.

And idle Wednesday in a quiet cafe, just like every other Wednesday before it. Ever since they dumped me from my desk, the weekends feel like weekdays and everything bleeds into everything else. I turn back to my screen, clicking up my resume, clicking through the listings, clicking on that last email from the headhunter who made all those promises.

Someone comes in, silver hair, nice suit. He has that executive sheen to his clean chin. The new guy has a plastered-on smile, like a decal on a robot. Of course he's meeting with the blonde in the boots. She stands up to shake his hand. She's nervous. Maybe this is an interview, or an evaluation. She's smiling too wide, eyes flashing. The executive's comfortable, tells a lame joke. She laughs politely.

I feel a thousand times better. If she were into that guy, if she really fell for that phoney robot-in-a-suit bullshit, she'd laugh for real. She'd tip forward, a laugh from the diaphragm. She'd look at his eyes and find an excuse to lay her hand on his wrist, just for a moment, just a touch. I write the scene. Directing the action, the woman forgets for a moment the meeting and tells a story of her childhood, the loneliness of the hill she grew up on. I'm in the suit now, and I run a few fingers through my silver hair, making a humble admission, perhaps a set of braces. No, it has to be something more serious. After an accident as a youth, I had to have my jaw reconstructed. I spent two years of highschool with my jaw wired shut. She relates, she moves in closer, my vulerability makes her bold.

His stilted, pained laugh draws me out of the scene. I'm back in the actual cafe, fiddling around, impotent, on my aging laptop. The executive and the blonde are talking. The executive has some sort of list in front of him. He's sipping and reviewing it while the blonde eplains. Maybe she's justifying, or back-pedaling, or apologizing. Things aren't going well, and that empty smile tatooed on the executive's face aren't making things easier.

She's wearing blue sweater and a stylish, black scarf. She looks very casual and professional at the same time. A friendly, welcoming style. She must have a job where people need to trust her. I'd trust her if I met her, if I had any kind of business to offer.

I'm back to my work. My half-finished novel, the blogging gig that pays beans, the screenplay my cousin is always almost ready to start shooting. I check my email again and again. I go through a few sites, looking at pictures of cats, then some other sites, looking at a few artistic nudes, then some other sites, looking at decidedly less artistic nudes.

How long have I been sitting here? I need to piss. I get the key from the counter. I head down the hall. I open the door.

The blonde is waiting in the men's room. I see her, and I stand there confused. It's not till I see her clothes on the floor that I realize she's standing there naked, staring at me. I should apologize and leave. I must have gone in the wrong door. She's looking at me, a little afraid. She's staring right at me.

Oh shit. This is for the other guy. She's trying to keep her job. I've stumbled into some kind of illicit liason. This is what women have to do in this economy. I should leave. I should let her do whatever she has to do. It's not my place to judge her. If I had to do something like this to get my old job back...

But she's looking right at me and I'm frozen. And she nods.

Before the door closes behind me, I'm pressing my lips to her face, feeling her frantic breath. Her hand is on the back of my head, she's forccing her tongue over mine, pushing. Her other hand is working fast, over my hips, down the front of my pants. She's much shorter than me, she's got those boots off. She's trying to climb up, leap up on top of me while we stand there.

We're up against the wall. Her skin is so soft, with lean muscles tensing underneath. She must run everyday. She must go to the gym. She throws a leg over mine, pulling herself up. She must get massages at the spa. She must use oils and salves to keep her skin so...

She gasps a bit, the tiles on the wall are cold. One arms lifts us up, off the wall. The other reaches down, fumbling through my pants. She's pushing forward against me, breathing, moaning in my ear. The heat from between her legs, the light blonde tuft, presses into my waist. I struggle with my underwear. I can't seem to get at my penis.

She's ready, she wants this. Hurry, she tells me. She moves to look me in the eyes, hungry. Come on, right now. I'm lost, somehow, inside my pants.

She's in a rush. She only has a minute or so before the executive gets suspicious. Her breasts are tiny with thick nipples I can feel poking through my shirt. She just needs to blow off some steam for the interview. Where the fuck is my dick.

She smiles, reaching down to help. It's so fun and dirty, this fling during work. So naughty, perverted, to fuck and almost get caught. Breaking rules, taking an extra smoke break, a two hour lunch.

I remember feeling like that, back when I had a desk. I only ever wanted to escape it. Her fingers finally find me. I feel a cold jolt through my body. In a moment, she'll be back to work, and I'll be back at my laptop.

By the time I'm out of my shorts, I've gone completely soft. Useless.

The Show Must

"I don't..."

"What the fuck, Danny?"

"I just don't want to talk."

"Danny, what were you doing?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he says as he drops sideways on the leather couch in his dressing room.

Someone pokes Gus in the back. He turns to see some little blonde intern holding her hand over a phone. Behind her, maybe a dozen gawkers crowding over each other. Some of them look scared, most of them look curious, like those assholes slowing down by the big accidents on the highway. They want to peek a little red on the pavement, thinks Gus. He shoots them all a hard glare and closes the door. They'll have to wait.

Danny is soaked in sweat, flopped face down across the couch like a rag. His shirt is half ripped. His belt, unbuckled. He lost his jacket somewhere out on the set. Gus makes a quick note on his clipboard. Someone's going to have to get that back to costumes.

Gus watches him lie there. He's not moving at all. Maybe he's holding his breath, like a toddler turning blue for an extra cookie. Gus has been in this business a long time, sweeping up shit from all the talent. This was new, though. Gus never saw anything like what happened out there.

"Danny, you know we have to talk about this."

Gus pulls a stiff, wooden chair over. He sits right next to the couch. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Delicacy is a very important thing in this business.

"Danny, I want you to start talking to me."

He coughs and sucks a deep breath in, "This couch smells."

"The couch is fine. I want to talk about the show, the show you just did."

"It smells like mold," Danny finally rolls on his side. His face leaves a wet imprint on the leather, "like mildew,"

"Well that's where people sit. Their butts go there," Gus keeps his voice even, not a hint of sarcasm. You never really know with talent.

"It's not a fart smell,"

"Yeah, Okay. Listen Danny. I need to know if something is wrong. I have to spin this somehow. So you need to talk to me so I can get on the phone and save our jobs,"

Danny turns his face back into the wet leather.

A tremor cramps up Gus's arm. He takes a couple of breaths.

"Do you want to do something different with the show? Do we need to change things up?"

Gus taps his pencil on his thigh. He places the clipboard on the floor. Danny is motionless again. There is a timid knock at the door.

"Not now," snaps Gus. He turns back to the couch, "Is this it man? You want to kill the show? We can do that if we have to."

Another knock.

"Fuck off!"

The door opens anyway. That little blonde intern inches into the room holding that phone like it was a gun to her head. Poor girl. This place will chew her up like a spitwad.

"I'm sorry Gus, but it's..."

"I know who it is. Tell him I'm talk... I'm working here and I can..."

The girl winces and holds the phone away. Gus can hear it squawk from all the way across the room. Someone is screaming into the other end.

Danny rolls back, his eyes look wet, "I don't think I exist,"

Oh for christ's sake.

"Danny, let's take a moment to clear our heads and figure this thing out."

"I can't get it. I can't believe it anymore. I don't know what's going on,"

"Gus, what should I tell..."

"Delay. Keep him busy. I'll get the phone in a sec," then turning back to the crumpled mess on the couch, "Danny, you're stressed, you're falling apart. We can fix this. We can get you cleaned up, get you to a shrink."

"I don't think I'm really here Gus. I don't think I'm anywhere,"

"Well here," Gus places his pencil next to Danny's face on the moldy cushion. "You can pick this up, right?"

