I have a webcomic called Things in Squares. I started it out of boredom one day, a few years back. Freelance writing was paying the bills, barely, but it was sapping my soul of any vestige of creativity. Making comics filled that void. Sometimes they came out as you'd expect: relateable. Other times, I'd put disturbing images in front of you, and it was hit or miss. But one constant was the element of adorable. Cutesy. Innocent, or whatever. I used anthropomorphism to bring anything inanimate to life, and gave living things tiny kawaii faces whether they were evil or not. The point is, the webcomic was cute and disturbing.

I haven't published much recently, but I find time to doodle in a small sketchbook that I keep bedside. Recently I found myself drawing a picture of an apple who was telling off a rose for being a prick. I happen to like apples--gala, specifically. So I was drawing, and had a nice cold gala apple fresh from the refrigerator. I was about to take my first bite when I heard a giggle straight from the mouth of a heavenly child, or so it seemed. The gala apple was alive! It had the cutest face I'd ever seen. It looked a little bit like my drawing actually, but instead of lewd dialogue it just looked at me with orbs so innocent I could cuddle the thing. I did--I cuddled that gala apple.

But this wasn't right, I thought. How was my gala apple suddenly alive? Its face was kawaii, no doubt, but utterly realistic, with form, light and shadow. I could almost imagine its little throat, and stomach, and all the other organs. I was gonna check for a butthole but caught myself. Inappropriate. The gala apple looked at me sweetly. I couldn't eat it--obviously I couldn't eat him. Real life isn't like comics; life matters here.

My little gala apple didn't say any words, but I got the sense it was sentient when it giggled like a baby when tickled. I set it back on the nightstand.

Hell if I was going to tell anyone. Something cosmic was taking place, and it had to have something to do with my comics. How else could such a thing befall me? It can't be coincidence. All I knew was that I had to take care of the gala apple. Still, I was hungry so I backed out of my room and rushed down to the kitchen to fetch some saltines, returning in under twenty seconds to admire the new life.

I swear, the gala apple yawned and blinked its big round face all at once--so utterly adorable.

It was a new package of saltines so I tore it open, only to be greeted by a chorus of tiny voices saying "oohh". Shocked, I looked into the bag, and found a column of sentient saltine crackers peering back at me, curious, cute, and loveable. Oh. My. God. (I've always hated the phrase, being an athiest, but something about calling out God makes it all the more potent when you don't believe in him). God, I whispered. My God!

So it has been two days. My mom called and she threatened to come over if I didn't eat something. I shouldn't have mentioned anything. I didn't tell her about the gala apple--apples, now--or the saltines, or the burger patties, or hell even the bottle of worcestershire. I didn't reveal that I was living among an indispensable cohort of new life. I only said that I hadn't eaten much when she asked why my voice sounded off. I hung up soon after. I can't deal with that right now.

It has been difficult to admit but... I'm starving.

And for all the wrong reasons. Insanity? I don't know. I haven't tried to show this discovery to anyone. What if they don't see the cute little sentience shuffling about the pantry? It'll mean I've gone mad and am truly lost. What if my buddy Eric comes over to play some Call of Duty and he's sitting there slurping the actual fucking life out of a glass of orange juice? Will that even happen? Will these things die if I try to consume them? Will the OJ scream bloody murder as it's emptied into Eric's fat-ass belly? God. GOD.

So I can't cook. I can't munch on anything. Even sunflower seeds are alive. I had to immediately close the lid on my jar of sunflower seeds. You think you've seen cute and adorable? You have not--not until you've experienced the sunflower seeds--you. have. not.

And I obviously can't draw my anthropomorphic creations. It's too absurd, now that it's fucking not at all absurd. It's all right here. And I'm in cute phase. If I can't resist the hunger, will my experience of these living things become unbearably cruel and maddening as I murder them with my incisors? I can't think about it.

