Story #158 - The Diary of Biff Tannen

The Diary of Biff Tannen

June 16^th, 1955

Living at my grandmother's isn't exactly what I wanted, but with my parents on the outs, I had to move. I'm tired of their bickering, nagging, and the pure vitriol they hurl at each other, and I can't take another minute of dad telling me to be “more like him”.

I ran into that kid again today. You know the one I mean. I've known him for years, but somehow we got off on the wrong foot. I still remember the first day I met him, glasses pushed up and hair slicked back. He was goofy, even then, and I was coming off of a serious “discussion” with my father regarding the use of fists over brains. I was big for my age, but dad was bigger, so what I said to him didn't matter much.

Poor George McFly got in my way, and I decided to try out some of the physical violence my father so generously heaped on me on a regular basis. A single push and George went down in a heap, but I was so stunned by what I'd done I could barely get a word out. I mumbled something about making like a tree and going away, but I knew I'd bungled the joke. Adrenaline was screaming in my veins, and when I saw the fear on McFly's face, I felt a measure of pride for what I'd done. The kid was scared of me, just because I'd shoved him around.

George darted away, and I slumped against a locker, guilt washing over me. I had no right to do that to another human being, certainly not one like George, and I promised myself I'd never do it again.

How do I get off on these tangents? Must be the Tannen curse. I can't seem to keep my head on straight for more than a few hours at a time, and then I drift off into left field.

Grandma's – right. I don't like it here. She smells funny, and though she's nice enough, it's clear that she doesn't want me here. I wish my mother's mother was alive, since Granny on dad's side seems to share in the same mean streak he's got. I was hoping for a place where I could get away from it all, maybe start over, but it doesn't look like I'm going to get the chance.

September 1^st, 1955

I haven't written much, but I've been busy. I managed to spend most of the summer either outside of Hill Valley or away from the house helping a friend detail old cars, and both have been good for my soul and my nerves. It took me the better part of a month, but I've finally got seven poems I think are worth something, and now its just a matter of getting up the courage to show them to someone who matters.

I'm hoping that will turn the tide in my favor, and maybe give me the chance to break out of the mold I've created for myself. For ten years I've been known as the school bully, as the man not to mess with or interrupt. I've played along, allowing myself to indulge in periodic bursts of rage that I've felt simultaneously guilty and ecstatic about. There's something about taking control of your own life by dominating someone else that is infectious, but as I've found out, ultimately hollow.

The truth is that I'm being windy here because I don't want to admit that I broke George's glasses today. He stepped in front of me, and everyone in school knows that I don't take that, so I had to react in order to keep my reputation intact. A part of me wanted to reach out to George, take his hand and tell him I'm sorry, but that would have put my own position in the school in jeopardy.

Instead of making peace, I lashed out and caught George in the back of the head, sending him tumbling to the ground. When I looked up, Lorraine was looking at me from across the hallway, eyes wide and lip trembling. I'd never had the courage to say more than two words to her, usually some neanderthal comment about how she was “mine”, but I just desperately wanted to impress her. From my vantage point on top of George, I couldn't tell if she was horrified or aroused.

It was a bad day.

November 8^th, 1955

There was a strange kid at the malt shop today.

I went in there to see if I could get up the nerve to talk to Lorraine like a normal human being, but instead I ended up bullying a few kids and seeing a new one I didn't recognize. He said his name was Calvin, and for just a moment, I saw something in his eyes that I recognized from my own mirror.

He was a tortured soul, one just as lost as I was, and with a rage bubbling just below the surface. He would understand me, I was sure of it, and I knew that all I had to do was reach out and communicate with him, reach out and speak his language.

A bruised ego and a car full of manure later, it seems that I missed the mark.

I've been up here all night, ignoring my grandmother when she comes to the door. I don't care if she hears me crying this time; I need to let it all out somehow. This isn't the life I wanted, this isn't the man I was meant to be.

I know it's hopeless, and I know that I'm likely doomed to spend the rest of my life in Hill Valley, eking out an poor existence and trying to repeat the mistakes of my father. All I really need is a break, a single thing to go my way and I know I'll be able to change things, be able to make a difference.

I just need something to go right.

- D

Story #157 - Fleet Action

Fleet Action

Being a Captain in the galactic fleet was not all it was cracked up to be.

“Captain Jens! Captain Jens!” That was Sw'olep, his Second, who had yet another crisis to report. The problem with Sw'olep, aside from his abysmal breath, was that he made everything into a crisis, no matter how insignificant the matter might actually be.

He'd contacted Command several times about having the Second transferred – preferably planet-side for the rest of his tour – but had been told that due to the “sensitive nature of the agreement” that the brass had with Sw'olep's homeworld, there was no option for a transfer or re-assignment.

Jens had been around long enough to know exactly what that meant. Thirteen cycles ago Command had decided there were a number of resources that they wanted on the Sithher world, and with the recent addition of the warlike Guando to the fleet had gone and taken what they wanted from the Sw'olep's people without even bothering to negotiate. The result was a decaying world, mined of resources and barely able to support its own people. Anti-Command protest groups had sprung up and after a decade of activism, the boys at the top of the food chain had decided it was in their own best interests to make peace.

They'd provided resources and credits to help the Sitthers rebuild their shattered world, and posed for picture after picture with the downcast Sitther leadership. The PR was great back on earth, and protesters decided that although there hadn't been any formal admission of guilt, the assistance given to help poor Sithhers like Sw'olep was good enough.

Young and hopeful candidates for space flight were quickly drafted by Command, and Sw'olep was among the first. There was some concern that their people were not suited for the rigors of intergalactic travel, since their only space program was scrapped after a single mission, but Command was insistent, and hundreds of young and eager Sithhers poured into the fleet.

Their elongated arms and wide feet set them apart almost as much as their wrinkled faces, and they were forever tripping over raised edges and falling into bulkheads. Sitthers had never been a particularly graceful race, he had learned from Sw'olep, and their coordination got worse, not better, with age.

His Second had at least ten cycles on him and would live twice as long as he would, and he felt a twinge of pity for whatever Captain got the tall Sitther next. He also felt a measure of relief at the idea of finally being left in peace, even if that peace came at the cost of his body in the black.

“What is it, Sw'olep?” He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, more on principal than politeness. Sitthers had a difficult time picking out human emotions in conversation, but he felt he owed it to himself and the rest of the crew to try and maintain at least some sense of decorum.

“The breakfast mess, Captain. It's late!” Sitther emotions were large and easy to read, and along with the sweeping gestures that Sw'olep was making, there was no question that he was upset. Jens felt his mood darken.

“Second,” he said slowly, “are you telling me that you've come up here in a panic because of a galley complaint? Because breakfast is going to be late?” There was a danger in the question, one his Second missed altogether.

“No,” Sw'olep said earnestly, “I'm here to inform you that it was late. It has already been served!”

Jens ground his teeth hard together. “Let me see if I understand this, Second,” he paused for a moment to see if the Sitther would try to interrupt, but the tall creature just stood there looking at him stupidly, “you've come up here to to tell me not that the breakfast mess will be late, but that it was, and that all of the men are now fed and on-shift?”

Sw'olep nodded eagerly. “Exactly, Captain. You understand the gravity of the situation well.”

That was it. The last straw.

He had tried to be patient, to be understanding, as directed by Command. He had tried to respect inter species diversity and toe whatever other lines the brass were selling, but this simply wasn't going to work.

“Second,” he said “you are a disgrace -” he cut off as he was thrown hard to the right, his leg driving into the sharp edge of his chair. He had been meaning to get that fixed.

“Tactical!” He bellowed. “Report!”

Phyt, his weapons officer, answered quickly. “Blaster hit, Captain, and it looks like we've got another one coming. Hold on!”

Jens grabbed the arms of his chair and rode out the blast, and Phyt called out again. “Bringing the firing ship up on visual now, Captain!”

The shape that wavered into view on the screen in front of him was not a configuration he recognized. Sweeping wings with dozens of blaster ports lined each side of the large ship, and a high-mounted engine section at the rear spoke to a need for large amounts of power very quickly. Jens might not recognize the race that owned the ship, but there could be no mistaking the ship's purpose: war.

“Trei” He yelled to his comms officer. “Tell them to back the hell off! Tell them they're violating Command's territory and if they know what's good for them they'll turn around.”

It was a bluff; the fleet did control this sector of space, but the nearest reinforcements were three days away, and it was clear that his ship would have no luck going nose-to-nose with the one hanging in front of him.

“No,” it was Sw'olep of all people, his voice deep and confident in a way that Jens had never heard it, “do not speak to them. It will only make the situation worse. Captain, we must speak in private. The Al'aktal have found us again, and that means they have found you as well. You are in grave danger.”

Jens cursed Command under his breath as he stood up and motioned for his Second to follow him. The ship could endure blaster fire for some time; he needed to know what the hell was going on.

- D

Story #156 - Common Ground

Common Ground

Magic cracked in the air, and Mafferty Talbot hit the ground.

A long moment passed with no corresponding energy discharge, and he became aware of a low laugh floating over the sparring chamber.

“Maf,” Plesson Druger said, still chuckling, “you’re such an easy mark.”