Danny pinches the pencil with his thumb and forefinger, lifting and looking at it like some odd bug.

"I guess." he speaks softly, like a child slowly waking.

"Well you have to be here, right? I mean, I'm talking to you. I can see you," Gus jerks a thumb over his shoulder, "She can see you. Who are we talking to if no one's here?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're fucking crazy."

Not Allowed to Touch

First picture a man kneeling directly upon your face. Rather, it is my face. We are naked, the man and I. He rocks back and forth. His anus moves across my cheeks. Sometimes while he rocks, my nose brushes against it and I can feel it tighten.

His legs fold under him on either side of my head, his knees touch my shoulders. The hairs of his legs tickle my skin. He leans forward, hovering over my chest and stomach. He is a tall man, hirsute. He is older, but fit. The loose skin of age collects at his midriff and hips. The hair on his head is grey, but along his body it has already turned chalk white.

His genitals hang just past my chin. The slack weight of his testicles droop and brush against my throat as I patiently wait. He leans slightly to one side as he moves one hand to his penis, limp but heavy. He lifts and points it down my body, directing a strong, hot stream of urine across my torso.

The piss sprays in a wild cloud as it strikes me. The man gasps in relief. He had been holding back for some time. As the initial pressure of release recedes, the man can direct the stream with more purposeful control. He paints the length of my body. The fluids collect in puddles along the creases of my limbs. They form rivulets as they seek to escape and soak into the beige carpetting of the recently remodeled town hall lobby.

The urine flows over me, but my own erection remains dry. The man takes care to direct his stream away. Still, the urine rolling down my stomach soaks into my pubic hair. I can feel the heat and wetness collect, and my penis slowly grows turgid. My hands rest at my side, sweating. The man tells me I am not allowed to touch. Not allowed to touch anything.

The man's streams dies to a dribble, then ceases. The warmth of the wet on my body turns to a chill as the urine starts to dry on my skin. Again he tells me not to touch. My erect phallus twitches, now dark and swollen, curved starkly up and back, pointed directly at the man leaning over me. My hands itch and shake by my side, not from the cold, but from a consuming desire to touch. I must not touch, though. I am not allowed.

That's why I don't vote.

My Carolina

At the time, I let myself blame the booze. We were five hours into a big bottle of gin, rolling around on Mother's persian rug. We had reached that point of perfect exhaustion where the entire world and everything in it becomes hysterically absurd. We couldn't stop laughing about his stupid cat and how much it hates purses. He, I think it was him, he put an arm, or let an arm fall on me and... Well at the time I blamed the booze, but now I know. I kissed my first boy. I was seventeen and lying under a black coffee-table when I fell in love.

In time, we did all sorts of unmentionable things to each other at the country club. It was easiest to meet there without attracting suspicion. We'd sneak away from our families and find some hidden, secret place. Even now, when I pass those little changing booths by the pool, I can't help but feel a faint stirring. I know it's awful to suggest, and I certainly don't miss those ignorant, hateful days, but there was something incredible about the danger. North Carolina at the time, though it's not much better now, was a hostile sort of place. Everyone was angry, but no one ever said anything. Maybe they didn't know how, or didn't know any better. They were just angry and couldn't do a thing about it. I don't know if it helped much, but every now and then some boys would go lynch a faggot and everyone seemed to feel better for a day or two. He and I would crowd into a changing booth and he'd stand on the changing bench, so the people passing by would only see one pair of feet. And we'd have to be quiet in there. Oh, that certainly helped. Biting our lips and whimpering, pressing each other up against the rough wooden walls. It was a long time ago. Sometimes it feels like it happened to someone else.

That August, we spent a whole two weeks together. Mother kept a boathouse on a lake in Georgia. She didn't have the time to wrap it up for fall, so she sent me off. "Take your time, dear," she slurred over her cocktail, waving me toward the keys, "Bring a friend, have fun," I wondered if she knew, or somehow consented, even encouraged me. I never asked, and I suppose it never mattered. I had my love, a quiet lake, a small cottage. It must be trite to call it paradise, but to a young man... Ah well, I beg you forgive an old man his follies.

I'd like to end the story in proper dramatic fashion. I could paint such a picture of my love slung to the back of a truck and dragged through the night until there was hardly enough to bury. Or perhaps we are discovered entwined and he sends me a tear-stained letter before hanging himself, or vanishing on a train with whatever he could steal from his family to invent himself a whole new self on the other side of the country. But this would all be flattery. The truth is, as truth should be, pathetic.

Toward the end of our two weeks by the lake, he grew cold. On the drive back to Carolina, he wouldn't even look at me. He stopped answering my calls, and turned up a month later with some picture. He nearly shoved it in my face, some girl, his girl. What could I say? He told me he was happy, but he looked so angry. "That's that," he said. And that was it.

Oh I made a big fuss about it at the time, but that passed. I was an old man before I found love again, though... Well, if there's a lesson, it is that there is love to be found in life. It's the same sort of thing in every story. It's what stories are all about. It is the only story.

Marten Rowsdower

Marten Rowsdower knows how to make fire with his mind. The fire is conjured with a certain specific thought. When called, it burns grey. It gives off no light and emits no heat, fuel is still consumed. Wood, cloth, flesh all burn normally, though instead of crumbling in ash, it wilts and rots. Marten's fire burns away the life of things. He doesn't like to use it. He gets very sad when he sees things wither and collapse.

Marten lives in a small, oblong house shaped like a bread-box. There is an old, chipped flower painted on his front door. He lives very close to the rail. The trains thunder by at all hours of the night. The noise shakes his little house so badly that Marten installed locks on each of his cupboards. If he happens to forget and leave one unsecured, the rattling of the trains might knock a few cans or jars from their shelves. Marten has had to replace too many shattered mugs and plates. These days he can not sleep untill he has checked every lock and handle in his house. It is his nightly routine.

Marten works as a steward for the Ministry of Untritefang in Lower Omswick. He serves His Majesty in a number of crucial undertakings. Not a month past, he negotiated a treaty between a few Westfield lobsters and the Labor Commission. The treaty freed up a thousand acres of prime real estate to be reforested. A stardancer descended for the very occasion, and Marten was given the honor of guiding the landing.

Marten has a girlfriend. Her name is Jelly, and her name is Bean. She responds to either, but never both. She is a very tall girl, and can't help but stoop when she stands. She apologizes for everything that happens around her, it is a habit. She works late most nights sorting mail for the local bank. She has very long, very dark hair that hangs straight down her back. Jelly or Bean does not have much luck with men. She suffers from night terrors. She wakes screaming about spiders and saw-blades, but never remembers the nightmares. She is not very fond of Marten, but she has been seeing him a long time. He is used to hearing the trains rattle at night and never wakes when she screams.

Marten will never be fired from his job. This is a thought that comes to Marten now and again. It should be a good thing, a reassurance. When he thinks about his job, he feels very troubled. He does not make very much money, but it is plenty for the simple life he shares with Jelly or Bean. He will be a Ministry steward until the day he dies, and he knows this. Still, when these thoughts descend upon him, he likes to think about the circus.

As a child he sometimes thought about running away as an acrobat or clown. That was all before he found his true calling, negotiation. Marten is a skilled arbitrator and counselor, and these skills prove most effecacious in service to His Majesty. Marten might join a circus if he could find one that needed a steward. They might put a spotlight on him, accompanied with a drumroll, as he worked out a settlement between two feuding farmers. They could stand right in the center ring. The farmers would sign a contract and the crowd would cheer and the vendors would sell plastic cups with Marten's face engraved on the side next to a tiger and a flying trapeze artist. The circus might want him to call his fire to amaze the crowds, but Marten does not want to do that. Marten would not like to be a part of a circus like that.