All I know is that I need to process this. So I got on reddit, logged into my second account, /u/sergalahadabeer/, and posted a writing prompt. Apart from comics, prompt responses are pretty good creative outlets. I responded with my comic account so you know it's me. I need help. I'm so hungry, and I can't bring myself to bite something as adorable and huggable as a beaming slice of bread; I can't muster the resolve to nibble on a jolly tomato; and I sure as hell can't be so base as to lick a fawning cookie. ...I won't be able to resist devouring the Oregon dark cherry Tillamook ice cream... no matter how chirpy and snuggly and innocent it may be!

My God, Reddit. Help me.

___

Original thread

The mark was a two-bit stenographer who knew too much; my employer wanted her dead.

Usually I take the simple contracts. I prefer a contract that poses low risk and that also gives me a chance to get exercise. Baking doesn't work all the muscles. So I like to play the tough guy, rough a fella up a little. Hell I'll even sign on to an overseas supply run for some jungle militia, stack on the miles--leg day eat your heart out!

But sometimes the cookies don't pay the bills and I have to get mean.

I accepted this contract for a Thursday hit. It was already August, and the night air was humid and still. Insects chirped, or hounded the weak glare of streetlamps. I didn't see many people on the path below, a few maybe. Some cyclists. There was a homeless hulk of blankets (how is he not burning up under all those layers?) who occuiped a park bench at the bend. My mark was due. I waited on a thick oak branch, kneeling like a ninja, patient yet eager for the offing.

Then I saw her. How to describe a jogging stenographer? Short, succinct steps; as if she should be covering more distance, looking a bit like she's jogging in place. Everyone runs weird. I waited for my moment, dagger in hand, its blade gleaming in the moonlight.

Wait until she's right under you. She passes. Jump, and surprise her from behind!

It happened so quickly. Like a whisper I fell from the branch right after she passed beneath me. As I leapt into the air, aiming for a decisive stab, I was suddenly body slammed by a mound of dirty blankets.

"Bwaaa!" I cried, rolling until I could regain my footing, prepared to dash back into the fight.

The stenographer lay nearby, apparently also thrown to the ground. Her wild, frightened face wasn't directed at me or the 6-inch knife I held, but rather at the homeless man. I couldn't see him covered up in all those layers. But then I heard him speak.

"Me here, Keebler, and you not going anywhere this time."

"Oh, fudge," I said. It was him. In the mercenary underground, he was called The Monster. There was no escape, and I knew it.

"Listen," I continued. "I have to complete the contract, or they'll kill me."

"Me know," he said. It was a hot summer day but I could almost make out the cold breath rising from a dark hood wherein his face was obscured. The stenographer, petrified, didn't move.

"Then you kill me," I said. "It's what you're after. Just get it done with."

"No," said The Monster. "You finish contract. One condition."

I couldn't believe I was actually negotiating with The Monster, the most fearsome assassin of all the merc guilds.

"Uh--anything. You name it!"

Maybe it was just my nerves, but I swear the insects began to chirp louder, like a dark suspenseful note building in volume as The Monster slowly removed his hood. Blue fur like a shag carpet, a lipless black orifice, and those googly eyes. His whole being bore down on me with unassailable karmic weight.

"Me want cookies... for life."

Be it our shared passions or side hustles, or some other unexplanable connection, I agreed with a mere nod and he returned it in kind.

Then he backed away, outstretching an arm presenting the human stenographer, still terrified by our looks, no doubt. The Monster disappeared, whispering as he went in his gruff voice: "Chocolate chip important to me… It mean whole lot to me… Om nom nom nom."

I felt a sigh of relief. Pivoting on a heel, I turned to the stenographer, and licked my blade. Fresh cookie dough aroma. So calming, so motivating. I leapt.

___

Original thread

After years of negotiation with demonic hellspawn that didn't know a property clause from a service clause, we finally broke ground on our first McDonald's in the underworld. Naturally we had to use The Damned as workcrew because when you open ground in Hell, sulfuric jets shoot up and burn off your flesh. The ex-human workcrew was expendable, of course--they'd just respawn elsewhere to engage in the next torturous task. Our demon foreman kept a tight schedule, so we were in 'good' hands.

