Kara S

Sunny Anomaly

Tracie+L Mauriello

Paz Waz

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Dawn Rasmussen

C. S. Lytal

Sean King

Leyre Garcia

Sade Andre

Sam Becker

Clouds of dust plumed up as sheets of residue fell off the windowsills. Long abandoned, the house shuddered under the force of the bombs as they made impact nearby. It was a pity they weren't closer. They could have drowned out the wails of the sirens and the screams of the dead.

They could have drowned out my unrelenting stream of thought that never seemed to stop. But alas, the bombs never seemed to fall close enough to my house. All day long, all I heard were explosions, sirens, and screams while my thoughts raced around in my head.

I only one bomb — one small munition — would strike in the right place I could collect enough insurance money. No matter what I did my house stayed safe. I would have to find another way to pay for my new face. Perhaps I could do the transplant myself. All I needed was a

I tried to occupy my mind with a book to no avail. Following one of the bomb blasts the power had gone out and sun was fading fast. I gathered candles and glared at the pantry for no-cook dinner options. That’s when I heard a high pitched whistling noise growing louder.

My perception of time changed in that moment. The seconds that followed were viscous as I struggled into the relative safety of the pantry. And then, just as I closed the door, I felt the earth shift beneath me and heard the impact.

English

The lighting failed as the room shook and I lost my balance, hitting the stone floor awkwardly. The shaking reduced to a low but persistent rumble as I lay there submerged in an oppressive blackness. Multiple alarms were sounding nearby, and an ominous repetitious thud

caused the floor to vibrate under me. Was it a giant creature or some enormous machine? I rose unsteadily to my feet, and with my hands I followed the nearest wall toward the place I remembered seeing the entrance to this cavern.

It was hard to judge the passage of time underground, but it must be long after dark or I would be able to see some daylight filtering in, surely. The walls and even the air were joining in the low deep thrum from the floor. My teeth began to ache. I had to get out of here before

the vibration ground my joints into dust and the moisture and mold seeped into my lungs. My best bet to escape the cave was upwards. I’d take it slow and careful, and conserve my flashlight batteries. Upwards!

I climbed the rocky wall of the cave, I saw a light, I finally know that I escaped from there after so long.

The Best-Laid Plans of Rats and Men

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We are building a bridge...a new path to a new town. This area was recently bought by a big company and they want to develop a new concept in housing. Modern, futuristic and environmentally friendly...with state of the arc technology...

The bridge led to a utopia of sorts, built by corporate powerhouse Home Grown Town Ventures. HGTV got into city building for all the right reasons, but over time their mission changed. Unsavory characters were hired, many of them spies. Soon enough they began committing crimes.

Before long, nothing was safe. Tourists (the ones who lived, anyway) would return home and immediately spread the word about what a horrible place it was and caution others never to go there. As such, it was no surprise when business began to take a dive.

As time passed, the buildings started to crumble, the entire island was left deserted. No one even cared to remember it except when they were searching for material for their horror stories. It came as no surprise to the underworld that ARC, a shady organization, made it their

building materials from crushed bones of realtors who attempted to expose their unfair business practices. ARC bought all its properties through sweetheart deals with U.S. senators who needed the network to hide evidence of collusion with Russians. Under every floorboard there

hid talismans of questionable integrity, chicken bones, rabbits' feet, and tiny vials of tears of the destitute among them. "To bless your family in your new life of luxury!" their agents would smile as they walked prospective buyers through the posh abodes.

Of course, there would always be THAT ONE PERSON. "But were they FREE RANGE destitute? I really can't have substandard tears protecting MY house. Perhaps we ought to sacrifice an orphan or two for laying the cornerstone. Gerald? What do you think?" And the old walrus would reply,

"Whatever you say, Jefe. Tear away!" And that's how revolution started. Anarchy is not the answer, but civilization needs radicals. Changes are good, but true progress is not a matter of changing everything. Rather, it is a matter of changing the minds and perceptions of people.