In his tiny house by the train tracks, Marten likes to wake up very early and walk around his neighborhood. Just after dawn, the world is bright and silent. He can walk past each of the houses on his block and look at them. Some are brightly colored, some have weeds overgrowing stone steps. One has a number of shiny bicycles tied up to a fence. One is having a front porch rebuilt, and maybe some rain got on the untreated wood. Hopefully the planks will not warp. Marten likes to watch and think about his neighbors. He has never met a single one of them, or even exchanged messages. He looks at their houses and lawns and thinks about the people that must live there. No one stops and worries when he does this, no one knows. Only Marten is awake at dawn. The morning has a certain smell, wet and fresh like celery. It is lovely. It is worth waiting the whole night to enjoy.

Them Chompers

In his heavy breath, "I bought them for you, Marie," with his big, stupid grin like a junkyard of rusting jalopies. He is banging away with his huge palm on the old piano his goons just dumped in my living room.

There were some flutes too. I think a saxophone, and what? A banjo? Those faceless lowbrows in black sweaters just keep bringing them in, throwing them around.

"I know how much you like music," he's shouting, but all I can think about are those chompers and how he must cut the inside of his cheeks all the time. "This is what you want," with a flick of drool arcing out. He's waiting for me to jump in here, yell at him, beg, accuse, scream. Fuck him.

"I want you to be happy," he bangs away on the piano again, the room rings with a hard, disjointed note. My head's leaking bad from that gash behind my ear, but I can still think straight. I stare at him, waiting for him to pull that pearl-handled piece out of his jacket.

"I wish it didn't turn out like this. This whole thing is such a mess," he pauses for me to speak. I clam up. Just get it over with, fucker.

He licks his lips over that jagged soup can lid sticking out of his gums. He gets in real close, leaning in, touching my face. "I want him to know it was me. When your man finds you here. I want him to know I did it. I want him to be real angry."

He wipes his sweaty palms on his grey slacks and draws that pistol.

"I want him to be angry enough to do something real stupid."

I close my eyes as he cocks back. I don't want those teeth to be the last thing I see.

Boise to Kansas City

"I'm not going back!" she shouts over the roar of the wind and the rail. I take a step closer and she pops a hole in my hat. The baggage car is rumbling and shaking, but her little hand is stone steady with the tiny .22 pointed right between my eyes. I have to admit, I'm impressed. She's only twelve and already a crack shot. Then again, maybe she didn't intend to miss.

"This is where you jump," she smiles at me, but her eyes are dead serious. She waves at the open side door and the corn fields blurring past. I watch her for a moment, she's only got one more bullet. No, no need to risk it.

I've fallen off of my share of trains, but never on purpose. I step off into the cool night and the ground rushes me like a squad of coppers swinging nightsticks. I curl up and try to roll with it, but its bad. Even when my body stops moving, my head spins like a top. I think I've got some gravel up my nose. My arms are numb, but my hip is stinging. The walk back to town is going to be long indeed. That's alright, I'll still get my payday.

I finally muster up the energy to stand. The train is already a speck in the distance. My hat is lying in a ditch. The wind picks it up and chucks it around. I have to chase after it.

The train's headed west to god-knows-where, but that don't matter. I know where she'll wind up. Her daddy's in Kansas City and so are the diamonds. I'll catch a bus in Boise and cool my heels till she shows.

I finally stumble over and catch my hat. The hole in the brim is hardly big enough to fit my pinky. She got one good shot off. Can't let that happen again. Next bullet won't be a warning.

Chosen Ones

Stirred by a dream, the high priest awoke one night from a deep slumber. He stumbled through the grand hall to the scrying chambers. Shouting and shaking the tables, he roused the acolytes from their cells. There, in their linen small clothes, they consulted the charts, cast stones, and sorted the scalded innards of a bleating lamb brought in from the cold.

The high priest compared each augury, each divination. There could be no doubt. On that night a god was born among the humans.

One week later, all the peoples of the kingdom gathered before the gates of the mighty palace. The king stood on a balcony infront of the great crowd and asked that the newborn god be brought before him that he might shower the child with blessings and wealth. He sent agents out among the people, searching for infants born the night of the priest's dream.

The next morning, three young women holding babies were escorted into the king's audience chamber. The whole of the royal honor guard stood along the wall in their crisp uniforms with gleaming sabers. Distinguished noblemen sat on velvet benches along the side along with doctors, philosophers, and scribes. Great taspetries of rich purple hung behind the silver throne. The king in his cloak of white fur with his queen standing at his right hand and the high priest at his left.

The first of the three women stepped forward. She was a very plain sort of woman with the pitted, heavy features of a hard life lived. Her dress was of the rough sort of sack-cloth used by the fisherfolk, where the salt water brings rot and ruin to all gentle things. Indeed, when she finally spoke, her speech and manners seemed as rough and bracing as the storm-tossed tide.

"To all these mighty lords and wise men do I bring my child. Here in this court do I give name to Razhaal, god of the sea!" and she held her tiny child aloft. The assembled elite squited into their spectacles and leaned forward to glimpse some hint of divinity there, swaddled in fish rags.

After a moment of awkward silence the queen, a woman with an uncommonly sharp mind, wondered aloud if perhaps the child wouldn't mind to demonstration of his godly powers. The people of the court turned toward the fisher-wife with expectant eyes.

She beamed and nodded. "Of course, if the gathered lords and ladies can bear the sight, the mighty Razhaal will perform a miracle this day!"

She took her child and held him upside down, letting the rags fall from his body, revealing the squirming pink flesh. "Watch him now call upon the mighty tides even here in this stoney castle," She held aloft a crude knife, but sharp and hooked to peel scales. With a quick snap, she slash open the child's throat. "Behold," she cried out, "The salt-tides lick the floors, washing away the sins of the world,"

The crowd gasped in horror as the woman shook and squeezed every drop from the infant who quickly grew blue and still. "Return now, clean, to your plantations and counting houses for Razhaal has blessed you this day,"

The guards quickly seized her and pulled her from the king's sight and down to the dungeons below.

The king was greatly affected by the death of the infant and almost waved away the other women. It was the priest who counseled him otherwise, "My liege," he spoke, "Let not this one crude beast spoil this moment. Indeed, she was low and cruel, with such vulgarity. How could a god choose to live among such filth? The other women have poise, beauty and bearing. Let them bring their children before us,"

The king could not refuse such wise words, and so with a gesture, the next woman stepped forward.

"My gracious liege," she knelt before them in her gown of ruffled silk, "and the most honorable assemblage, I am humbled to find myself in such a position, to be handed such a great honor to shepard this new life into the world, to serve as a vessel to deliver such a being as this into the world," and there did she turn to show her arms and the sleeping child nestled in them.

Again the queen mused about mothers and how each must believe each singular child is the most wonderful and special creation.

"Of course," said the woman in silk. She snuck a hand into her bodice to produce three small rocks hardly bigger than a man's curled thumb. She held them out to show the assembly. "You see, this child is already a miracle, conceived in a garden from the earth itself as I lay in the sun. I lay there last spring as the world poured up inside me filling me with such a magic that just this week passed a boy was born," She placed the child on the ground and smiled over him, "This boy, Otok of the Stones, god of earth and bounty. Behold him now as he enjoys his favorite snack. Even without teeth, he can crush stones and eat them like biscuits!"