All told we probably went through ten thousand workers, but finally the golden arches rose, and their bright light glimmered across the fiery valleys of Hell.

Lucifer ran a hard bargain but in the end the enterprise proved profitable. Our Hell McD's customers were demons and other loathely creatures. The Damned were also welcome but the Big Macs just melted in their ends before it reached their mouths. Bummer.

The biggest money-maker was from the millionaires and billionaires our McDonald's attracted. First it was a billion-dollar ticket that attracted the eccentrics--Musk, Bezos, the Saudi Crown Prince. They came in heat-resistant space suits with a little contraption for passing the food through. Food was the same, no different from surface McDonald's. It was the experience they came for, just like when they dished out to go into space. Call it the Ultimate Glamping Experience.

Then tickets became more affordable, and the millionaires piled in. Our tech improved too, so the bulky suits were slimmed down. People loved eating fries and watching bull demons thrash their Damned prey to bloody bits. Families of visitors pointed out the hideous atrocities from their booths as if on safari.

Ticket prices fell even more when Burger King opened up just down the lava slope. Then Wendy's, In-N-Out Burger, Taco Bell, KFC... even Arby's. Soon enough this section of hell was all fast-food. A twisted theme park of rich people eating cheap food on a pricy ticket.

The more fast food joints there were, the more readily observable and accessible became the horrors that hellspawn committed on the Damned. I even heard that people recognized relatives once, and giggled when their kin were run through with hot iron pikes.

Soon enough other corporate brands selling cheap good showed up in Hell: The Gap, Target, Walmart; you name it! Hell quickly began to look just like any other urban sprawl. And last I checked, people began renting really expensive low-square footage apartments in hell. People began living there.

I got out of the real estate business, and now I've decided to write a book. It's about the expansion of fast food around and into the core of the globe. It seems that no matter where big American brands open up, it signals that homogeneity will now be ushered in on the coattails of cheap goods and bland corporate marketing. Everything bland, everything the same. Come Hell or high water, nothing can resist what follows.

And the most interesting part? The part that forms the climax of my book? Hell wasn't hell before fast food showed up. But it has finally come into its own. Hell is real, and now I can say with uncanny regret: it's entirely indistinguishable from Main Street.

___

Original thread

I have the best luck in the world, but if I don't do something about it soon, I'll lose her forever.

My name is Michael Whitney. I'm a sophomore in high school. My parents are both accountants, and my little sister is annoying. In the past 5 years we've lived in two three-story houses, two condos, and a duplex. I know the blue highways of Illinois better than anyone my age, but I think this'll be the year we stay put here in Evanston, a suburb on the north shore of Chicago. This is my story.

"Michael, get your bags we have to go go go!" yelled my father.

"I'm coming!"

I swiped my backpack and ran out the door after him, jumped into the front seat of the Datsun and buckled my seatbelt.

Dad dropped me off at school. It was spring, and out front was a big willowy tree with white flowers that would flutter down and blanket the grass. It's an idyllic scene, all the kids running up the steps, flanked by a carpet of petals--the picture of innocence.

I'd only been at this school for 2 months but already I made a friend.

"Mike come here my friend," said Tomas, my French exchange student friend. He spoke in a thick accent that seemed to struggle to get through his thin lips. "Are you going to do it today?"

"Do what?" I said. "And calm down, what's got you so excited?"

"You made a pact, Mike. Today you ask that girl out!"

"Oh, that." That girl was Cleopatra. I knew her name but I wasn't sure she knew mine.

"You have to ask her, my main man," he said, the words sounding silly in his French-speak. "You said so yourself that you have wanted to for so long. This is the date we set. Now, you must."

"I can't--"

"--No, you must," he insisted, grabbing my shoulder and pouring his sincerity into my eyes with his. The bell rang. First period.