Realtors and spies

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Josh Crawford

KW Taylor

Emma Mazzucco

Never leave a container of mint balls next to a witch's cauldron. But the trick to this is, what exactly is a witch? When I first came across this warning, I avoided every kitchen of every woman senior citizen that I came across. I even avoided my grandma. But a witch is nothing

if not surprising. Whatever you think a witch might be, she is probably not. Whatever you think she couldn’t be, she almost certainly is. And she either hates to love mints, or loves to hate them.

However, even a witch is not immune to the disgusting flavor of orange juice after toothpaste. In fact, it’s been speculated that witches are even more sensitive to this taste than your average person. This is how I hatched my plan to take down the witch on the hill.

Still in lockdown mode, I had acquired copious amounts of both items, grabbed as much and started mixing. Problem was how would I get the witch to take it....

After the crude potion had time to seal itself to the sleep cycle, it was ready to be applied. The

lockdown would end, and I would be the one to do it. I pulled out my spellbook and began the incantation.

I read the lines like it was second nature, almost absentmindedly. “Diabolus autem minimum…” 

The uninitiated would be surprised to learn the words aren’t magical. 

“…reditus infernis vestris…” 

It’s the intention that works wonders.

I put down the spell book and waited. Nothing happened. Maybe my intention wasn’t strong enough. Maybe I didn’t want it badly enough. Maybe I didn’t use enough tiger whiskers. I dropped one more into the potion and the cauldron bubbled.

I stared into the vile broth with glee, it was working! The shapeshifting scum floating on the top took the form of various catlike beasts as the shadows in the room drew closer. A sound above caused me to glance at the ceiling, a cat peered down at me through a small square hole

but then disappeared. Now the scum writhed again and more feline shapes emerged, all but one showing a cat about to pounce. And then, with a growing sense of unease I saw, in the middle, a crude human form. I slowly looked up to where I had seen the cat moments before and gasped

"You've been defenestrated!" The sound of maniacal laughter covered the soft footsteps coming up from behind. Alas, no more applied spellcraft for this one!

Witches and Toothpaste and Cats, Oh My!

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Maybe it was the length of time I’ve spent in the silence of space, but music has meant a lot to me these last 5 years. I’d gotten used to only hearing my own breath and cursing inside my helmet, no matter how much damage my blaster did. Music helped. Time for some Hendrix.

Gently, I pulled the record out of its sleeve and placed it carefully onto the turntable, where I delicately set the needle and waited for the unique sound of Hendrix guitar to fill the airwaves around me. If anything was going to help, it was Jimmy.

The notes slipped out of the groove, flowing from the gentle scratches of the needle. It was perfect. I focused and the water droplets began swirling upwards from the cup, forming a delicate fountain engaged in an almost hypnotic dance. Hendrix's guitar sound and the water met in

in the way waves reach a rocky shore, crashing then yielding to each other. They heat was suffocating but I was too mesmerized to leave. All I could do was take in the moment, sweating and swaying, swaying and sweating.

A sudden sense of danger threaded through my veins, ice water to cool this snake-charmed heat. I stepped back from the edge, hardly knowing where I was. What was happening to me?

The cold was not just my fear. My whole body shivered and my teeth began chattering. A deceptively silky male voice came from just behind my left shoulder: "Imagine the warmth surrounding your body. The gelatinous lava envelopes you, comforts you. Why not go for a swim?"

Because, realizing that it would be my last swim. I know that feeling, the cold, shivering feeling. It was death creeping up on me and i didn't want to go just yet, so I told that voice "Not Today, mofo, i got some "sh*t to do."

In A Purple Haze at the Edge of Space

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Once, I had read how the mushrooms we see in the forest are not individual organisms, but part of a much larger whole that exists underground. But as best as I can tell, moving mushrooms don’t exist.