And she pushed the stones into the boy's face one by one, jamming and shoving them. The guard rushed to pull her away, but she had already burst the boy's jaw and battered his skull with the last rock. The poor creature flopped mutely there on the floor for a moment longer, then lay still. The woman in silk was sent to the dungeon.

The king was upset indeed and stood to march out of the room himself. The third woman pleaded, "Wait, my lord, those women were mad. Come see my baby, come see her. She is the one you seek,"

The king stopped a moment by the door to listen.

The third woman continued, "She has no name, she is a song of light and fire. She holds the secrets of the serpent peoples. She knows the voice of the dark!"

The king watched the woman with her child.

"She is the god born among us and I can show you," she insisted, "I'll just need a bowl of hot coals and a razor,"

The king spit on the ground in disgust and stormed from the hall.

We were birds, once

She waits until he’s sleeping to go outside. She picks up groceries, maps, train tickets. She doesn’t take the bus anymore. She had some problems on the bus.

We were birds one day...

He’s still sleeping. She can feel him dreaming, turning over and over in her head. She’s at the cornerstore with a bag of batteries and some energy bars. This place doesn’t have any lotion. That sucks. It totally sucks. Her cheek will start to peel soon. This weather is too dry.

He let us fly with him. Exalted birds in His Grace...

It’s not so easy for a girl of sixteen years to travel around. There’s a knack to it, one that Robyn picked up awhile ago. She’s on the short side of short, perpetually slouching in her dark grey hoodies. A natural sort of camouflage if you don’t want to be noticed in a city.

For one day, we could fly...

There’s a couple of cops crossing their arms. There’s a man sitting on the curb, a trickle of blood smeared under his nose. One of the cops is holding him a bottle of water. They must be waiting for backup, or something. They’re blocking the whole sidewalk. No one’s trying to pass them. They step away, circling, pacing. When you grow up in a city, you learn to read cops like the weather.

We were birds...

She’s looking to cross the street. It’s a big one, four lanes. Four guys coming down the other way, a hot wind from the south. One’s shouting something. One curses. They look properly stupid, profoundly stupid. The cops take notice. A cold front gathering clouds. Now it’s becoming something, the cops can’t back down, the punks need to save face.

For one day, we were forgiven...

Shouting leads to shoving. Robyn tries to cross the street, but the traffic won’t let up. Everyone’s yelling. She can hear the smack of flesh, a fist. She’s watching the road, waiting for a break. She doesn’t want to see the fight. There’s s snap, too loud, too quick. Someone pulled a gun.

What was that?

She lunges into the traffic, leaping past the cars. They are honking horns, slamming on brakes. A hatchback catches her on the hip. She spins and collapses. Everyone’s shouting now, the bag of batteries all over the road. She’s got something up against her stomach. The driver of the hatchback is out of his car. He’s shouting at her, calling her a crazy bitch. She’s hugging something. It has sharp edges, but it’s like a box. What the hell is it?

Her head is quiet. She can’t hear anything in her head. He’s awake. Oh god. There’s screaming on the sidewalk. The cops are probably all dead. He hates guns. They’re all probably dead. She gets up and runs. Only a few more blocks. The guy from the hatchback grabs her arm.

‘What the fuck was that? You see that?’

‘Let go, let go of me,’

Her hoodie falls away. He can see the burn scars, the bald patches on her head. He lets go. She runs. She has to get far away, it’s the only way to keep him in her head. Her own boogeyman, her curse. She’s got to get to New York before anyone else dies. He’s watching her thoughts, waiting for an excuse.

She’s back in the apartment. She locks herself in the bathroom. She’s still got a couple thousand dollars from Colorado, most of the blood’s washed out. She hates this, living like this. Just till New York. This thing only goes as far as Gotham. The devil, the ifrit, the killer in her head. There the Badman dies.

Her Name Escapes Me

The girl can't be older than twenty-five. She's wearing a simple, white shirt and a flimsy blue sweater, unbuttoned. Her hair hangs loose and light. She tilts her head to keep it out of her eyes. She hovers over a big, thick book. Watch her flip the same page over. She's supposed to be reading there, in the diner. She's well settled in her booth with her coffee and a tiny plate of collected crumbs. She looks like she belongs in this diner. Perhaps the booth is reserved for exactly this sort of behavior. If she were to pack up and leave, within minutes another young woman would sweep in, throw her jacket across the seat opposite, lay her hat next to the salt shaker, and pull out a huge, old book to flip through idly.

But the girl does not leave. She had been sitting for hours, ordering just enough food to keep the manager from throwing her out. She'd picked apart a muffin twenty minutes ago. Watch her eyes scan a page. See her fingers run under the edge. She flips the page over. The action is purely mechanical. This is how a person reads a book. This is how a book is read. The words evaporate in her mind, the meaning of the page leaves her. She turns back to the previous page. There is something to decipher there, among those words, something evading her on that one specific page. Watch her eyes scan it again.

And now here is a man. He can't be younger than fifty. Wearing a plain, old suit. He wears it in just the way every man should, simply, naturally. He wears the suit like every man should, but no one does anymore. He is the only man in a suit in this whole diner. No one wears suits anymore, even though they should. Watch him move slowly down the aisle. A waitress is leading him to his own booth, but he moves slowly, falling behind. He does not want to sit where she places him. The waitress reminds him of a nurse in a hospital, the way she moves, efficient. She places a black, folded menu on the table of the booth where he is to sit. He smiles at her and she leaves him. He does not want to sit at that booth. He'll find another.

Watch him hover down the aisle. See how his hands touch each chair as he passes, like he is counting them. But he is not counting them, or perhaps, just not adding the numbers as he counts. One, one, one. Each chair, each booth, each table is singular like his footsteps. They add up to nowhere.

And then he sees the girl.

He does not speed up or slow down. This is important to remember. He sees the girl and knows that he will go and talk to her. He will tell her everything if he can, answer any question. He does not speed up or slow down because he knows that he is mistaken. Watch him now, smiling in a tired way. Watch him smooth his thinning hair. He knows that he is wrong.

Now he is interrupting her and excusing himself. She doesn't want to chat with anyone, but he caught her off guard. She invites him to sit. She curses her own politeness, all the manners her mother buried in her brain. She doesn't want to be so polite. She tries to smile, but she's not really listening. This works out just fine, because the man is talking, but not to her.

He tells a story. There was this girl, you see. This was all a long time ago, but he met a girl with an Egyptian name. She worked at this gallery, hanging pictures and paintings, dusting up, watching the register. Everything was painted white, and she'd wear black, but her eyes were blue. She had a way of talking like she was laughing.

'You remind me of her,' he tells the girl in the booth. She nods like she turns the page, mechanically. This is how a person listens to a story. This is how a story is listened to.

The man married the girl with the Egyptian name in the story. They lived together and things happened. Some things were scary, some heart warming, some tragic. This is a sad sort of story, it has to be. Watch the man talk to the girl. The way this story goes, it has to be sad.

The man asks about the book. The girl turns the cover to show him the title. Bullfinch's Mythology. She's reading about some king or something. He asks if she likes to read that sort of thing. She tells him that it's for a class. She is lying. Watch her lie about the book. She just grabbed the biggest thing on the shelf as she walked out the door. She doesn't want to go back anytime soon.

'And which one are you reading right now?' he asks her. He wants any topic, any excuse to stay away from the other booth, the place where he is supposed to sit.

The girl looks back at the page, the one she keeps reading. There was a king and he was very clever, but he made the gods mad. When he died, they made him roll a boulder up a hill over and over.

The man smiles, he's heard that one. The girl asks him about the girl with the Egyptian name. What happened to her? Where'd she go?