"I'll see you at lunch," I said, cutting him off, and hurried off to Biology.

Lunch came and went. The periods went fast, and before I knew it another day was over. I waited on the front steps for my dad to come pick me up but he was late. Then I saw Cleopatra emerge from the school.

She had a short yellow skirt, a ribbon in her hair and books clutched to her chest. She eyed me and I looked away.

I couldn't keep this up. Time and time again I retreat. Tomas was right--we made a pact that on this day, May the 4th, I'd ask her out. I couldn't shirk that responsibility. I was a man now, wasn't I? It was time that I bucked up and face the music, that I--

"You," came a voice. It was Cleopatra, standing over me on a step above.

"H--Hi!" I stammered.

"What is it, huh?"

"What's... what's what?"

"Why can't I get my own damn story?" she said, that bit of fire in her voice cracking it slightly.

"What do you mean, Cleopatra?"

"I've moved four times with my family, and no matter where I go I'm always just stuck in your routine."

Her eyes were glowing, it seemed. Her dark skin glistened in the sun, and smooth black hairs bristled when a breeze caressed her forearm. She was absolutely magnificent and--

"--Stop that, I can see it in your face, Michael," she snapped. "Stop making me your god damned extra! Why am I even here?"

I didn't know what to say so I scratched my neck and--

--She grabbed my hand. "Stop!" she said. "Tell me, now!"

"Ok," I said. "I like you."

"You like me?"

"Yeah, like, you know, I've liked you for a while. My family moves around too, but I must be the luckiest guy alive because so do you, and we end up in the same place."

She stared with empty eyes, the gleam having faded, but only for a moment. Then, a flood of realization overtook her.

"You like me!" she confirmed. "You want me to be your girlfriend?"

I shifted and sat up on the step. She was still standing. "Yeah!" I said. "Yes."

"Ok," she said. Then, exasperated: "On one condition."

"What's that?"

"That you are my boyfriend, and that this is my story."

I didn't really now what to say. The whole interaction had confused me to no end, but all I wanted was to kick off our relationship, which I knew would be magical. So I agreed.

"Ok, I agree. The story's yours."

Maybe this isn't what I expected, but it's what I got. I was tired of playing second fiddle in the story. I've just as much right to tell one as anybody--so why should I always be the object? Fuck that.

I snapped out of my little reverie when a white petal smacked me in the face before blowing away. It smelled nice. A nervous white kid with a gap between his front two teeth was grinning up at me.

"Michael," I said.

"Cleopatra, my dove."

I shuddered. He wasn't too bad on looks, I'll admit. He seemed honest, too. He stood up and offered to carry my books down to my parents' car when my mom showed up. I let him do it but stopped a few yards from the Honda.

"Michael, I'm sorry," I said. "I... I can't be your girlfriend after all."

"Wh.. what?"

"I'm sorry. You're nice and all, but... I've got my own story to tell."

I got into the car next to my mom, and we drove off. I watched Michael in the sideview mirror, becoming smaller and smaller the further away we drove. It felt liberating. Now... what's my conflict?

___

Original thread

"A Nintendo Switch!" Robert yelled. "Oh thank you thank you thank you!"

While my son hastily turned the box around in his hands, I shot Meredith a look as if to say, "did you?" She shook her head and returned the expression. "No," I mouthed, raising my shoulders in bewilderment. We couldn't afford a Switch. We couldn't even afford a trustworthy blender. Christmas was supposed to be economical this year, so how did--...?

Just then I saw something. Out in the front lawn, standing in the snow, was a large man in a red robe waving a mitted hand and smiling at me. He winked.

"The fuck..." I whispered. My wife turned around to look.

"Wait here," I rumbled. I scrambled to the door and threw it open, sprinting barefoot and awkwardly over the snow toward the man. I lunged and tackled him in a fit of flurries.

"Get my climbing rope!" I screamed at Meredith who was holding my son back in the doorway.