I’ve spent my life studying hundreds of thousands of various types of mushroom species, and in all those years, I’ve never seen one move. Today, however, is the day that my life has been forever changed. This morning, as I was checking my specimens, I noticed one of the smaller

fungi inch a milimeter to the left before freezing. Was it just my imagination? I pretended to turn away, appearing to be busy with the other mushrooms, when I immediately snapped my head back. Sure enough the little mushroom sneaked to the left, realizing too late that I was

watching. I wielded my dessert fork and caught it by surprise. No mushroom would be prepared for the this of all utensils. But this was no ordinary mushroom. It slid left again, then right. I grazed it with a tine but couldn’t catch it. This was one slippery fella.

Suddenly from out of nowhere came an enormous sledgehammer, it's huge iron head the size of an alternator crashing down unstoppably at thundering speed obliterating the mushroom the plate and the table, lodging firmly in the floor. Splinters and particles rained down as I blinked

in confusion, shielding my eyes with my hand & squinting up at the hole in the roof. I looked back down at the hammer, & realization slowly dawned as I made out the runes & Norse interlace on the surfaces of the head. Quickly I salvaged what I could of the mushroom & hid them in

the teapot. God today was turning out weird. Or ‘gods’ as the case may be. I lifted my hand holding the hammer. I said experimentally, “Away?” Nothing. Alright so we’re hoofing it. I scuttle out through the door, glancing guiltily back over my shoulder at the chaos I left behind.

Putting the Mush in Mushroom

Madisyn James

Lauryn Zimmerman

Banana Bob

Her hands trembled as she took the reigns, knowing what it meant to leave. She tapped Lancelot with her heel and he left the open door of the stable. She covered her bald head with the child’s blanket and…

set off into the open field. The cool yet chilly breeze gently whipped across her young, pale face as the majestic animal trotted about. However, she had no control of her hands. She tried to keep a firm grip on those reigns. Lancelot was just a few trots away from the fence when

he came to an abrupt stop, bowing his head low. At first, she thought perhaps he was listening for something, so she listened along. That was when she noticed the chewing sounds and realized he had just found some tasty clovers. “Lancelot, we can’t get distracted!” She nudged him

and her hands trembled again. 

“It’s nothing,” she told Lancelot. She didn’t want to worry him but her own concerns were growing too. Perhaps it was time to get help for her condition. She would have to call the

witch doctor. The witch doctor would know what to do, at least she hoped. The treatments he provided were unusual to say the least. Lancelot and she agreed the witch doctor would be the most practical way to go. Otherwise, her condition could turn grave.

It didn't take them long to find the doctor's house. Everyone knew where the skull-decorated path was, after all. It was the time that was the challenge. The witch doctor didn't like people coming when he was asleep, and whenever he was eating who knows what. So they had to go at

precisely the right time. Not too early, the gleam in the skulls’ eyes still merely the burning embers of fires long forgot, nor too late, the flames bright, reaching out to lick unwary visitors. It would be tricky. But when your witch needed a doctor, you did what you had to do.

The big question now was: Was my witch just a witch or a witch doctor, and which doctor did my witch or witch doctor need? A doctor witch, a witch doctor or a witch doctor that specialised in witch doctors? I.e. either a witch doctor witch doctor, or a witch witch doctor doctor?.

Which Witch Doctor Doctored the Witch, Doctor?

Physics of Gaming

My partner and I pulled up outside the scene of the crime, annoyed to find the news crew had already beaten us there. It was the third time this week at the same location which was, rather conveniently, just across the street from the news station. “This can’t be coincidence,” I

fumed, nibbling on my fingernail. "The murderer is determined to embarrass the police!" "Or just provide convenient scoops for the news. Come on." We had to brave our way through the crowd of reporters and cameras waving our badges and saying the standard police press lines. Once

we were were out of range of the cameras it was safe to talk about what we’d seen. 

“Double homicide, my ass,” Sgt. Lopez said. “There’s way too much blood.”

And way too many legs, I thought. I counted five surrounding the two dismembered bodies in the foyer.