The waitress walks by. She wants to take his order. He asks for a few more minutes, a little more time. The waitress leaves, she doesn't really care either way. He watches her hips sway as she walks. There was a hallway in a hospital somewhere and a nurse pointing to a door. So casually she pointed to the bed where a woman was going to die. He never had a say. No one ever asked him anything.

On Thursday, We Died

On Monday, we were certain of it. Some things aren't too difficult to figure out, if you're honest with yourself. All the signs were there. It all seemed pretty cut and dried. I ordered a pizza. We didn't have any plates or napkins. We shared it on the bare floor of our apartment, drooping slices dripping greasy onto the sodden cardboard box. It was fun; we smiled to each other despite everything else.

We curled into each other, wrapped up in a dozen blankets. We slept like kittens.

On Tuesday, we sold the rest of the furniture. We didn't need the money, we just agreed it would be cleaner this way. We didn't want to leave any clutter. The thrift store took most of it. They didn't want the old lamp, the paintings from the bathroom, though they took the chipped porcelain butter dish. We found some old books and took them to the park. We lay around, letting the sun cook us slowly. We flipped through the books, skipping chapters, reading lines aloud, smelling the old paper.

I tried not to cry. I failed. You wouldn't look me in the eye.

We walked for hours that night. It got really cold, but we didn't want to go back. The street cleaners were out late, powerwashing the sidewalks. Slim metal wands fired beams of water, peeling gum off the tiles. Mist kicked up in a cloud where they worked, glowing green by the street lights and red by the crosswalk.

It was so late when we got back. We were exhausted, but we couldn't fall asleep. You complained about the blankets. You wished we hadn't sold the bed. I had nothing to say. We just laid there for hours. We must have fallen asleep at some point because I remember waking up.

On Wednesday I couldn't stand you. You were still asleep when I left. Maybe you were just faking. Maybe you were feeling the same thing. It was too early, nothing was open. I slid some change into a newspaper box and pulled out the morning edition. I flipped through a few pages.

All the headlines looked like jokes. One was about a couple of kids starting some fundraiser out of their garage. Another one talked about a local library closing down. Then there was this story about some senator fighting for a bill. He had some really snappy quotes about protecting our rights, safeguarding liberties, setting examples for future generations. He nailed it, he hit all the hot points.

That's what sells, I guess. Something's ending! Something new is about to happen! Look out! It's coming!

I got this idea to make a fire. I wanted to burn up all the trash in a big pile. A big ol' bonfire. I went back and got all the shit together. I took that lamp they didn't want, the pile of paper bags we never used, all the letters we stopped opening, and some other shit, I guess. I made a big pile in the parking lot. I didn't have any matches. I didn't want to ask anyone, so I just left it there.

When I went back inside, you were waiting. We didn't have anything to talk about. We weren't hungry at all.

An Idea of a Girl

She doesn't have a name. She doesn't really exist. She's an idea, or a collection of ideas, in my head. I can't really see her, but I have an awareness of her. When she's around, I know what she's doing. I can catch glimpses out of the corner of my eye. There's a leg, a hand. She darts across the hall, a shadow. She's behind me. She's breathing on my neck. I can feel the air change as she smiles. She haunts me like a ghost.

But I know she's not a ghost. This is something I have to keep clear in my head. She's just an idea, a figment. She doesn't have a name, but I call her the quicksilver woman. She's cold, metallic, and featureless. She changes faces to mock me, takes shapes to tease me, chases me, torments me, hates me.

I see her out in the world, in public. I might see a woman walking on the street and some part of the way her hair falls, the pace of her step, the tilt of her head, reminds me of that idea. I see the quicksilver in this woman. I see her taunting me from inside this innocent creature. Sometimes I have to turn my head, stare at the ground.

It's not something I can talk about. I know how crazy it sounds. I know it's unfair. I can be very careful. She keeps away, stays quiet, if I'm careful. Sometimes, if I'm having a conversation with a woman, I get carried away. I fall into her taunts. I get unreasonably angry. I snap, I sneer, and she wins. She laughs and leaves whenever I lose my cool. She must keep a tally somewhere.

I'm worried that someday I'll walk into a room and see her. She'll be there and I will see the whole of her. Maybe she's not really hiding or running. Maybe it's me looking away, avoiding her. Deep down I know I can't let myself see her without losing everything else.

Wouldn't be so bad if I didn't need her like I do. Maybe she wants to go. Maybe that's why she hates me.

Temptation in the Mountain

"Hello," said the snake.

It was huge, the size of a man. It reared up on its belly. It scanned the cave casually, like a visitor impressed with the wallpaper.

"Hello," said the boy.

He could see the snake clearly, somehow, despite the darkness. The creature had foot-long fangs and a cold pair of beady eyes. Yet it seemed friendly enough.

"Are you here to kill me?" the boy's voice was light. He couldn't really care either way.

The snake chuckled, "I could ask the same of you. But no, I'm not. I mean, I'll kill you eventually, but not till you ask me very nicely," Snakes like their little jokes. The snakes voice rang like a little echo off the cave walls. The boy did not laugh. All was silent, then.

The snake licked his great fangs, "Have you thought about what you'd want to do with the world?"

"In what way?" the boy didn't really believe there was a giant snake here. Even if a snake could get so big, it certainly wouldn't chatter away. Something very strange was happening, but what else was the boy to do in the dark?

"Let's say the spirits bless you with a great power. Now you can change the world in any manner you please. What would you do?"

"I would take away the hunger and the sorrow,"

"Would you?" the serpent smirked, "And would the people thank you?"

"I don't know,"

"Without hunger or sorrow, would the people remember you? Would they sing your name? Would they care?," like some rodent-flesh caught between the teeth, the boy could smell rotting breath, "Would they hate you?"

Those cold eyes gleamed and that pink, forked tongue flicked through the stink of death. The boy trembled at the noise and shouted, "Go away! Go away!"

But there was no snake. There never was a snake. It was just the boy in the dark with all the rocks closing in.

Maybe the snake would come back if he asked nicely.

Tickle That Faggot!

"Yes! Yes! That noise, that laughter. That is the battlecry of the Holy Spirit. Show no mercy my brothers, my soldiers-in-christ,"

"Sir, can I have a word with you?"

"Of course, my child. Though I only have a few moments before I must make my rounds again,"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It's just that I wanted to ask you about the operation here. Our purpose,"

"Glorious, isn't it? A life in service to the Lord. His will be done. Never slept better in all my long life, never felt cleaner,"

"Yes, about that..."

"I wake up every day and thank Him that He has entrusted me with such a duty, and has shown me the ways to bring His glory to earth,"

"By tickling the gays?"

"Invasive tickling! Regimented, prescribed like medicine! Laughter is a gift, soldier. It is a gift from God. What is more joyous, simple, innocent than the laughter of a child? Nothing, it's a rhetorical question. We force that innocence back into them. We subject them to it, force the light upon them, drive the devil out of their loins! The devil hates the sound of laughter, the joy of christ!"

"Yes sir. And that cures them? That sets them right with God, sir?"

"Well, it gives them a chance. That's all we mortals can do. We lock up the gays, strap 'em down tight, then tickle the devil out. After that, it's up to them to change, to see the light of christ, to resist temptations,"

"So some of them revert to their... sin,"

"Yes, well, the flesh is weak and all that. Sometimes though, sometimes we have a great success. A few of our ranks are converted gays. Once sinful, lustful creatures, now number among our most enthusiastic ticklers! A clear sign that we operate under God's rightful blessings,"

"Is it all that bad? I mean, we're supposed to not like the gay... gayness,"

"It's a sin!"