Mafferty stood, brushing the dust off of his silk tunic, but didn’t reply. Plesson had been after him for weeks to come and see the tricks he’d learned in the Common, and Maf had finally agreed to meet. He hadn’t really believed that Pless would use any of the magic he’d learned on another Citizen, but that didn’t mean he was going to risk getting a Firelance to the face – and the clothes he had on were expensive.

“Lunch?” Plesson asked, and Maf nodded. His business would survive without him for an afternoon, and even after his friend’s near-attack, he still felt the need for company. He’d grown up with Pless, but the years had drawn them apart as the Talbot family business grew and Druger undertook his studies at the Common of Magics. His friend would never have actually harmed him, and Plesson’s company was better than none.

They passed other groups waiting for their chance to use the chamber, and Maf saw at least three faces that had been tattooed with the distinct marks of the Common. Pless didn’t speak to any of them, and they didn’t acknowledge him; there was an unspoken rule that apprentices at the Common wouldn’t interfere with each other when they were outside the Halls, especially if they were collectively engaged in an activity the Common expressly forbid.

Sparring chamber magic had killed more than one aspiring Wizard, but the Common couldn’t afford to persecute every student that disobeyed – their enrollment numbers were simply too low.

Plesson was smirking when they made it out onto the street.

“What?” Maf was curious about what Pless thought was so funny; since they had first met over twenty years ago, the taller man had always been the one with a smile on his face, and he usually had a good reason for it.

“The others in there – not all of them are students.” Plesson was trying hard not to laugh, and Maf could feel himself start to smile as well. There was something about Plesson’s open face and his curly brown hair that made his mirth infectious, even if the circumstances weren’t particularly hilarious.

“What? You’re telling me that some of those were –“

“Instructors,” Plesson said, nodding, “and not just introductory-level ones either. The one closest to the door was a Grand Marker.”

Maf let out a long breath. Grand Markers were the cream of the crop – the most elite magic users in the world, and were known for their odd temperaments. He’d take Pless in the sparring chamber over one of the Markers any day.

He was disappointed in his performance, nonetheless, since he’d spent the last six months working on his swordplay. Maf needed a distraction from the shop, and he had a natural talent for the blade.

“You did quite well, considering,” Pless said quietly. He had always wondered if Pless could read his mind, though his friend assured him that no Wizard possessed that power, no matter how advanced their skills.

“I…” Maf hesitated. “Not as well as I should have. You’d never have used magic on me, and I knew that. It was that energy, Ples – I reacted more out of instinct than control.”

“That was the point,” Ples said seriously as they made their way through the crowd toward the market. “I’ve learned a great deal at the Common, and one of the most important lessons that its self-important Wizards have taught me is the power of fear. Spun up correctly, even small acts of magic can seem massive and imposing, enough that a brave soul,” Ples shot him a look, “will think twice before attacking.”

Maf raised an eyebrow. He’d always heard that Wizards were reckless to the point of stupidity, but Ples was painting a different picture.

“I suppose I never thought about it like that. I assumed that with ultimate power, those at the Common would do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted.”

Those around them gave them a wide berth as they moved into the market square. Plesson’s solid red robe marked him out as a Wizard in training, and the people of the city had no interest in accidentally earning his ire.

His friend grimaced as he saw a woman turn from him in fear. He had always been the one of them to make connections, even among the common people, and the fact that he was now the cause of his own rejection was obviously affecting him.

“Tral’s?” Maf asked, and Pless nodded. They had been eating at Tral’s for years, ever since the business changed ownership. The first iteration of the restaurant had focused on out-of-city cuisine, much of which they both found unpalatable. The current owner offered a blend of old favorites with just enough variation to keep them both happy.

They hadn’t even made it past the serving girl at the front door before Tral himself came bounding around the corner. A huge man with dark black mustaches, Tral was typically slow-moving and deep-voiced.

“They’re here!” He squealed, his hands grasping for the edges of Plesson’s robe. “They’re back!”

“Hold on, man!” His friend drew back, tearing the robe from Tral’s fingers. “What in Sky are you talking about?”

“The Addir! I just saw one in the kitchen. Looked right at me, and then faded out of existence. Damn thing could be anywhere, now – right behind us, even!” Tral shot a look over his shoulder and then tried to move forward again, but Maf stepped between the restaurant owner and his friend.

“This is a very serious allegation, Tral,” he said softly, “and will carry harsh penalties if you are wrong.”

“Follow me!” Tral cried. “Follow me! It left something behind in the kitchen.”

Maf glanced at Plesson, who nodded. Addir hadn’t been seen in the city for two years, but that didn’t mean the snake-people were gone forever. Another war with their kind was inevitable, but it seemed unlikely they would be appearing in Tral’s kitchen to declare it.

“Lead on, Tral,” Maf said.


- D

Story #155 - Deacon First - VII

Deacon First - VII

Barry tried to catch Pike Rolson’s eye as they moved through HQ to the Briefing Room, but the taller man was clearly avoiding his gaze. It wouldn’t have been obvious to anyone looking at them as they strode through the emergency-lit hallways, but he knew his training officer well enough to know when the man didn’t want to deal with something.

That was the odd part – he’d never seen Pike shy away from anything even remotely difficult or unpleasant. When it came to the public, Rolson wasn’t exactly the model Bishop, but that was common in the ranks. Most Firsts and Seconds had real chips on their shoulders, and snide attitudes – they were “better” than those around them, those they were supposed to keep safe. Pike wasn’t like that – he just didn’t like dealing with the public very much. He’d never say so, but Barry was sure that the public made his training officer nervous.

The double doors to the Briefing Room were guarded by four men, Bishops that Barry had only seen once or twice in his time at the station. They were specially selected – an elite force that Bishop-Captain Lars Venman had drafted to protect him even within what should have been the safety of the district walls. All four men wore a single red shoulder flash on their right sides, and stood with a straight-backed precision that most of the Bishops didn’t bother to try and emulate. They were the “best of the best”, at least in the Bishop-Captain’s eyes, and that tended to add layers of arrogance to an already healthy set of egos.

None of them would meet his eyes as he passed by, and he pushed down a small core of anger. He’d done nothing wrong! Between him and Pike, an attack on the district’s HQ had been thwarted, and lives had been saved.

Barry’s mind called up an image of the shimmering shield again, of what had likely saved his life out there rather than his own skill or Rolson’s reflexes. The fact that he didn’t understand what it was bothered him, but the seeming fixation of the five wolves on him – that he seemed to be their target – chilled him to the bone.

Rolson obviously knew more than he was saying, and his whispered words meant that whatever knowledge he had he wasn’t supposed to. Listener’s Bookstore was a known hangout for rebels and drifters – those that civilized society considered only one step above the Wolves and Vamps that ran the streets. Public perception held that those on the fringes of city life had a higher chance of getting caught and turned, but the truth was that anyone, anywhere could be caught and have their life twisted away from them – it was just easier to paint those that didn’t fit in as the real problem.

“Gentlemen,” a smooth voice said from the far side of the room, “sit.”

Barry had met the Bishop-Captain only once, when he began his training round at HQ, and the man had been suitably distant. He’d expected as much from a superior officer, but from what the others in his squad had told him, the Bishop-Captain didn’t warm up noticeably over time.

He and Rolson took up chairs opposite the man at the head of the table, and Barry couldn’t help but notice that not only was he flanked by two more guards, but that both had their guns drawn and safeties off. The Bishop-Captain took no chances.

“I must commend you for your actions, gentlemen,” Venman said softly, “you have done us all a great service tonight.”

Barry was finding it hard to see the other man; the lights in the room had been turned to focus on the chairs that he and Pike sat it, leaving Venman and his guards in shadow.

“Thank you, Bishop-Captain –“ Rolson began, but Venman cut him off.

“Second! I did not ask you to speak.” There was no anger in the tone, just a stern rebuke; a father telling a son that he had stepped out of line. Pike shut his mouth and clenched his jaw. Venman was well-liked by the brass but hadn’t garnered much of a reputation among those at the bottom of the chain of command, and it was no wonder why. Except for his elites, men under the Bishop-Captain’s direct command tended to not come home in one piece.

“As I was saying,” Venman went on, “you’ve both performed admirably tonight. But,” the Bishop-Captain leaned forward, his silvery hair glimmering in the low light “I have to wonder why the Wolves chose to attack at all. We’ve seen nothing from them in weeks.”

Both he and Pike remained silent. Barry wouldn’t have spoken up in any case, and his training officer seemed to have learned his lesson from Venman’s first rebuke.

“Tell me,” Venman said, pointing at Barry, “First. Have you ever seen a Wolf that just wasn’t right? A Wolf that was more than it should be?”

“More?” Barry tried his best to sound confused.

“Yes,” the Bishop-Captain cut off the word. “More. You’ve been seen in the company of the Undead, Howe, several times without your weapons drawn. Now, an unprovoked attack has occurred on the least valuable of any of our points of entry. You seem a magnet for trouble, First, and I wonder – perhaps you know more than you should?”

Pike Rolson barked a laugh, and even in the dim light Barry could see the Bishop-Captain’s face darken.