“When I used to hunt with my dad, the garage would look like this after he cleaned several deer,” Sgt. Lopez continued. “He’d cut down the meat and haul off the waste….” We looked at one another. My stomach turned. Someone was hunting people and doing something with… the meat.

"Cannibals?" I said almost convinced "Sgt.Lopez nodded" and frownedYeah Cannibals"

“Well, that’s fine and dandy,” I said. “Shit Lopez, I eat cannibals. They bring out the animal in me.” He laughed but I could smell his fear.

Too Many Legs

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Mitch and Mindy leapt up, terrified what lay beneath. They twirled around, examined the human remains occupying their chairs and, in unison, let out a shriek. Within moments the cloaked figure had dropped its clipboard and moved toward the pair with the determination of eternity.

Mindy whimpered. “That’s death, I know it. This is it for us,” she sobbed. Mitch couldn’t seem to respond. The hooded figure stopped mere centimeters in front of them before slowly pulling back its hood to reveal not a skull, but instead, a rather innocuous-looking

trio of teddy-bears stack on top of each other. They were very much bewildered at the terrified couple before them and started eyeing each other guiltily. "I told you this was a bad idea, Bern. We should have gone for one of those fairy costumes." Before Bern could argue back, Mi

itch looked for a place to hide. Mindy pushed her fear aside and remembered her strength. She turned back toward the doorway and braced herself for what was to come. She would unmask the hooded figure even if it cost her her life. Mitch looked at her and cowered.

She had the look of intensity in her eye that he had never seen before. As the hooded figure loomed menacingly in front of Mitch, Mindy bolted from the shadows grabbing the face of the figure. She gripped the hood tightly in her hand. This was it she thought.

Mindy pulled the hood from the figure and then— In the dark she couldn’t see who was there. “No, stop!” she cried as the footsteps drew closer. Just then, she felt a warm hand touch her forearm and she squealed in terror. “Shhh,” someone hushed.

clipboard. “We’ve been expecting you,” the shadowy figure declared, leafing through its pages. “Take a seat.” It gestured toward chairs shrouded in darkness. The guests sat, eventually realizing their seats were occupied by sharp, brittle limbs cracking loudly under their weight.

A Voice In The Dark

A Voice In The Dark: Part II

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Johanna M

Where am I going to find a box of grits at this hour? It’s an unconventional ingredient, as far as magical components go, but Southern Magic did things differently. For one thing, the incantations are spoken much slower, and for another…

they have a lot more of a relaxed feel, as you would expect what with Southern hospitality and all that. But not being currently *in* the south, grits aren’t as much of a staple, and therefore can’t be easily acquired at 2AM on a Tuesday. Pacing around the room, I ask Siri for a

good old-fashioned smack in the head for helping it work, but unfortunately Siri didn't come equipped with any appendages. "I can direct you to the nearest grit-producing service. It is currently four hours away through desert on horseback. A cowboy getup is recommended." My head

was too big for a cowboy hat so that was out. I would have to do this wearing the ballet costume I had arrived in.

I hiked my leg up onto the stool, revealing thigh hair, garter and all. The patrons looked at me with sleepy curiosity, unsure of whether I would drink the whiskey or smash the bottle and lunge across the bar.

The patrons watched in amusement as I consumed the whole bottle of whiskey in one gulp. Cheers erupt throughout the entire bar. “Big Gulp Gilford! Big Gulp Gilford!” they repeated over and over again. I liked the way it sounded and now I’m known as Big Gulp Gilford in the South.

Gilford, the Unnecessarily Magical

Joel Caffey

The boy suddenly woke up on the shores of a beach. Bitter cold and the familiar stench of coastal decay overtook him. The deafening cawing of seagulls and distant sirens clouded his mind. "I have to get back..", he grunted while trying to get to his feet..

Only to discover he had eight pointy feet, which he promptly tripped over. He raised his hands to see two claws. His new crab body wasn’t all bad: he could look in all directions, at least.