"Right, so shouldn't we do something more drastic? Something more scary?"

"Let me ask you something, soldier. Do you want to be tickled?"

"Not really, sir,"

"Maybe I'll sign you up. I'll clean out a cell for you. I'll find some of the big leather straps,"

"Wow, no thank you, sir,"

"We've got ridged rubber fronds, ostritch feathers. I can get some right now,"

"No, please sir. I really don't want that. Really,"

"See? Tickling is a threat, a deterrant. We are agents of mercy, soldier. Never forget that. This is a place of healing. We are here to save them, to bring the light of our Lord,"

"Yes, I see, sir. Thank you, sir,"

"Of course, always happy to help. Now, if you have no more questions, go tickle that faggot!"

"Yes, sir!"

Hiding Behind Lightning

There was a storm, that was very clear. Wind shaking the skin from bones. Rain like a thousand hands pressing down, pushing away. Perhaps it was the flash of lightning, the brightness, the whiteness. Maybe it cleaned out his brain. He stood and walked out into the storm. He opened his arms. Could any of this be real?

The rack of thunder, the fury of heaven. He cried out, "What!" interrogating the sky. He was in agony, there was some kind of pain. He was in pain from something that happened before the lightning and the flash. It's too easy to forget things in a storm.

He shook his fists at the sky, "The fuck do you want?" Somehow this was all God's fault, that prick.

"My Lord, a miracle,"

"Huh?"

There were voices behind him. A few men huddled in a simple fishing boat. They stared at him in fear and wonder.

"You're standing on water, Lord,"

He looked down at his feet, and so he was. Dark, storm-troubled waters swirled around his ankles and lapped at his legs. The water rocked and tossed, yet he stood solidly, as if on stone. It was cold, bone-chilling freezing. Why couldn't he feel it?

"How do you do that, Lord?"

"I don't know," he had to shout over the din.

A breeze blew the boat, sideways spinning. The men scrabbled for the oars and heaved themselves back closer to the man out on the water.

"Why then. Why did you do it, Lord?"

"I wasn't... really thinking,"

One of the men stood up in the boat, excited, "Yes of course! Our Lord speaks true. How are we to know our limits. In the light of God, all things are possible,"

The others grabbed for his sleeves, "Sit down, you'll tip us,"

"Faith, my friends, is all we mortals need. Faith in God's love to transform us," With sure steps he hopped over the side, "Let me be a vessel, Lord, for..." and plopped into the sea, vanishing in a white froth. His shocked cry lost in the whip of wind.

The men in the boat reached into the water, catching the rough cloth of the drowner's cloak. "Peter, you dumbass," one muttered as they hauled him in. He gasped and sputtered. The storm spun the boat farther and farther away. The one they called Lord stood and watched the sky, waiting.

The Treacherous Duke, Part Two

"Here then, without his robes, I could see his frail, tiny limbs. Without his crown and wig, could I see his thin hair, his spotted, wrinkled pate. Here then, in the shadows cast by candles, could I see his madness. His lips, dribbling, mumbling. His eyes rolling at invisible terrors. The rage fled from me like leaves blowing from the sudden gust of an opened door. I fell to my knees and cried, 'My Lord!'"

"And the king ceased his dribbling and mumbling to look at me. 'Why do you come to me like this, with such furor?'"

"Words found my mouth unbidden, and yet, in speaking I discovered their truth, 'My Lord, you have such enemies against you, conspiring in frantic secret, pledging treason against your house,'"

"and he replied, 'This I know, my duke, and have always known. Still they hide dagger-tongues and save only sweet words for my ears. I am lost already, defeated by shadows in a war without swords,'"

"'No, my liege, not lost yet. To your honor I pledge my service,'"

"'All dukes have already pledged such service, true and traitor alike,' the king's voice sweetened with despair,"

"'None have pledged such as this, my Lord. I pledge to throw myself into exile, to bear great humiliations by you, to suffer harsh indignity, so that every snake and beetle in your garden will think me an ally. They will flock to my banner, trusting their armies in my care to war against you. Then, my king, with all the traitors lined up at my command, will I lead them to defeat and deliver them to your mercy. The evil devoured from within,'"

"His tiny eyes widened, lips twitching. He crawled on hand and knee across his bedding, 'Would you bear this indignity? This torment?,'"

"'It is my will,' spoke I,"

"'But why?'"

"And truly, I was unsure myself until that very moment. I looked upon the king in his weakness and knew the truth. I loved this man. I loved him and would see his legacy continue. I knew I would serve him, his will, his empire until the end of all things. I knew this even as he balled his fists against his sheets and cried out, 'Oh but they will know our deception! They have seen you storm into my personal chambers. They witnessed your mighty rage. They gather even know with cupped ears just beyond the eaves. They will spread stories. Again, we are unraveled, defeated before we begin. Our ship sunk by whispers!'"

"'Not so!' said I, 'We will fill their tongues with new whispers, leaving no doubt as to my hatred, my lust for revenge,'"

"'What then, is your plan,' asked the king,"

"'Step down from your bed, sire, and with an air of your former strength strike me, drive me from these chambers. Let them remember the warrior king, the red flush of cheek, the blood-forged blade, the roar of the war drunk over the din of chaos. Knock me and shame me. Strip me before your court so that all enemies will have no doubt that I can only be your enemy,'"

"And he rose from his bed, towering above me. For a moment, I could see those old days and thought fondly on such old, clinging nightmares. The horror of battle, a cleaner, clearer time. To fight and win, living for the glory of a king, great and wise. A king to bring a lasting peace. Such sweetnes in dark, old memories,"

"He struck me with his cane. A stripe across the face and I tumbled through the doors. The courtiers fell away, so tightly had they packed against the doorway, hungry for gossip,"

"And the king struck again, chasing me, bellowing threats and insults. I spilled into the crowd, fleeing, pretending to stumble. Again and again, marked by the wooden length of his stick. He ordered my lands stripped, my titles, my houses,"

"And so, to exile I fled. Long I dwelt in poverty. Nameless in the wilderness, far from the glittering halls of my Lord's court. In time, one by one, the other dukes found me and made their ambitions known. One by one, they pledged their houses to raise a great army. A legion to crush the king and I was to lead as high marshall,"

"And so we marched in polished armor with bright banners raised high against the king and his host of fools. I sent these gleaming soldiers to fight farmers in rags. It took all of my great martial prowess to carefully arrange defeat for the treasonous legion,"

"After each battle, the fools surrounding the king would cry out, 'A miracle!' and the treacherous dukes would lament, 'We are cursed!' But only the king and I knew the truth,"

"And so the dukes were delivered to the king and peace restored. I was placed in a prison with all the others. One night, the king came to visit,"

"'When am I to be set free? My lands restored? My titles? My great reward?' I asked,"

"The king was silent. I felt a chill in my soul. After a great while, he spoke, 'I still have enemies, my friend, deeper still and darker still. They hide in my kingdom, plotting,'"

"'I understand, my king,'"

"'You are my sharpest weapon, my greates ally,'"

"'As you say, my lord,'"

"'And so I must ask you to continue this charade. You must dwell in exile, in darkness and shame. You must do this in my name, for peace in this great nation,'"

"'Of course, my liege,'"

"'I thank you, loyal duke, and yet these words are too small for my intent. Through your suffering and sacrifice, my kingdom prevails in light and truth. I owe you more than I could possibly give,'"

"'You honor me with such words, my king,'"

"'I must tell you, most noble duke, that I have deceived you. I knew the great forces arrayed against me even at the day of naming. No matter who I picked, even with you as my high marshall, there would be war. Even victory would spell disaster, as the kingdom itself would be torn apart. My throne would rule over a vast wasteland, and empire of dust. And so, with no better option, I acted like a great fool, confused drooling. Like an old drunk. I feared your capability, I wanted to drive you from your armies. I deceived you, and am sorry to have done it,'"

"I received his confession like the shock of cold, mountain water. I bowed my head, remaining silent. He left me then,"

"And so have I escaped again to exile, in the wilderness, in the darkness. The enemies still remember my strength, they still seek me out. They trust me with their armies and I deliver them in defeat to the king. They do not suspect my true purpose. They are liars, sinners, and thieves. In this, I am first among them,"

The man grew quiet again. The boy sat and thought carefully upon this mad story.