“What is the meaning of this, Rolson?” Venman demanded, and Barry could hear the guards shifting on their feet.

“I apologize, Bishop-Captain, but your statement was more amusing than you know. Howe here is a passable First, but only because of my training. Without it, he would be dead on the street. We’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel with the recent set of recruits, and Howe here is about the worst of it.” Rolson shot him a look that said keep your mouth shut, and then went on. “If you’re looking for problems, he’s not the one you want.”

Venman relaxed slightly, and then motioned to the elite at his left. “Howe,” he grated out the name, “you are free to go. Rolson, you will remain here.”

The tall man didn’t react, but Barry was quite sure there was panic masked under the calm collection of Pike Rolson.


- D

Story #154 - Draemon Rising

Draemon Rising

Kirby Dannon was sure he'd put the wand somewhere in the cupboard.

His master had been very specific about where the long ash stick was supposed to go after he was finished practicing with it, but the Elgor had become enraged, snapping one of its chains and lunging for him. He'd set down the wand on the table to secure the beast, and the Flith in the corner had taken the opportunity to swoop down, and had almost gotten its claws around the instrument. If that had happened, his master would have been more than just unhappy – furious would be closer – so Kirby had shoved the wand in the nearest cupboard, made a rude gesture at the Flith and then re-chained the Elgor.

Of course, he'd completely forgotten that the wand was in the cupboard, and was now paying the price.

“Kirbs!” He could hear his master calling him from the summoning chamber. “Have you found that blasted wand yet?”

Kirby grit his teeth. He hated that name, but had little choice in the matter. An apprentice was essentially a glorified slave, and he was fortunate to have been chosen by master Grimthol. So long as he did nothing to anger the Gods and made it out of his novitiate alive, he would be allowed to choose a specialty and study at the college of Majiks. Kirby knew of two students who had avoided the servitude process in place for new applicants, both by virtue of their own inherent skill. One was his older brother, and one was a girl from across the Crater. She was said to be beautiful; tall and willowy like all of her kind, but a match in power even for some of the instructors.

His hands closed around a long wooden shaft, and he let out a triumphant yell. Rainy days had made for a great deal of cleaning in the small cottage, cleaning he was responsible for. The bucket, bin and dustpan had all shifted positions over the course of the last week, wedging the wand under them. Pulling out the wand, it took him a moment to notice that it had grown feathers and that the shaft was brown, not black.

“Bring it here, boy!” Grimthol called out, but he didn't bother to answer. The feather duster would do his master no good, and he had no desire to make his situation any worse. Quickly pulling out all of the cleaning materials, he stuck his head into the cupboard. Wedged in the far back corner was the wand, nearly invisible in the darkness of the small space.

Grabbing it, he moved too quickly getting out and caught his head against the edge of the cupboard top. With a muffled curse, he turned and sprinted toward the summoning chamber.

“Coming, master,” he said as he ran.

The tall man watched him through narrowed eyes as he entered the candlelit room. Bushy brows were drawn over a lined face, set with squinting eyes and a mouth that hadn't seen a smile in years. Grimthol was easily the oldest of any of the masters still alive, and some said he kept himself that way by use of his own Majik – something expressly prohibited by the Charter.

His master took the wand without a word, and motioned for Kirby to sit down. He had seen seven summonings so far, each one culminating in the appearance of a lesser draemon, bound to his master's will. They could do nothing in the physical world; the elemental protection afforded by the summoning chamber prevented that, but they could easily kill or main the one who had summoned them. The spiritual link forged with the Underealm left a Chanter open to attack, and though many who had their draemons turn on them survived, they were never the same.

Outward injuries were never the problem; the creatures were able to affect the mind such that a Chanter would be unable to ever use a certain portion of their body again, or would forget all of those around them.

Summoning draemons was a dangerous business.

It all lay in the wand, or so he had been told. That, and the Chanter's own mental fortitude. The words required to summon a draemon were quite simple, and he had memorized the formulas long ago. It was the ability to keep them flowing, keep the words coming even under extreme mental stress, that separated a successful Raiser from a broken one.

Kirby doubted he would pick Raising as his specialty. It took too much effort for far too little reward. The best could draw on their captured draemons power to do great works for the college and the Council, but each time that power was used, the chance that the thing would break free increased, and he had no interest in risking his life that way. Once he had completed his time with Grimthol, he had no plans to ever pick up a wand again.

“First class, third order!” His master barked, and he responded instinctively.

“Thorval,” he said quickly.

“Above and below,” Grimthol pressed.

“Thorvin and Thorvor.” These were tiny draemons, barely worth the effort to summon.

“Good enough,” his master said. “I trust you remember their formulas.”

Kirby nodded, a cold feeling swelling in his stomach.

“Today,” Grimthol intoned, rubbing his hands along the length of the dark wand, “you will raise your first draemon.” Kirby kept his eyes on the wand; Ash was not naturally black, and he knew that its color had come from the countless creatures it had enslaved.

“You are competent,” his master continued, “but lack focus. You will raise a Thorval, and I will not assist you. I suspect you will die, but if you do not, you will have earned a small amount of my respect.” Grimthol passed him the wand. “Begin now, Kirbs. Do not stray from the words, and do not look from the path. Raise well!”

- D

Story #153 - Sun Night

Sun Night

December 16, 2031 – First Sergeant’s Log

I’m not much of a tech-geek, but there aren’t a whole lot of people left functioning, so I guess it falls to me to make sure some record of this survives. As of 2pm yesterday, we’ve gone dark, and I don’t mean “dark”. DARK.

From what we got over the radio before all hell broke loose, it looks like the Sun’s gone out. I’d always heard it was going to nova if it was going to go, but apparently it just fizzled up. That doesn’t sit well with me, but I’ve got bigger problems to worry about. My men are good, but I don’t think even they’ll be able to keep order in a world where sunlight’s no longer a possibility. Two or three of the new guys are already getting a little wide around the eyes, and I’m going to have to impose some strict behavior controls if I want a hope of maintaining order.

This isn’t going to end well.

March 01, 2032 – Western Field Commander’s Journal

This has been the worst three months of my career.

That should be obvious, given that the sun’s gone out, but I’d honestly hoped we’d come far enough as a species to survive a catastrophic event like this. I’ve got my suspicions about the event itself, but since most of our tech doesn’t work worth a damn anymore, it’s not like I can check.

I had to execute five men this morning. Treason. Three of them were men I knew, men who had fought the good fight over the course of years – decades, even. This “new world order” was getting to them, making them think outside the box we’d all agreed to live in.

The trouble is that I agree with them too, at least in principle. Centralized government just doesn’t cut it anymore, at least not when there’s no reliable communication. Radio messages are few and far between, and the men constantly question my authority, wonder why I’m asking them to march, exercise, and maintain order, and that’s bad for business. We need a new model, but I’m not going to be the one to provide it. Men make their choices, and I’ve made mine.

I just hope it’s right one.

June 12, 2032 – First Sergeant’s Log

This is just for posterity, now.

My men have all deserted, deciding that their life would be better served living by their own rules, and I didn’t have enough bullets to stop them all. Judicious killing can produce an effective response, but there were ten of them, one of me, and only six bullets in my clip. They’d become scared shells of former selves, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t rise up against me. The dark had affected them, twisted their minds. Even by the wan light of the glo-sticks we rationed I had seen their faces change, harden and then crack under the strain of upholding ideals they felt no longer had value.

They’d left two weeks ago, and I’d struggled on alone. From what little I remember of the maps of this area, Western Command should have an outpost nearby.

I hope they’ve fared better.

June 17, 2032

The two survivors I’ve found at Western Command tell me they were the cook and the Field Commander, respectively. The cook looks more like a commander than the other man, and at least seems to have some fight in him, so I’m inclined to believe them both.

I’ve lost just about every shred of passion I had, so I can relate to the supposed Commander I’ve found. He has the same look of desperation, of heavy choice, and more importantly won’t take command no matter how many times I ask.

As it stands, the cook is in charge. At least we eat well.

July 01, 2032 – Sous Chef’s Notebook

All I wanted to do was get through my stint in the army and get back to my girl. It wasn’t that I was too dumb to get through Basic, I just didn’t want to deal with all the yelling. The cooking route was easier on my psyche, and still paid just about as well, though I had to endure a constant ribbing from the other men.

I’d focused on my work – another three months and I would have been done, back on my way to L.A. and graduate work at the University.

Instead, I’m leading around the Field Commander and some Sergeant who showed up, just trying to keep our bellies full and make sure we stay out of trouble. I’m no leader, but the other two don’t want any part of decision making. They’ve been through hard times – I saw the riots in the camp –but isn’t this what they’re trained to do?

We saw a strange light on the horizon today. For a moment, we’d hoped it was sunlight returning, but the coloring was wrong and though it spanned our field of vision, it was moving too quickly. Maybe the government had finally gotten itself together. Maybe help was coming.

345 Jezzlik, 6240 – Kreqqil’s Caldor

The plan worked exactly as I intended. The Council will be pleased, so long as I return intact. Already, others of the Ships are planning my demise, but they will find me to be far more difficult to dispose of than they imagine.