But on the other hand, it meant that he wasn't on the top of the food chain anymore. His exoskeleton clattered in a shiver as a heron stabbed another crab next to him and swooped away. Gagging at the splattered remains on his face, he started scuttling away. He had to hide. But w

was a very watchful heron, hence the nickname “W.” Even if you thought he couldn’t see you, he almost certainly could. And this was why the crab needed a very clever hiding place. It needed to be somewhat camouflage, but being out of reach would be even better. Perhaps both, if

only there were more seaweed in this part of the ocean. Instead the crab made do with what he found — Reese’s wrapper, a used condom and a Coke can discarded by the planet’s most disgusting inhabitants. For once, something good would come of human disregard for the environment.

The crab fashioned the trash into something resembling a shell. A shell different than any other. The crab was safe for a time before it was gone. As the ocean sank away and the last of the moving things moved, there sat the shell, different than any other.

A Shell Unlike Any Other

Michael Kennedy

Finally after 3 years of searching, I had found my little sister. There was only one problem, directly on top of the cage that she was locked in slept an emerald green elder dragon.

Why didn't the cage crumple under its weight? I don't know. Was my sister even alive? I didn't know that either. I crept around the boulder that shielded me from the dragon's eyes and took a closer look. There she was, but the emerald eyes that used to shine looked so hollow and

vapid. He pulse was faint but I knew my sister’s will was strong. She might live if I could get to a hospital but there seemed to be no way to get her out without drawing the dragon’s attention. I knew I would have to find a way to distract it.

The dragon’s body seemed to be in a constant state of motion, its muscles rolled continuously under those green scales. I didn’t have anything on me, and I was going to heft my sister onto my shoulders to get her away. I looked to the left of the beast and yelled to no one, “Now!

To my great surprise, several thugs I hadn’t known were there all lunges at the dragon in unison. The dragon was just as caught off guard as I was, but I couldn’t afford to waste any time marveling. Instead, I grabbed my sister and ran in the opposite direction. “It’s ok,” I told

her as we ran. My feet moved so fast that it almost felt like I was flying. I could tell she was scared and I was scared as well. However, I couldn’t show it in front of her. I didn’t wanna make her panic even more and I sure as hell didn’t wanna admit I was afraid.

Emerald Eyes

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Milo Pittman

The giant’s body lay face down in what this morning had been Halbert Haversham’s home, stables, and small orchard. The giants left foot however had planted itself squarely into Jack’s bedroom on the second floor of his mother’s home. Even now, the beanstalk had begun to whither.

His actions had only resulted in damage to his mother’s house- his mother, to whom he’d promised fortune and prosperity from his beanstalk escapades. There had to be another way to return to the giant’s castle and bring back enough gold to not only pay for the repairs, but to

buy a round of drinks at the Beanstalk Bar, and Jack sure was thirsty now. His mother hated his drinking. She said it made him destructive and delusional. When he started making up fanciful stories about magic vegetables she knew it was time to get him into rehab.

“This”, concluded the therapist several weeks later, succinctly summarising Jack’s increasingly unhinged world view with regard to high yield climbing plants, human growth disorders, and a questionable understanding of water fowl reproduction systems, “is clearly an early sign of

floragianaqufowlism. A very rare but potentially lethal disease, I assure you. I've had to deal with many clients who drove themselves to destitution for a few rare seeds, beans, rice kernels, or ducks' eggs." The therapist drew out a prescription page for Jack, detailing rare

medicines that would indeed save his life. “These medicines cost over thousands of dollars!” Jack exclaimed. “Indeed.” said the doctor. Jack suddenly began to convulse in front of the doctor. “Well, I guess he won’t have to pay now.” The doctor says as he leaves Jack to die.