He spoke, "Why then, knowing the king's deceit, his false madness, would you continue to serve in exile?"

"I was tempted to defy him, to quit his service, or even lead these armies properly to victory. It was the way he spoke to me, the way he talked about his crumbling empire, the way he talked about me. The king worried at my power! This knowledge has sustained me, nourished me. It is how I know he is worthy of my love, and I am worthy of his," the man said, so proudly.

"He feigned madness once to trick you. Could he not have also feigned fear? Could this just be another trick?"

At these words, the man screamed in rage. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder and threw him from the darkness. He struck about him with his fists, driving him away until finally, again, the man was alone.

The Treacherous Duke, Part 1

Somewhere, there is a dark place. Perhaps it is a cell, deep in a forgotten dungeon. It might be a cabin deep in the heart of a silent forest, or a dead submarine, slowly sinking, slowly collapsing from the weight of the impossible ocean depth.

In this place, a man speaks to a boy. The boy has traveled far to hear the man's story. The man has waited a long time to tell it. The boy listens quietly, politely. He sits very still.

"I know this one story in my mind," begins the man.
"I can not see the faces, yet I know the people. I can not hear the words, but I know them as spoken. It lives in my memory like something I might have read in a book, or heard from a storyteller. Yet I also remember that it was true and that it happened to me. It was a long time ago, and truth can be like threads in an old shirt, falling out, falling apart over time. Who knows what's..."

The boy sits quietly. The man turns a few thoughts around in his mind. He sighs.

"There once was a great king. He ruled over a vast, troubled empire. He was wealthy, but very old. Many powerful dukes would come to his court to honor him. They were strong, powerful men with mighty armies and wealthy estates. In this, I was first among them. Above all the dukes, I was honored and feared. In my heart, I knew great pride and anger,"

"The king had ruled in peace for a long time. The memories of war grew distant to the dukes. They began to forget the blood, the agony, the horror of chaos. In the comfort of their private palaces, they remembered the old glories. Contempt blossomed in their hearts. And in this, I was first among them,"

"The king had many loyal followers still. A flock of grinning, japing idiots swarmed about the throne. They buzzed sugary lies and empty flattery in his ear. He delighted in the fools' nonsense. These pleasures drove needles of hate into the eyes of the dukes at court. They began to plot against the king. Again, in this, I was first among them,"

"There came a day of naming. The king was to deliver honors among the courtiers. All nobles of the empire gathered in the great hall, packed close together in their silken finery. It was a day of dreary formality. Scribes and pontiffs in official hats and stoles trapsing up and down the hall, droning away ancient verses. Blind words in the speech of slumbering spirits. Trumpets and drums. The king in his crown and grand cloak. He took his seat upon the throne. A hush through the crowd. A small, rolled scroll. A hundred burning eyes,"

The man stopped then, shifting in his seat. He licks his lips.

"It is dark now, and you cannot see. But I was strong once! My wealth earned in blood, my lands taken and held by mighty armies. My soldiers followed a warrior-prince born with a sword. So it seemed to me, despite any coldness at court, the king would have been a fool to spurn me in the naming. And yet, among the fools and flatterers, he named councillors. From the drunks, bishops. The thieves became governers. The cowards, his generals. And finally, his high marshall, exalted in privilege and responsibility over all nobles, second only to the king, he named the dog that patrolled the feast hall, licking fingers clean and lapping at the grease puddles,"

"How I raged in my own head. I pulled at my collar and tore at my hair while all the fools danced and cheered their grand fortune. The king, wearied in his advanced age, fled the great hall to retire to his bedchambers. In a great storm of passion, I trod across the hall after the king. With these arms, I tossed aside his guards like bundles of wheat. I threw open those doors and strode within. The king, already in his simple linens, sat up in a fright. I closed the doors behind and locked them. We were alone,"

A Little Tradition, Part One

She lets the leaves blow right in to her kitchen. There's a bit of a pile forming under the cupboard. The little, fresh, yellow and green ones mix in with the brittle, old, brown ones. She doesn't seem to mind. She has a visitor on the way and lot's to do before he comes.

Once upon a time, a little girl took the long way home from school. She was a terribly naughty girl. She talked back to her teachers. She played out in the forest till very late. She'd get mud all over her nicest dresses.

And that day she had mud all over her dress out in the dark part of the forest where she was not supposed to go. She had made a whole family of dolls from bits of rags and sticks lying around the woods. She conducted silly plays and dramas with her cast of twigs. She even sung along for all the musical parts. After rehearsing for many hours, she felt she had prepared quite a great show. She was sad that no one was nearby to write it all down. But the sun had set by then, and the dark part of the forest became especially dark. The little girl tried to run home.

She scrambled through the brush and the dry branches. She climbed between bushes and over fallen logs. The forest seemed strange indeed at night and the girl ecame very lost. She could hear the scratch and patter of animals crawling around, curious to see the naughty little girl out in the dark of the woods. The girl grew very frightened indeed and fell onto her bottom. She was so scared, she hardly noticed when a great, furry arm scooped her up and carried her away.

Deep in a slimy cave, torches flared to light. In the flickering orange glow, the girl could make out stacks of greasy bones in the corners and a great stone slab, like a table right in the middle. In the shadows just beyond the torchlight, moved a terrible beast. He might have been a huge bear or gorilla, but the skin of his face had been sliced away, leaving angry red muscle twiching over a pair of eyes, burning red with hunger. His long, clawed fingers held a bleached, human skull like a bowl. He slurped some kind of putrid gruel from the inside and licked the slime from his teeth.

He leaned in to hiss, "I'm going to eat you next, little girl,"

Somehow, the fear had passed out of the girl's head. She smiled right back, "It looks like you already have your dinner,"

He looked down at the gruel, "Oh this, it's just a snack," He tapped his finger against the bowl and thought for a few seconds, "I made it this morning before I knew I'd be eating you,"

She nodded helpfully.

"I didn't want it to go to waste," he added, "But I'll be hungry in just a moment and then I'll gobble you up!" He curled his lips around his fangs and leaned in to stare at the little girl as he said those last few words.

"Well, what will we do in the meantime?"

"Hmm?" the beast sat back on his haunches.

"Who knows how long it will take to be hungry again. I'd hate to get bored,"

The beast furrowed his brow, totally unprepared for this sort of behavior.

She quickly continued, "You must have something to do around here, a game to play?"

The beast turned his great, shaggy body and looked around. He picked a chunk of mouse out of his teeth with one long, bent claw. The girl folded her hands and waited patiently. The great creature grumbled and shifted his bulk to the other side.

"I've got some cards," he mumbled finally.

"Perfect!" she beamed at her captor.

He lurched forward and dug through one of the piles of bones. After a moment, he dragged out a back pack with bits of a backpacker still sticking to the straps. He dug through the contents till he found an old pack of playing cards.