Many said I was a fool not to attack immediately after the destruction of the pathetic yellow sun of this world, but why waste our lives fighting a war the insects on the surface will wage for us?

Now that they have destroyed themselves, now that they have revealed their true nature, we will descend. The need for order will make our acceptance as Overlords almost automatic – they crave any direction.

Again, my leadership will be crucial. I must be protected. This planet could be altered, twisted well to our use, but it must be at my hands.

The Council must know I was responsible for this victory.

- D

Story #152 - Case by Case Basis

Case by Case Basis

Opening the case wasn’t really an option.

Still…what would he find inside?

Walt Weirman forced his mind away from steel container beside him and kept his eyes on the road. There were precious few vehicles out this way, and if he crashed he’d be stranded for a few days if he was lucky, and eaten alive if he wasn’t.

Palming the cell phone in his pocket with one hand, he checked the signal strength. It was no surprise that he’d lost all but one bar, and that one was more than likely a lie. He’d tried using the phone that way before, and the reception could be described as…awful.

It had been a long slog from Aldran, three hundred miles south. The plan had been to cut straight through the backcountry – he wasn’t really familiar with the roads, but he had been driving for a living for the better part of his adult life, and was sure he could handle whatever road he came across.

The road hadn’t been the problem; it was a stop for quick nap and a bathroom break that had yielded a strange discovery in the bushes, and one that now sat on the passenger seat of his car. It was blind luck that had him stumble over the case in the dark, stubbing his toe through his thin shoe and sending a massive curse out into the darkness. The silvery glint of metal in the moonlight had been the only thing that had made him stop to pick it up – along with a burning need to toss it into the darkness as far as he could. He’d teach inanimate objects to hurt him!

Once he’d got it out of the thick underbrush, his desire to hurl it into the woods had subsided, and his desire to find out what was inside had ramped up significantly. The “property of the US military” stamp on both sides of the case also helped to encourage his interest, but had the unintended side-effect of making him more than a little frightened.

Leaving it in the woods wasn’t an option; he was as patriotic as the next man, and had almost chosen a career in the army. If the boys in green had lost something, he would do the best to get it back to them.

Back in the car, he’d been able to coax a Web page out of his phone and found that there was a “blank” space on the map fifty-three miles north of his current location, one that began and ended abruptly over the space of a few pixels. He’d bet good money that an installation was firmly entrenched there – one that was looking for a missing case.

A deer slipped across the increasingly bumpy road, jarring his mind back to the moment and causing him to swerve sharply. Its eyes were sharp; sharper than they should have been for such a docile creature, but Walt chalked it up to a trick of the headlights. He tried to follow the thing into the woods with his eyes as he slowed the car, but it was gone before he got a good look.

The case on the seat jumped forward, slamming its weight onto the floorboards of his car. Though the road was getting rougher, there hadn’t been a bump to account for that, and a small seed of fear began to climb up his spine.

If he was being honest, it was more like a fruit coming to ripeness; something had seemed “off” since he first turned onto the secondary highway. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way, but drivers couldn’t afford to let their feelings about a certain stretch of road or darkened mass or gravel get to them, or they’d never get where they were going.

He’d been ignoring his instincts for so long it came naturally to him, and his instincts were almost always proven wrong. The night bred strange thoughts in those behind the wheel.

Grabbing the case, he slammed it back onto the seat and then buckled it in for good measure. The base couldn’t be much farther away, and his desire to open the case was getting stronger. He’d gleaned quite a bit about it just from the corner of his eye, the most important fact being that it didn’t appear to have a lock of any kind. A scorched circle around the handle spoke to the fact that it had once been secure, but someone – or something – had changed that.

There was no backup combination lock, and only two small latches were all that stood between him and a satisfied curiosity.

Didn’t he deserve a quick look? There was probably nothing of interest, but he’d earned at least a peek at it for his decision to return it. He shook his head. It wasn’t his.

What if something was missing from the case? If he returned it in the wrong condition, the guards at the base might shoot him. Looking inside would let him know if there was anything he should be worried about. It was the only safe choice.

Gripping the steering wheel hard in both hands, he focused on the road ahead. The gravel width was narrowing, paring down to a single lane for travel. Any vehicles coming the other direction would have almost no time to react to his presence on the road, and he’d have no chance of stopping if he wasn’t paying attention.

It was only a change in the light that gave him warning.

Jamming on his brakes, he brought the car to a skidding stop at the edge of a large crater. Small rocks skittered over the lip, plummeting into the abyss below. The car’s headlights gave no indication of deep or how wide the chasm was; neither bottom nor edge could be seen.

He was out of the car quickly and to the lip of the hole before he thought the better of it. Gravel slipped away from him as he took two quick steps back and pulled out his phone. The installation – what should have been the installation – was marked as his current position.

A sound from the car pulled his attention from the hole, and he could see the passenger seatbelt strain and then snap.

Two solid hits and the windshield broke, sending the case flinging out into the middle of the depression. Leaping back into the car, Wilt slammed it into reverse and hit the pedal.

He’d made his delivery – he didn’t have any interest in waiting around for payment.

- D

Story #151 - Boat and Switch

Boat and Switch

Bul Lemmer knew the trip had been a bad idea, and as the massive wave surged toward the boat, he cursed himself for not working harder as a child.

His father had been the sailor, not him, but with no other options thanks to a lackluster performance when the Evaluators had visited the village, it was either the family business or begging on the streets of the big city. Poldari was a cold town, or so he had heard, and he decided that taking over for his father was the least of all evils.

Now, with a gray wall of churning death bearing down on the boat, Bul was quite certain he'd made a mistake.

***

“What do you mean, gone?” Trade Prince Hador's voice inched up a notch – no mean feat for a half-noble whose tone was already twice as high as a normal man.

“Gone,” Weston Park said, looking at the sheaf of papers he held in his hand, “and the third this week. The -” he ran down the list quickly, until he found the name of the boat he wanted, “Lemmer's Lament.”

Hador snorted. “I don't care what the peasant boat was called, Park. I care that it's gone, along with three Federation ships. This kind of weather isn't natural, I tell you – something is wrong.”

It took all Park had not to snap back at the Trade Prince. The tiny man had never set foot on a dock, let alone on an actual seafaring vessel. He was the Prince by name and by blood, but that didn't mean he knew anything about the job he'd inherited.

Boats disappeared on a regular basis; some destroyed by pirates, some choosing never to return, and some claimed by the sea. Park had it on good authority that no pirates were operating in the area and that no boats had any reason to be seeking greener pastures, and that left only the sea itself. Hador was right – something was wrong – but the little man had no idea what it was.

Neither did Park, but he knew where he might find out.

“Leave me,” Hador said sharply. “I must consider what our next course of action should be.”

Park bowed stiffly, and then withdrew, stepping quickly out of the Trade Mansion and into the slums. He had to find out what was happening to the boats in the area, and act before Hador could make the situation worse.

***

“What is it ya be wantin', again?” The cabalist said. He was older than old; a man who should have found the embrace of dirt or the water long ago, but had somehow managed to stay upright and alert. Many in Poldari attributed his longevity to his skills in the dark arts, but Park knew better; the man was just a lucky soul, blessed with a tough body and a mind to match.

Of course, at over eighty winters, the man looked like death itself, his wrinkled skin flabby in some places and stretched too tight in others. Park worried that a single touch would break the man, but had no time for games. He needed answers, and bantering about his purpose did no one any good.

“I told you exactly what I need, cabalist. Now, can you help me or not?”

The old man chuckled. “Straigh' to business, I see. Fai enough. I can tell ya whatcha want to know, but you not gonna like the answer.”

Park stared hard at the man. “I have no doubt of that. Now, tell me what you know.”

“Ah, ah -” the cabalist said as he wagged a finger, “there be a price for what I can tell ya.”

He sighed. Of course there was. “What is it, old man? Speak up – ships and men are disappearing, and I don't have the time.”

“Take me wit ya,” the old man said simply, “I need to get outta here.” Park stifled a laugh.

“Take you? You can barely move, cabalist. I can't haul you around everywhere I go just because you're tired of this filthy shack.”

“Sure ya ca, and if ya don't, you'll get nuthin' outta me!”

“Fine,” he said, “tell me what you know and I'll take you along.” It was a lie. As soon as he had what he needed, he'd be gone in a heartbeat. Park had no belief in the supernatural, though he was willing to believe that the cabalist might have some specialized knowledge. So long as he could make use of that knowledge, Park didn't care about the circumstances surrounding it. He'd gladly leave the old man behind and face his impotent wrath than carry the frail creature with him.

“Ha! I'm old but not dat stupid. I don't say a thing til' we're outta this town.”

Park ground his teeth together. “Fine.”

Moving outside, he motioned for one of his guards to dismount. “Walk home, soldier. We have a new companion.”

The guard's face darkened, but he did as he was told. No doubt he would go straight to Hador, but that couldn't be helped. Hopefully, Park would have the answer soon, and all else could be forgiven.

“Old man,” he called, “come out and take your horse.”

It took several minutes, but the cabalist finally managed to shuffle from his shack to the side of the horse he had been given. He looked at Park with pleading eyes.