Good Morning, Beanstalk

Harmonie Winters

The doll continued sewing in the dark corner, greeting the needle spiders as they clattered across the wooden shelf. Many avoided her, if possible, so solitude was the only constant friend she could rely on. Besides that, she had patients who screamed at her tattered face until

she finally stitched tight their eyes, ears and mouths, though not before stuffing them with moth eggs until they bloated up unable to move, at least until the hatching began. The grimy nurse doll spasmed again, her lidless jaundiced eyes rolling back into their perished sockets

as her head swung back, then rolled forward again as her head came back down. The poor nurse doll looked absolutely horrible, but not as horrible as she felt. She simply wished she could voice her feelings and that someone would listen.

What she really needed was a puppet. The puppet could speak for her, speak the truth. People would listen to a puppet they trusted. Kermit! He’s a news reporter, after all.

All she had to do was get rid of her first Puppet, Mr. Gizmode. With his complete lack of human enthusiasm it would be no contest who should speak for her. The obvious choice was Kermit! Right? Was she right? Gizmode was a loose cannon for sure but he was a survivor. It came

as no surprise when, upon attempting to put the puppet down the incineration chute in her apartment hallway, Mr. Gizmode’s eyes opened and his mouth flopped agape. “You can’t KILL me, my dear!” he shrieked. “I’m going to kill YOU!” She dropped the puppet and ran back to the open

apartment door. She slammed the door with a hard thud. Suddenly, the phone rang. She answered the phone as chills went up her spine. “I am going to kill you!” the puppet screamed into the phone. She hung up the phone and ran to grab her gun.

She rummaged through her tool box, desperate, only to come to a terrifying realization. In her haste, all of her weapons - her knives, guns, and bombs - had been replaced with a hefty collection of action figures.

She traced her fingers over the action figures in the tool box, wondering who could have replaced the weapons. Before she could fully consider the ramifications there was a sharp metallic ting at the door. Then again, and again. She had no idea if the door would hold.

The knocking grew more persistent with each moment. The Wonder Woman and Cat Woman action figures were of no use to her now. She would have to open the door and face what had come for her. But first she would create a disguise.

So she went to bed, cut two holes into her bedsheets with her Catwoman’s sharp fingers, threw the sheet over her head and prepared to confront the knocking as Casper the ghost !

The knocking grew louder as Catwoman waited, building up her courage. At last, she grasped the doorknob through her bedsheet and flung the door open. To her amazement it was Batman, dressed as Frankenstein. "I thought you were gone," she said. "Batman dead," he said. "ME ALIVE!"

An Assemblage of Dolls

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He brought his hands together in glee, his eyes gleaming. He received looks as if he had lost his mind, but that just increased his initial excitement. He finally knew the truth.

These people weren’t real. They were all part of an advanced simulation, so why should he care what they thought or the looks they gave? Still, simulations could be dangerous. If he gave away that he knew, they could easily lock him away in a psychiatric ward, then he could never

escape either physically or mentally. Just don't look, he thought to himself. Don't look. But it was hard, especially with an entire group glaring at him as they passed by in the simulation. Step by step he tried to calmly pick his way through the beta testing until- "Christy?"

He was confused. “My name isn’t Christy.” 

“No one uses their real names here,” the game master said. 

Right. The simulation seemed so real that I had forgotten where I was.

I looked at my hands and realized even those had been different just moments ago. The simulation had seemed so real. The game master repeated himself. Distant now. I put the equipment onto a table and walked into the deep green jungle just beyond the lab.

What I found in the jungle was unbelievable. Neolithic stone skyscrapers, ruins from a civilization long past. Did these ancient people live in this jungle and only come to the cave to experience simulations. Or was I still in a simulation myself ?

Life Is A Game

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Madeline Sammut

Robin Devereaux

I ran through the hallways trying to get to class. It seemed like one of those scenes in a movie where the main character is comically late. But it wasn’t I was a mess. A real life mess.