The girl clapped and smiled. She dusted off a spot on the stone slab so they could play.

The beast held the cards reluctantly, "I really must apologize. These are the only cards I have and they're a bit..." he grumbly voice trailed away.

"Oh, I'm sure they'll do fine. They're just cards,"

"Well, they're kind of rude," he tried to explain.

She rolled her eyes and marched forward, plucking the pack from his claws. Each card in the set had pictures of naked ladies.

"This is nothing, I've seen where my cousins hide a whole, big box full of magazines with naked ladies,"

"Really?" The beast seemed very interested, "Do they hide it in the woods?" he asked, his rumbling voice filled with hope.

"No, they live in New Jersey,"

The beast nodded and sighed.

The girl shuffled the cards into neat piles on the stone. She cocked her head to one side and asked, "So what do you want to play?"

Bride of the Sky, Part One

The season had been very dry; the crops grew wilted and weary under the relentless heat. All the peoples of the tribe clung to each other, worrying over the coming winter and the hunger that was sure to follow. They gathered their strongest and wisest men to seek out the great shaman of the mountains and bring him gifts of wealth and treasure.

After many days of searching, the men found the great shaman as he smoked the meat of a turtle from the river. The men fell to their knees, offering all the tribe's riches, and begged for help against the drought. The shaman waved away their gifts, instead carving the meat of the turtle and sharing some with each man. He sat and thought and watched the sky. The men began to speak again, but the shaman waved them silent. As night fell upon them, in the dark, the shaman told this tale:

There is a spirit that roams the sky. So breathes the dawn, so drinks the night. The spirit seeks a bride. His is the time as winter passes and green swells the land. As such, his bride must be young and beautiful. With his bride, he will bless the land and all things will bloom.

And the men asked how to present this bride to the spirit. The shaman replied:

Cover her eyes in the whitest cloth, so that she may not be blinded by the spirit's light. Bind her hands in the lightest, softest thread, so that the slightest effort might tear them apart, so the spirit knows his bride is willing. Lead her to the top of the holy mountain and leave her before the dawn, so that her beauty is the first thing on the eyes of the new sun.

And the men gave thanks and stood to leave, but the shaman rose in a fright and shouted:

Be you mindful, the bride must be brave. Above all else, her soul must have steel, for the spirit is easy to trick and fool.

The men nodded and gave assurance to the old shaman. Again they turned to leave and climb down the mountain toward the village. Behind them, the great shaman clapped his hands and shook his rattles. The stones of the mountain heard his call and began to sing along, happily. All the stones sang under the feet of the men as they climbed through the darkness. They did not trip or stumble.

Back in the village, the men consulted with the chief over the shaman's commands. They argued over which of their girls should become the bride of the spirit. One man argued for Elsi, a girl in the flower of her beauty, with a brightness of spirit and innocence that brought joy to all who knew her. Another man argued for Nolsamma, a girl of such inviting curves and friendly warmth that all men find so welcoming. A third man argued for Kora, a girl of such fair feature and noble bearing, she looked like she might've stepped out of a great painting.

The chief hushed all the men and thought for a great while on the words of his men and the commands of the shaman of the mountains. He rose and stepped out of his tent and called for all the people of the tribe. As they all gathered around, he told of the journey of the men, and the shaman sharing turtle meat, and the story of the spirit in the sky. The women of the tribe clutched their daughters close in fear as the chief announced his decision for a bride to the sky.

His finger passed over the tribe and settled on one girl. He called out her name, Mela. The tribe fell silent. Mela was pretty, but not very. She was young as well, but not very. She had lived near twenty winters without a husband, and unless a sickness took some of the more beautiful women away, she would likely see another twenty before she found one. The peoples of the tribe grew nervous as they thought the spirit might be displeased with such an unlovely bride. However, no one spoke up or objected to the chief about this decision, as they feared he might choose their daughters instead.

And so that night, Mela was bound by soft thread and blindfolded with white cloth and carried to the top of the holy mountain that leaned over the edge of the world, the first thing on the eyes of the rising sun. She went without fuss or complaint, happy to serve the needs of the tribe. The men loved her dearly, kissing her on the face and head as she waited. As the sky grew bright, they fled the sun's rays and hid in the darkness behind some rocks below.

As the sun rose and painted the world with its color, the men had to look way from the great, stinging light. As their eyes grew accustomed, they turned back to the mountain, but Mela was gone.

Someone Else's Legs

I woke this morning and was very surprised to discover someone else's legs dangling under my body. I stood and marched around the house. Sure enough, they obeyed me as a proper pair of legs should. If anyone that wasn't me were to look in through a window, they might not know that these legs weren't mine. I might not otherwise know my own legs underneath had I not spent my entire life previous with the same pair.

They were fine legs, strong and healthy, but they were not my legs. I gave the matter some thought over breakfast and reached the simple conclusion that they had to come off. I tried a few of the kitchen knives, but it was all too messy. I went out to the shed and tried the hacksaw, but the thin blade got all gummed up with ligaments. I couldn't get a proper angle with an axe or machete. Luckily my old circular saw was up to the challenge. I had to dismantle the safety shutter, but otherwise it all went smoothly.

I had gathered materials for tourniquets and bandages. I had even crafted a crude wheelchair for myself with some old bicycle parts and a deck chair. After all the fuss and splatter, though, I noticed that there was very little blood. Reaching down, the wounds had already healed smooth. Even further, I could stand up and march about again.

My torso hovered perhaps three or four feet off the ground. I could will myself here and there as if I still had legs. In fact, my torso would bob up and down like I was taking steps. I could run without being winded. I could kick over junk on the ground. I could jump up and down on broken glass. I could dance ontop of a campfire, though I had to stop once my bottom started to burn.

That first day was remarkable. I felt quite magical and interesting. I fell asleep that night thinking of the fun story I could tell my friends and perhaps some silly pranks we might be able to pull.

I woke with a strange itch. My legs felt fantastic, or at least the vaccuum of their absence felt fantastic. But now I couldn't help but view my arms with suspicion. There was no doubt in my mind that they belonged to me. Unlike yesterday's legs, these arms were certainly the ones I've been swinging around for all these years. Still, compared to the grand utility and simple delight of a pair of magical legs, two regular old arms seemed rather dull.

It bothered me all morning. I tried to put it out of my mind, but by early afternoon I was marching out to the shed again. Click, whizz, crunch, splatter. My old arms flopped to the ground, an ignoble end for such helpful creatures.

You can imagine my relief when I was able to wipe my own brow with my new, magical arms. Just like my legs, My shoulders healed smooth and clean. My new limbs, seemingly comprised of solid air, were strong and fit. I spent the rest of the day teaching myself to juggle burning embers. I wanted a show to match the story for my friends.

The next morning I couldn't help but notice how silly I looked as a floating torso. The human body isn't meant to float around like that. In the mirror I looked odd and oblong. And this began a terrible thought. If I laid a blade across my throat and severed the head from the torso, which would fall away?

Would I be a little head bobbing around? Would I be a sightless chest, wiggling its odd little nubs?

I should have learned not to ask such questions of myself. Sure enough, it bothered me all morning and by dinner, there was nothing else to it. I marched out to the shed, bent over and hit the button.

When I look in the mirror, I only see whatever lies behind me. For all intents and purposes, I have become invisible. I can't remember feeling tired; I haven't bothered to sleep in some time. I run as the birds fly, dance along planes in flight, and tumble off of buildings for fun. I've seen such wonderful and frightening things. I'd love to tell my friends, but I don't think they'd recognize me.