“Not my problem, cabalist. We can ride slowly while you limp along on foot, or you can muscle yourself into that saddle. Either way, we'll get where we're going eventually.”

The old man's face went dark, but he reached up to grip the edges of the saddle. Thought it took ten full minutes, with several points along the way where it appeared the cabalist might fall to the dirt and break his neck, he made it on to the horse.

“Alright cabalist, keep up. We make for the shipyard.”

- D

Story #150 - Badged

Badged

“See this?” Chief Inspector Duggery held up a small metal badge.

“Of course I do, you simpleton – and you may address me as 'My Lord'.”

The Chief Inspector snorted through his mustache. “Not until your father tells me as much, Prince. I'm the best in the Land, and he needs my services more than he needs my flattery of his offspring. You will just have to endure my rudeness.” Flipping the badge to Line-Prince Tarlington, Duggery turned back to the scene. Five peasants had been murdered, each in a very specific and methodical way. It was a common tactic used by Nobles in conflict to try and assert their dominance, but since the time of the first Great War, an agreement had stood that prevented the use of peasants in such rituals.

A glance over his shoulder showed him that Tarlington was frowning at the badge, turning it over and over in his hands. The boy was bright enough, if he applied himself, but like so many of the upper class he had never needed to. One look at the raised fox-head and serpent crest on the metal insignia had told Duggery all he needed to know, and the fact that it had been pinned to the forehead of one of the victims was simply overkill. The assassin clearly did not know who he was dealing with – so much the better for Duggery.

“You,” Tarlington called out from behind him, “explain to me what this means.”

Duggery ignored the Prince. Twenty years ago he had helped the little whelp's father secure power in the Land – mostly because the current King was the least homicidal and insecure of the nobles who could have held the position. In exchange for his help, the King was forced to agree to a number of stipulations, including several about the use of titles in public. Duggery walked dangerous ground – as soon as the King believed his inspector was no longer needed, Duggery would be quietly killed. The key lay in letting smaller crimes go unsolved, but ensuring that the King's position felt secure. He could have moved on to other Lands, other nobles, but for the moment this suited his purposes, and the King and the Princes he was forced to deal with were easily managed.

Duggery ignored the Prince's words as he continued to sort through the rubble. In addition to the killing of those who lay outside the agreement, the assassin has also burned two houses to the ground. While not specifically prohibited by the agreement, the entire city could have gone up if the nearby river wasn't running bank-full. Someone wanted to send a message to King Philoben, and wanted to make very sure they were not misunderstood.

“Lesser one!” The Prince was screaming now. That was always the next step with his kind. “You will face me! How dare you turn your back on a Prince of the Land?”

“Enough,” Duggery said quietly, still refusing to turn. “You know the rules, and so do I. You will address me as Chief Inspector, and I will title you – or not – as I choose. If you wish to halt this investigation, travel to the palace, and consult on this matter with your father, then let us go. I would imagine he is eager to know which of your kind has chosen to break the agreement, but if you are convinced that your concerns about protocol trump the need to find the killer, then by all means let us proceed.”

A charred board, out of place away from three others of its kind, caught his attention. Kicking it over, he discovered a nearly identical badge to the first, save for the gender of the fox. Duggery felt his stomach twist – two assassins, and one female. The King had angered someone of great power.

“Fine.” Tarlginton's voice was low. “Chief Inspector, what can you tell me about this badge?”

“Not a great deal, I'm afraid,” he said, picking up the second marker from the ground. “but what I do know should be enough to send your father running for the hills. These are the insignia of the Swamp Walkers.”

Tarlington drew in a sharp breath; the Walkers had an unsavory reputation, to say the least, and were widely regarded as the best assassins in the all the Lands, and quite possibly beyond them.

“That's not all, Prince, so save your shock.” he said, pointing to the badge in his hand. “This one depicts a female fox, meaning that not only do you have two Walkers loose in your city, but that one of them is a woman.”

This time, the Prince simply stared at him wide-eyed. His father was remarkably backward when it came to notions of equality and functionality for those of the female gender, and the notion that a woman could hold any significant standing in any group, let alone be trained as a killer, did not sit well with Tarlington.

“That's -” the Prince started, but Duggery interrupted.

“Impossible? Not at all. Many Lands are not so backward as your own, and the Swamp Walkers are of no Land and no Creed. They go where they wish to and do what they want. Like mists on the water...” he waited for the Prince to finish the line.

“They cannot be caught.” Tarlington's voice carried a measure of awe, as well it should. Swamp Walkers were said to be unstoppable, in large part because they actually were.

Duggery nodded. “I've seen all I need to see here, Prince. Have your men ready the horses – your father must be informed of what we've found.”

“Chief Inspector, why would someone hire such monsters to kill peasants? Why employ a woman?” There was a grudging respect there, now. Duggery would take it.

“Someone means to break your father, Prince. Someone means to see him, and everything in his Land, burned to ash.”

The Prince's face drained of color, and he raised his voice. “Horses!” He screamed into the dawn.

- D

Story #149 - Window Pain

Window Pain

“Goodnight, Scara,” I said to the twisted face outside my window as I made my way up to bed. “I'll see you in the morning, I'm sure.”

A part of me still sang out that I should try to do something about the disembodied head of the girl I saw beyond my window pane, but the more rational aspect of my mind knew that wasn't possible. She'd hadn't been there when I moved in, and there was no event I could tie to her appearance. One night, coming home from an evening at the bar, I saw her face, floating just beyond the window glass, staring at me from the night. I panicked, but was drunk enough that when I stumbled into my room I collapsed on my bed, fell asleep, and promptly forgot the whole thing.

The next day she was gone, and I didn't see her again until a week later, again at night but this time when I was sober. I was coming down the stairs, and her head phased into existence, long brown hair and bright blue eyes a sharp contrast to her pale skin. She wasn't deformed or ugly, and where her neck should have been there was no gore or blood, just a convalescing of mist that moved as she did. She looked just a bit like a girl I knew – Sarah – so I'd taken to calling her Scara, a blend of what she looked like and what she did.

Of course, I couldn't bear to look at her for months. The first dozen times or so I just ignored her, pretend that I didn't see her floating along the edge of the glass or bumping forward into the pane. She didn't make a sound, and though her eyes watched me, I had no interest in meeting them.

After two months, I decided I needed a solution. Scara had begun showing up during the day, but always backed by a night-darkened background. The other windows in the house might be streaming bright sunlight, but hers was always surrounded by the deepest black. I ran outside one day on a bright noon to see if there was anything odd outside my house, but the window was clear and clean. I didn't touch it – I couldn't bring myself to put my hands on its smooth surface, and I'd gone back inside, frustrated.

Next was the blind I installed. For three days I had relief, and kept the blind drawn at all times. So long as I couldn't see her, my anxiety went down, and I felt like I could deal with whatever might lay beyond the glass – at least it was outside.

On the fourth day I came home from work and found that the blind had not only fallen to the ground, but that the brackets I had mounted were ripped out of the wall. I've never been a particularly good handyman, but I had made quite sure that the brackets were well-anchored.

I'd collected the parts of my blind without so much as a glance in Scara's direction. There was no point in re-installing it, but that didn't mean I was out of options.

Curtains came next, and I anchored them to a point far away from the window and then at regular intervals leading up to it. The result was a strange monstrosity of metal, but it got the job done, and the curtains did not fall down.

Instead, they burned up.

I'd been in the study, going over a text for my next seminar when I smelled the fabric burning. I was down the stairs with a fire extinguisher before the blaze got out of hand, and I took everything I had not to throw the metal canister through the window. My rage gave me enough courage to reach out and touch the glass, just at Scara's forehead, but it was cool under my fingertips. The girl's dead eyes stared up at me, and her teeth cracked open in a wide smile.

I ran.

I'd spent the last two weeks fighting with myself, straddling the line between complete ignorance and destroying the window altogether. I wasn't sure if that would usher in some sort of awful demonic force, but I was almost at the breaking point.

I finally decided that I could live with it if I just went back to ignoring it. Scara had never done anything to me – she just seemed to like to watch me move around. Ignorance was the best course.

Pulling the sheet up around myself in bed, I tried to find comfort in that thought, but little came. Just on the edge of sleep, a cutting screech tore me awake, and a burst into the hallway, flicking on every light I could find. Scara stared up at me, eyes narrowed, and opened her mouth. This time, the pictures on my wall rattled with her force.

“What do you want?” I screamed, but to no effect. Her scream was far more powerful, droning on and on as the moments slipped by.

I don't remember going back into my room to get the heavy flashlight I kept by the bed, but finding it in my hand I knew just what to do with it. A hard throw sent it down the stairs, twirling end over end to meet the glass at Scara's forehead. It ripped through the surface, sending shattered shapes down and onto the landing. Outside, the street-lit night wavered into view, rain-slick streets reflecting orange light into the air.

“Thank you, Thomas,” came a voice from behind me, but I refused to turn. The tone was kind enough, but there was an absence there, a lack of human quality that I couldn't explain but knew for a certainty.

“Please,” I said, but that was as far as I got before I fell to the floor, clutching at my stomach. It felt as though a hand was crushing me, pinning me to the ground by my midsection, and trying to force a spectral object too big by half into my small frame.