"T'ch" ticked the clock just as I barged into the classroom. "1 minute late, Mr. Bruner. But what should I expect from a boy who can't even murder properly?" The teacher eyed me with his cold glare and placed the muzzle of his pistol on my forehead. "I would be doing a service to

the entire world of serial killers by murdering you right here, right now,” he said. “But it would be too easy, and I’m teaching this class to help the new generation of murderers learn proper technique.” He lowered the gun and gestured me to my desk. Breathing a sigh of relief,

I sat down. What was I going to do? I was failing this freaking class! What did I have to do to impress this guy? So far I had failed miserably, and our final projects were due in two short days. A minimum of three victims was the requirement, plus a unique method of killing.

That’s when it struck me. I’d build a human-sized mousetrap, in the shape of a fondue restaurant. I could produce at least a dozen victims in the first week of business!

It wouldn't be killing the customers of course, that'd be unsustainable. It'd be passers-by, drawn to the spectacle of the restaurant's unique selling point, the late-night naked fondue wrestling. I would carefully select my victim as they gawped in at the garish extravaganza

that took place every Monday. By Friday there was blood in the fondue that we’d have to change the advertisements to Jell-O wrestling. It was garish but it drew a crowd. I liked to choose women with muscle and heft. I liked the challenge. Skinny coke heads were a dime a dozen but

I wanted something meatier. So there I was, a bantamweight, going toe-to-toe with Mama Theresa. She was 300lbs if she was an ounce, sores on her top and bottom lips. I stared intensely as I wiped cheese from my brow. Tonight’s about justice I thought. Then, the dinner bell rang.

Mugwort’s School for Murderers

Rietje Becker

Grind the beans until they turn as smooth as sand in an hourglass. Pull the lever until the water streams down in an iridescent cascade. Pour the mixture from the pot into the cup elegantly and with a cold expression. Hope that you're not pretty. That is how you survive as a maid

I hated these rules. But I had no choice. I had to keep a low profile, and this was the only option I found. No one like me could get a bigger job. Too much risk. I was a “Special” and dumb name for the way we are treated.

I sighed and waited in the lobby for my turn to interview. There were at least half a dozen other women sitting around me, drinking the stale, weak lobby coffee and chit-chatting about this and that. I wondered how many of them were there to interview and how many were there

to make friends. Probably quite a few, these were lonely times, after all. Never good in social situations, I loudly proclaimed “I have a lonely heart but a welcoming spirit!” The room grew quiet. One of the women stood. Before she could speak a door opened “#57? You’re up!”

I glanced at my ticket - it read 93. I had a while to wait, and my attempt at conversation had turned the room silent. So I pulled out my travel bagpipes and started to practice.

I noticed some people tapping their feet to my music, then some got up and started dancing. Who knew the universal language was bagpipes. No longer paying attention i suddenly heard "93, calling 
#93". ... I stopped

my music. “It’s my turn,” I said. The crowd gave a collective sigh of disappointment, then several applauded, and one dropped a dollar into the purse at my feet. “Number 93!” the voice sounded again. “You’re up!” I scurried to the conference room, shoving the travel bagpipe into

a bin on the way. "Stupid instrument" I thought to myself. The moment I entered the room a hot spotlight lit me up, I was blinded yet could sense hundreds of people in the darkness beyond, the dull rustles of clothing and footwear, and the mental waves of disdainful anticipation.

I pushed through the crowd, annoyed mummers and screeches taking forefront of my mind. I was so distracted by my hearing I forgot of my blindness, getting lost in the terrors of my psyche.

A child crying. The whine of a small motor came toward me. I turn. A group of men laughed (at me?), then annoyed as I brush into one. I was in the center of a sea of noise in the black. Then the ground I expect beneath my foot was gone. I was going forward off the curb.

I landed face first, breaking my glasses. The bagpipes flew through the air and wound up under the tire of a school bus that slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting me. The bag deflated under the weight of the bus and let out a slow drone as if to mock me. Stupid bagpipes.

"Watch it ya Celtic freak!" The driver screamed.
I nodded my head toward him to say, "You're telling me!". I just sat on on the road for a minute blind, bloodied & swelling thinking on the disaster my life had taken in such a short time. 
"Waa Waah".

Celtic Maid of Disaster

He looked at the night sky and imagined other worlds. Alternative universes where he was happier, wealthier and maybe a couple of inches taller.

He made a little money as a psychic. He saw a little of the future, a little of the past, but mostly he reassured lonely old ladies about the present. But increasingly the lives he saw weren’t the lives of his clients. At least not, this reality’s version of his clients.

Somehow, alternate timelines and realities had begun to collide, making it difficult for him to give accurate fortunes. As such, his business took a huge hit as his Yelp reviews became very negative with only one-star ratings. There was no way he could make anyone understand why

all his predictions turned out to the very opposite if not completely unrelated to their futures. They just didn't understand quantum mechanics, wormholes, and the law of continuity and that sort of stuff. He needed the perfect educator...like the Green brothers! He started dial

... suddenly a swirl of curves and particles filled his vision, neon white on a deep blue background, filigree and curlicue danced around each other in a neverending pattern of harmonic tessellation as he fell forward into and through this subatomic, abstracted space.

His heart beat fast and hard through the cacophony until it became the only sound he could hear. He had become one with the tessellation. He no longer knew where he ended and it began. The tessellation was him, he was it, and it was everything.

Becoming One

It had been eleven months to the day since the storms first began. Most cities were but flattened piles of crumbling brick and rotting wood. People—those who survived—lived in small shanty tent collectives under highway overpasses. My sister Gwen and I had found an empty trailer

behind an abandoned grocery store, but we weren’t able to keep it for very long, as demand for such a shelter was high, and we didn’t have the weapons others did. It’s astounding how vile humans can be when you take away their modern conveniences. I had to protect Gwen, so we

...kept moving. It would keep us safe, i promised her I would get her to the tent collectives. It's the scariest thing in the world, to run but not know who is chasing you. Gwen was the key, she had to be safe at any cost, even if the cost is my life...

or so I kept reminding myself. Who knew if I would ever be able to actually do it? I kept hacking through the trees with my supposedly mythical sword, and both of us continuously craning our heads back to see if we were being chased. "Arth?" she whispered. Her lips trembled as we

realized there was not special at all about this mythical sword. In fact, it was dull and practically useless for the tasks ahead. There was only one thing a sword like this was good for. 

I wish we had some cheese.

Then cheese appeared! It was a towering, monster of a cheese. Judging by the color and firmness—something sharp. And it was angry. The Mythical Sword of Fromage glowed like newly forged steel. The cheese lept at me! My blade directed my hands. Gwen and the land were finally free.

The Mythical Sword of Fromage

I started out as any normal child. I’d pass the days away playing silly childish games, like duck-duck goose or tag with the neighborhood children. The day I turned 10, I noticed I was different. A weird mark appeared on my hand in the shape of a moon, and my mother hid me away.

That was when it finally came out that she was a witch, and my father had been a werewolf. The witch part really had very little to do with it, but my mother was unsure whether the full moon would affect me the way it does a full blooded werewolf, so she hid me away just to be

safe. But of course she didn't count on the trauma it inflicted on me. Nothing happened to me on the full moon even then and up until now except a crippling claustrophobia that didn't exist any other time. Unfortunately that dictated everything. I lost so many jobs to the phobia

but I wasn’t going to let it stop me this time. Macy’s needed an elevator operator and I needed a job. Eight hours a day in a 50-square-foot box with strangers? I could do it. 

I developed a plan to keep my claustrophobia in check. It sounded crazy but I knew it would work.

I started on Monday. The uniform gave saved me some laundry money. I made up my mind to relieve the claustrophobia by stepping off the elevator at each floor, pretending to check for or direct shoppers, inspecting the lift’s shaft, whatever it took to get a moment of fresh air.

By Friday I’d familiarized myself with every floor in the building. I waited obediently until an occupant chose the penthouse and followed them out. I ran to the farthest door and flung it open. “Congratulations,” said a woman in a suit with a laser pointer. “You’re our new CEO!”

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