I lost consciousness, but when I came to, the window was whole once again and Scara was gone.

Bed called to me, and I lay there, unsure if what I had experienced had been real or the final result of my own mind's efforts to cope. My eyes drifted slowly closed, and sleep began to creep in.

“Hello, Thomas,” a voice said, and a familiar face appeared, locked in place behind my eyelids.

Scara had found a new home.

- D

Story #148 - Time's Up

Time's Up

There was no time. Literally.

For once, the phrase was actually relevant; instead of merely being a way to indicate rush. Waste. Anger.

No one had expected it – although from our best guesses there had been a man in Northern Yrakistan who had predicted that such a thing would come to pass, but of course everyone was sure he was a madman. Aside from living in Northern Yrakistan, which at its best was inhabited by three sheep farmers, two sheep and a lonely goat, every scientific conference the man had attended ended with him being thrown out and told firmly never to return by the beefy nerd bully-boys that guarded the entrances.

The fact that the man – Boris Tolson – was not a scientist might have had something to do with the fact that he was continually bounced from events. He was also rude, underfed, and had the distinct smell of sheep on him, which made him a poor attendee. Rumor had it that there had been a conference in Miami that Boris had made it through without being forcibly removed, but he had also been showered and stone cold sober at that point. Yrakistanians were well known for their alcohol tolerance, and Boris was well known for his ability to over-imbibe.

But despite his (many) flaws, Boris was in fact a brilliant mind. Had been. Had been a brilliant mind. It’s still difficult to imagine that someone would actually kill him, let alone in such a barbaric way.

Alright, you’ve got me. I’d imagined killing him a time or two after he interrupted one of my best presentations at the bi-annual SciSciCon in Hanover. In fact, I’d dreamt up a whole suite of ways to deprive Boris of at the very least his voice, if not his arms and legs and possibly the ability to carry around a beating heart, but it was all in fun. Angry, angry fun.

Then the end of the world came along.

Our top minds started moaning about it, which made everyone who wasn’t a top mind immediately criticize everything that was being said. We were a jealous and petty group, and as soon as the leaders in our field said something was unequivocally true, we naturally argued it. They were right, unsurprisingly, but that didn’t mean we weren’t going to fight tooth and nail to prove that they weren’t.

But Boris, sweet Boris – he knew before us all.

Time was linear, something we all liked to say, but hadn’t know for sure. Dr. Tremmon Pal proved it a few years ago, confirmed that the arrow we’d been shot on was flying true, and flying straight. Polly Dyer had shown it was also flying toward a wall. Just a grad student, Polly’s work had been largely ignored until the pundits and gurus started talking, and then an astute young scientist (ahem!) pointed them in the direction of her proof.

We had less than ten years, and then time as we knew it was going to grind to a halt.

“Grind” might not be the best word either – “come screeching” might be a better way to put it. What that was going to do to us was anyone’s guess, but the best one currently going around was that the earth was going to tear itself apart, somehow outside of and around the time that once existed.

My specialty lay with temporal mechanics, not those real ones that guys who couldn’t make honors in high school got to take when they eked their way into University. They figured it had something to do with a number of super massive black holes that were all converging at a central location, attempting to devour one another as they swirled in and around themselves. Somehow – look, I don’t really have time for a full-on math explanation – these holes and their interactions are going to culminate in the final movements for the temporal dance we know as time.

Everything is going to come to a sudden and unpleasant stop, and even if it does get going again, we’ll likely find the earth shredded underneath us.

That brings us to the plan.

You’re receiving this rambling letter as a selection candidate for the only answer or government can think of – getting you off planet long enough to find a solution. The nature of light and time make it possible to move away from the wall that is being created, away from the creeping death that we’ve got to look forward to. Our fastest ships will buy you (and I) ten years to do our good works, to build off of what poor Boris started and find a solution to this conundrum.

Saying “no” isn’t really an option, since you can expect a platoon of national guardsmen outside your door in the next day and half, and if you decide to run, they have orders to capture you and subdue you by any means necessary. Buck up! You’ve been chosen as one of the few to escape the potential cataclysm, one of the few that might have the brains necessary to stop this thing.

I can’t claim I have any idea what that solution will look like. I’m a theorist, dammit, and all this real-world nonsense makes my head spin, but we are literally running out of time. Have I made that point clear? Do you understand the concept?

We had the chance to have time to work on this, a chance we ignored when we sent Boris and his goaty clothes tumbling from the doors of our hallowed conference centers. Such is the price we pay for hubris; such is the price we pay for ignoring those whose smell and mind do not agree with our own.

Know what we’ve wrought, and then make your choice. You will be ridiculed, mocked for your ideas, possibly compared to the great Yrakistanian himself, but you owe it to us, and to your planet, to at least try.

Boris is dead, but his ideas don’t have to die with him. Join us – before you don’t you have the time.


- D

Story #147 - A is for...

A is for...

A was for apple.

She was sure of it – she had to be. She’d heard the phrase so many times, how could it not have been true?

A was for apple, a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush, and don’t count those chickens before they hatched. Each one perfect in its easy simplicity, and each one embedded into her mind, stuck there since she was a child. Others she knew were the same – they couldn’t say when or where they’d learned the sayings, but they came naturally, as though they were part of the solid underpinnings of the human condition.

They weren’t.

It had taken her the better part of thirty years to discover it, and then only by accident. A series of tragic events had led her to a place where she found her mind stripped bare, her sensibilities reduced to little more than shaking and gibbering twists of her limbs. Parents dead, a husband crippled and two children lost to a creeping wilderness put her in a state of basic human survival, in a mindset where her only option was to survive, not evolve.

And what had happened? A glorious breakdown of all of her faculties, creating a boneless puddle of emotional goo on the floor? A deep melancholy, reducing her to a vegetative and silent state?

Truisms. Sayings. Catchphrases.

She’d tried her best to think of pain she was suffering, to writhe in the agony the world had decided she owed it, but with no luck. Phrase after phrase floated into her head and then went spinning out, no matter how long or how hard she tried to deflect. As her emotional state darkened, she found herself more and more beset by the words of her childhood, to a point that she lost track of her own movements, her own body. Emotional suffering would ramp up, and she would suddenly find herself in her bathtub, chanting a familiar phrase or humming a familiar song.

Going to the therapist hadn’t helped. He was a nice old man, but was convinced that she was suffering in the same way as everyone else he’d ever helped. The recitation of the words of her childhood were simply “artifacts”, he said, “unresolved issues that she was unwilling to deal with honestly”. She had paid for three sessions and forfeited the rest; the man was useless, and he had no interest in understanding what was actually going on in her life.

Research wasn’t her strong suit, but she knew that she had to start looking into her own problems. Solutions weren’t going to present themselves, and with dedication, she could…

“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” the saying spasmed through her mind, and she grabbed at her forehead. No. She wouldn’t be deterred. Moving quickly, she headed for the study and turned on the computer. It wasn’t a University library, but perhaps she could –

“Haste makes waste,” her mind cried out, and she fell to the ground, clutching at her temples. That was barely a saying, but it seemed that whatever force wanted to keep her away was getting desperate.

Force?

Where had that idea come from?

What would make her think –

“Time above is as time below,” what the hell did that mean? She’d never heard such a saying, and it didn’t even make any sense. This wasn’t something she was remembering, something she knew internally. This was something else.

The mole behind her ear throbbed. It had always been the one blemish she was ashamed of, the one thing she wished she could change. Every specialist she had seen told her that it was either impossible to remove or that it was of such minor significant that she shouldn’t worry. After twenty years of being told she was wrong, she’d started to believe everyone who sold her the same line, but the loss of her family had bloomed pain behind her ear, a pain that wasn’t going away.

A pain that got worse when she thought about those damn sayings –

She screamed from the floor, wondering when she’d been knocked down. The pain was terrible enough to make her stomach turn over, but she’d be damned if she was going to stay down just because some – force – wanted to mess with her.

Her ear throbbed, and she could feel each pulse of her blood through and around it. She tried not to think about her mole most days, but the more she fought with herself, the worse it seemed to get. Reaching a hand back, she found it was twice the size it had been the last time she had looked at it, with a jagged and protruding edge. No mole, no skin aberration could grow so quickly. This had to be something else.

Moving for the kitchen, she kept her thoughts firmly the benign. Garbage day was tomorrow, the light fixtures needed cleaning and the cat had been sick in the entryway again. Such mental straining got her all the way to the utensil caddy, where she found a large pair of metal tongs.

The tongs were in her hand and gripping the back of her mole before a saying had the time to flash across her mind. An upholstered stool at the eating bar gave her something to latch on to with her teeth, and she twisted hard as soon as she had a solid bite on the furniture.

Agony raced through her as she pulled and twisted, and she could feel warm blood start to pour down her back. Trite sayings and hackneyed clichés ran across her eyes, like a scrolling text bar from a weather warning, but she refused to give in. Pain mounted, and she gave the tongs a final twist. With a popping sound, her mole tore free and clacked to the ground, and the words in front of her eyes faded.

Reaching down, she found a hexagonally-shaped piece of metal, covered in her own blood and strange markings. It was humming slightly, and as she held it the thing tried to drive into her palm and began to spin in an attempt to burrow.

This A was most definitely not for apple.


- D

Story #146 - Church

Church

“Oi!” Said Church, “You're not 'uppose to be doin' that!”

Moving across the room, the big man tried to smack my hands away from the keyboard I was using, but I shot him a dark look. “Sit down, Church.”

That tone almost always worked on him, and fortunately he wasn't worked up enough for it to go right over his head. Dropping his massive shoulders, he turned and headed back to the couch where he'd come from.

“Church jus' trying to help,” he said sadly.

“I know, big guy, I know.” There was no point in getting mad at him – if you asked, he probably wouldn't be able to say why he'd tried to get my hands off of the keyboard in the first place. He had urges sometimes, strange and every so often downright creepy, but they had no root in the rational world. It was no surprise that someone had left him on the chapel's doorstep, but it was still incredibly cruel.

Three families had taken him in since his arrival, but he'd finally worked his way back to me. I'd been the one to find him that night outside the door as I was locking up, and he'd named himself by the only word he could speak. Unmarried and with no prospects, I wasn't a good candidate for fatherhood, but it seemed that none of the generous families in our community could deal with Church for more than six months. He'd grown like a weed, and while his disposition was generally sweet, he had a habit of breaking things by accident. That, combined with his urges and sheer size, had led him back to my care.

The good Lord wasn't about to let me turn him away, and I don't think I could have lived with myself if I'd just taken him to a shelter. He didn't have the skills to cope on his own, and there was a certain security in having the gigantic, hairless man nearby. I lived outside of town, and while there was little to bother me, some long nights did get frightening. Nothing seemed to scare Church, and I was always glad he was here with me when those nights came along.

I'd taken him to several doctors since he'd come to stay, and they always said the same things: that he was as healthy as could be, and that they couldn't explain why he had no hair. They couldn't tell me why he was so huge, either, but they did say his mental development was essentially complete. He wouldn't be getting any smarter, and while his physical age came in at around twenty-two, he was stuck, mentally, ten years younger. It gave him a certain boyish charm, but could also make discipline an issue.

I said a small prayer of thanks every night for the fact that Chruch didn't seem to have hit puberty, and likely never would. Having to deal with irate fathers after the giant had come on to their daughters – possibly breaking bones – was not something I would handle well. Enough of my younger parishioners already swooned over the giant Church that fathers and mothers alike cast suspicious glances in my direction. The only thing that kept them from openly voicing their concerns was my role as their pastor and the supposed biblical conventions they held to. I had no doubt they were gossiping about both Church and I in private, no matter how many sermons I delivered on the ills of such talk.

“Church worried,” he said from his seat on the couch. I'd never been able to convince him to speak in the first person. It was cute to hear himself use his own name – at least for the first thousand times or so.

“Why's that, little buddy?” I said, and he laughed. It was our joke that I called him that, and he called me “big man”. We'd had some good times together, but I still felt hopelessly out of my depth. I'd found my calling and was happy where I was, but I had no idea how to help Church make the most his life.

“They comin',” he said, and I stopped typing to look over at him.

“Who's coming?” I used my “patient voice”, and tried to focus in on what Church was saying. He didn't talk about his feelings very much, and I wanted to give any emotional maturity from him the respect it deserved.

“Bad. Very bad. Dark. Shapes.” Church had never been good with words. He could carry on a conversation well enough to get by, but when he got stressed or didn't know how to explain something, he'd revert to using just single words at a time.

“OK,” I said, “let me see if I follow. Dark shapes are coming, and they're bad?” He nodded. “Are you talking about shadows? We're getting into winter again, remember? That means less light outside and more shadows.”

Church shook his head quickly. “Not shadows. Dark. Bad shapes. Here. Here now!” He was getting worked up. This was exactly what I didn't need. I stood up.

“Church, listen to me,” I said firmly, “I need you to not think about the bad shapes, alright? I've got a sermon to finish, and -”

He was up and moving before I had a chance to react, coming at me with a snarl. His face was twisted into a mask of anger that I'd never seen, and the corded muscles in his arms were tight. He swung, and I froze, waiting for the impact I knew was coming.

Church's fist smashed into something above my head, and a tearing screech filled the room. There was a solid thump as whatever it was hit the wall to my right, and I turned to see what Church had struck.

At first, I saw nothing, though the wail in the room went on. Then, light at the bottom of the wall seemed to warp, and a dark, writing shape was revealed. It looked like a cross between a bat and a spider, with pointed ears and wings but too many limbs by half.

“There, big man. You see,” Church said, pointing, “Bad shape!”

“I see it, Church,” I said slowly, “I see it.” But what the hell was it?

- D

Story #145 - Sofa, So Good

Sofa, So Good

Jenny Santini was quite certain that her couch was trying to eat her.

She hadn't mentioned it to anyone – especially Jonah, since he already thought she was crazy – but she was certain. Certain enough that she started sitting the chair, and watching the black-leather monstrosity with angry eyes. No one else who sat on the couch had the same problems she did, and seemed to find the plush leather comforting, often sinking back into it with an audible sigh.

Jonah had asked her to join him there tonight for a movie, but she claimed a backache and said that the old chair would be better for her injury. He'd given her that look, the one that said “not the crazy again”, but hadn't said a word about it otherwise. He was a good man, her Jonah, and she knew that he had to put up with a lot.

The movie he'd picked wasn't very good – something about space-fights and cowboys, and it couldn't hold Jenny's attention for long. As always, her eyes drifted to the windows of the room, part of her straining to break through one and escape into the night. The medicine she was on helped to control that urge, and it had worked so well that many of the restrictions the doctor had placed on her had been lifted. It was nice to finally have the locks off of all the doors and be able to come and go as she pleased, to think that if she wanted to go outside she could, even if Jonah wasn't up for taking her.

He tried his best, he really did, but with a wife that had been in and out of mental institutions for five years, there was a lot on his plate. Jonah made enough to support them both, since working outside their small home wasn't something she'd ever be able to do, and in return she tried to take care of him whenever he was home. It was tough when her illness reared its head, sending her into a spiral of depression or more recently, anger. Jonah endured it all with saintly patience, but she could tell that even his limits were starting to be reached. She knew he was considering leaving her, but didn't spend too much time thinking about it. There was nothing she could do it if happened.

Of course, there were ways she could make it worse, ways she could drive him away even faster if she tried, and mentioning the couch would be at the top of the list. “Inanimate personification” was at the top of one of her charts, right next to “creative arachnophobia”. She knew the spiders crawling on the ceiling in ordered rows weren't real, no matter how hairy their legs were and how engorged they might be with poisonous webbing. The medicine helped her understand that they were just fluff, just smoke from her mind that was trying to blind and confuse her.

She could go to bed, even though she knew sticking her feet under the cover meant risking the bites of a thousand deadly snakes, and she could even shower on her own, despite the crawling notion that ants were going to come pouring out of the shower head and rip into her wet flesh.

The medicines did nothing to help with the couch.

Even now, looking at it from across the room, she knew it was staring back. Its middle cushion had depressed over the years, giving it the look of a wide smile, and two buttons on its back gave it darkened eyes, eyes that stared at her no matter where she went in the room. Jonah sat in one of the seats at the edge, oblivious and unconcerned about the fact that his furniture wanted to eat his wife.

“You sure you don't want to sit over here, honey?” Jonah's voice was deep and confident, and it was hard for her to say no. Her husband was a handsome man for forty – and most thought he was at least five years younger than that. Still trim and fit, he had lost none of his wavy blond hair, and had brown eyes she could easily get lost in. His tone told her what he was hoping for; they hadn't been intimate in months, and she knew she owed him that much, at least, but there was no way she could even think about sex if she was anywhere near the couch. The bed was out of the question as well, and the kitchen...

“No, I'm fine here, thanks,” she said, then paused. “I love you.”

Jonah grunted in response. She was losing him, but she couldn't seem to do a thing about it. Tears welled up behind her eyes but wouldn't come; the medicine prevented them.

***

He didn't want to leave his wife, but he wasn't sure what other options were left. He'd given her everything he had, and he knew she'd done her best, but she needed more care than he could offer.

“Jonah...” the voice whispered, but he ignored it and shifted hard on the the couch, causing a small cry of pain from the beast underneath him. He had to assume that his wife's crazy was finally rubbing off on him, since there was no way that his couch was actually trying to eat him. He turned the large furniture piece over and upside down the last time Jenny was down for her nap and found nothing, so him catching a case of the crazies was the only answer.

Saying something to Jenny was out of the question; she had enough problems already and he didn't want to make things any worse for her. She deserved to live the best life he could.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to pay attention to the movie – some nonsense action flick he had picked up – and tried to put crazy notions out of his head.

It didn't work; Jonah Santini was quite sure his couch was trying to eat him.

- D

Story #144 - Glen's Haven

Glen's Haven

“Charlie Central to Strike Force Alpha, over,” the radio crackled inside Commander Harrington's F-18.

“Read you loud and clear, Central.” Harrington spared a look over his shoulder for his target as he spoke; as always, he had nailed it.

“Request target status, Alpha.” It sounded like Chaumers on the horn – the tone was pretentious enough for it. Harrington decided to have a little fun.

“It was right where you told me it was, Central. Don't worry, I didn't get lost.”

He could hear the irritation in Chaumers's voice as it came back. “A happy accident. What about the target itself? Did you complete the mission as required?”

“Yes,” he said sharply. He knew he had better answer the question for real or the General might hear about this conversation, and the last thing he needed was another disciplinary action. “The target has been completely eliminated, as ordered.”

“Excellent.” Chaumers was pleased at that. “Return to base.”

Harrington didn't usually let his job get to him; he had a life to live, after all, but he couldn't help one last glance back at the town of Glenhaven as he winged away. Billowing smoke and curling flames made the outcome clear enough: nothing could have survived.

***

Fruzzol Crom stood, brushing the remains of a powered cinder block from his suit jacket. He had been on his way to work when the bomb hit, tearing a new valley in the center of town and obliterating most of the residents. Someone had obviously gotten word about his presence in Glenhaven and decided to do something “clever” about it, but of course had no idea just how hardy he was. That was no surprise; he kept to the banal light of the workaday world, never attracting more attention to himself than was necessary, and never standing out at anything, no matter how foolish he saw those around him become. His presence on the blue planet was an accident of fate, and he had seen firsthand just how well they treated foreign visitors.

Slipping into his own form for a moment, he made sure none of his tentapods had been damaged and that all of his eyestalks still showed the same jeweled vision they were supposed to. It was stunning how little humans could see with their two forward-facing occulars, and even more surprising that they had so little vision beyond the physical. His species had given up trying to destroy or conquer everything in the universe eons ago, but a galaxy-wide empire and the notion that they weren't making any friends had helped with that. Humans had only other humans to contend with, and that made them angry.

So angry that when they found out a member of a species not their own was living among them, death was the first thing that came to mind.

Fruzzol wasn't the first alien to land on the planet, and he still chuckled every time one of his coworkers was scoffed at because they believed in “aliens”. It suited his purposes quite nicely, but he could never understand how a species with such potential could be so foolish.

A sound to his left caught his attention, and he slipped back into human form.

“Help,” a weak voice called, and he moved over to a pile of sidewalk rubble that had been churned up in the explosion. When he'd heard the roaring of jet engines, he had assumed it was merely another training exercise from the base fifty miles north, which was probably what the military geniuses who had ordered it wanted everyone in the town to think.

It was difficult to focus; even with the sounds of a trapped human below him, he was distracted by the mangled corpses all around, by the sheer ferocity of the attack that had been unleashed, simply to kill him. These humans needed to relax.

“Help,” the voice came again, and Fruzzol reached down a hand to pull the nearest piece of concrete up and away. A nonchalant flip of his wrist sent it spiraling down the street, and the torso of a human male became evident. It was difficult to tell by voices alone; humans sounded so similar to one another that a visual inspection was always the surest way for him to confirm gender.

Several more pieces of rock flew and the form of a young man was revealed, battered and bruised but without any gaping wounds or broken bones. Frezzol had learned that the former would often kill humans while the latter would usually not, something directly opposite his own experience. He had only two true bones, and if either was broken he would almost instantly die. A massive, oozing wound was no issue for him, as new skin and sinew could be easily grown.

“Thanks,” the human male breathed as he struggled to his feet, then leaned heavily against a nearby storefront. He glanced around, eyes wide as the scene became apparent. “What the hell is going on?”

“No idea,” Frezzol lied, “I was on my way to work and bam! Next thing I knew, I was waking up in the middle of the street.”

“Look,” the young man said, shaking sandy hair to clear it of rubble dust, “thanks. I owe you.” He stuck out a hand. “I'm Chad.”

“Glen,” Fruzzol replied, shaking the hand as was required. The custom had taken some getting used to, as his people had no need for physical contact except during mating. His first few job interviews had gone terribly, as he refused to touch the outstretched limb of the male or female offering the position.

“Well, Glen,” Chad said, drawing in deep breath and stretching his muscles, “any idea what we should do now? It looks like most of the town is gone. Thank god I'm not from around here.”

Fruzzol breathed a sigh of relief. Strong emotions always bled to him, and he was sure many people in Glenhaven had lost loved ones. That Chad was a visitor made things quite a bit easier.

“I'd say we make for the edge of town, see if we can't find a car that still works. We need to get out of here, Chad.”

The human nodded. Fruzzol had told a partial truth; getting a car would give them a chance of getting out, but they needed to start moving before the military came looking. If they were found, Chad would make an excellent hostage.

He swallowed hard at that thought, but he had no choice. They would see how hard it was to drive out Fruzzol Crom once he'd found a home.

- D

Story #143 - Mares

Mares

The nightmares were coming again.

Dal Rendson had done his best to avoid them, but he knew once the feeling overtook him and his eyes closed, there was no escape. He’d searched for the better part of a decade to find out why he had been chosen to bear the burden, and why they affected him so deeply, but no expert could offer him advice, no guru could offer him solace.

Days would pass with no problems, and then exhaustion would seek him out, sliding into him like a snake into water. It did not matter how much he slept, or how long he rested; once the nightmares began to arrive, there was no stopping them.

“You OK, Dal?” That was Prist. They had met two towns back, and Prist had a more reliable vehicle than Dal, so they had come to an accommodation. Dal sacrificed the best parts of his transport to make Prist’s run more smoothly, and together they set off for parts unknown. The taller man said that he was looking to see the world and wouldn’t stop until he’d explored every corner of it, and apparently had taken Dal’s low grunt as agreement.

“Fine.” There was no point in telling Prist about the nightmares. It wouldn’t do any good. Dal squinted at the horizon. The sun was low; he could make an argument for camp.

“The area gets rocky up here, Prist,” he said, “might be best to camp it out for the night. If we pop a wheel in the dark, we’ll have a hell of a time getting up and running again.”

Prist nodded. He was sensible; a trait missing in most of those Dal came across. “Let me pull over.”

A shady spot under low-hanging trees was quickly located, and they dropped out of Prist’s vehicle to set up camp. Two bedrolls were all they needed; the temperature was warm enough that no fire was required to make it through the night.

Dal could feel the exhaustion creeping up on him – he could either pass out standing up, or get to his blanketroll and have at least that minor comfort. He yawned theatrically. “Well, I’m beat. Night, Prist.”

“Night,” the other man said, sliding his own thin frame into a blanketroll. “See you in the morning.”

Sure, Dal thought, provided there is one.

It wasn’t just the nightmares that got to him; it was the fact that he seemed to be the only line of defense between a shattered version of the world and the reality of the waking earth.

His eyes closed.

***

He never knew what form the nightmare was going to take. Two days ago it had been a world covered entirely in water, and he had no choice but to swim as hard as he could all night, searching for something his mind couldn’t form the image of but that he knew was crucially important to his own survival. The experience had left him more tired when he woke than when he had fallen asleep, and he was lucky that Prist was possessive of his vehicle – Dal driving it would have killed them both.

Tonight, the nightmare was a hazy copy of the real world, even down the tree they had parked under and their bedding. The colors of sunset were instead overlaid in dark blue and swirling purple, and as far as his vision would reach showed swirling eddies and wafting currents of shadowy energies.

He didn’t recognize the ‘mare, and that meant it was even less safe to move around. Worlds that looked just like his own could be deadly, and he was afforded no protection in the dream world that he didn’t have in the real one.

It was a slim shape behind the tree that caught his attention, and he moved slowly around the trunk, keeping his distance and his eyes locked on the form. It seemed to be human in appearance, but taller than he was and more indistinct.

He should have been able to see its face by now, but the thing was also moving, sliding around the tree in the same direction he was going, keeping just ahead of him with every step. Stopping suddenly, he then stepped the other direction and the form of the other creature became apparent.

“Prist!?” The taller man’s face was clear, even in the dim half-light.

“Dal?” Prist’s face showed his own shock.

“What are you doing here?” They both said together.

There was a pause, and Dal waited an extra moment for Prist to begin speaking. “I’ve been coming here for years – not by my own choice. I hide for the most part, keeping to myself and staying alive. I’ve never been killed here, but I’ve been injured, and found that it translated to a minor injury in the real world.”

Dal nodded. He had found the same thing; injuries here could affect his real body, though a broken arm in the nightmare typically meant a bruise in the waking world. Still, he also had no desire to die and see if he would actually wake.

“I’ve never seen another living soul here,” Dal said, and saw an expression cross Prist’s face, the same one he knew must be on his own whenever he encountered the denizens of this place. The form of the nightmare might change, but the creatures were always the same.

“But you’ve seen them,” Prist said, and Dal nodded. “have you ever spoken to one?”

“Spoken? They can talk?” Dal assumed their mindless howling was the extent of their abilities. That, and to look deadly.

“Yes, yes!” Prist’s eyes were wide. “They want to talk to me now, all the time. They seek me out, no matter where I hide. I don’t know what brought me here, Dal, and I don’t know why – but the creatures want me!”

Dal could see them coming – a line of flowing red shapes in the distance, quickly covering the ground toward them. The real nightmare had arrived.

- D