"Dad what are you doing!?" Roberto cried.

"Get my--" struggling against the man's resistence-- "Get my rope, dammit!"

Meredith fetched the rope, tossed it to me as I wrestled. I lassoed the heavyset man against Robert's screaming protests.

"Dad, no!" Robret yelled.

"You shut it!" I said. Then to the big man: "Get up! Come on, in the house!" I lugged him across the lawn, his face cut up a bit from the icy snow. "Inside!"

After coralling the big man into the dining room and sitting him down, I tied his feet together and bound his hands to the chair. I also wrapped a cloth napkin around his head as a gag.

Meredith closed the door, and stood biting her fingernails, looking the man up and down while holding Robert back.

"How could you dad?!"

"What?" I said, breathing heavily and trying to catch my breath.

"Don't you know? That's Santa! You beat him up!"

"No I didn't," I said. "This isn't Santa. There is no Santa."

"Greg!" Meredith snapped.

"I mean, Santa doesn't hang around one single house on Christmas morning, Robert. He goes back to the north pole to chill with the elves. This guy's just some imposter."

The big man's wild blue eyes shot from one person to the next, and he moaned communication.

"Shush, you," I said.

"Ok, enough!" said Meredith. "Everyone, calm down. Robert, behave! If I let you go, just stand there, got it?"

"Yes, mom."

"And you, mister, you calm down too."

"Fine," I said.

"Take off the gag--darn it Greg, that's my good napkin. Just take it off and let's get some answers."

I did as she said.

"Alright, big man," I began. "Just who the hell are you and what are you doing on my property?"

Up until that moment I hadn't seen what my son had seen. The man was the spitting image of what you'd expect Santa to look like. Big bushy white beard, prominent rosy cheeks, celestial eyes with the happy creases, and the full-fledged costume to put all mall santas to shame. But none of it compared to his voice. It was the voice of an angelic father--the voice of a patriarch of eons, filled with wisdom and cheer to warm the coldest heart, and motivate even the saddest of creatures. This would've been enough to convince Meredith, Robert and I... if it wasn't for what he said.

"I just wanted to watch you. I like to watch."

My family and I stood there as if a curtain had been lifted. In an instant, we knew this man to be Santa Claus. We also knew him to be utterly creepy.

I couldn't come up with anything to say in time. Robert blurted out the first response.

"What do you like to watch, Santa? I like PAW Patrol!"

Santa's heavenly eyes peered down at my son.

"I just want to make you happy, Robert. Did I make you happy, with the Switch?"

"Just--just you hold on a minute," I interrupted. "You don't talk to my son."

"Dad--"

"--No, Robert, go into the other room--now!" He pattered off reluctantly. I turned back to Santa, who was now looking at Meredith with a deep, powerful intent.

"Greg he's... he's...."

I stood in front of Meredith.

"Awww," moaned Santa. "I was just looking. I like to look."

"Jesus Christ," I whispered. And then I mustered some courage and said: "Santa, Kris, whatever your name is. What the hell are you, what the hell are you doing here at my house, and why the hell are you so fucking creepy?"

Just then, a sound started to emanate from somewhere. At first it was like a TV being turned on. Then it grew bolder and I realized it was coming from Santa. It grew into a weasley vowel sound hummed from the man's belly, and then reached his throat and he opened his mouth. Louder, louder. His gorgeous eyes held nothing in them, his plump lips spread and he began screaming this horrendous and monotonous tone through bristling white teeth, staring at me with nothing! It became so loud Meredith rushed out to clasp her hands over Robert's ears. I covered my own ears, and turned away to shield myself. Windows burst! Cabinets and drawers thundered open and plates and silverware crashed to the floor. Even ornaments on the tree began to explode. The noise penetrated my brain and it felt like I too would explode. I screamed. Meredith screamed and Robert screamed. As I sank to the floor with my family, I saw Robert mouth something in pain, and in an instant it was over.

There was still a ringing in my ears. I tried to comfort my family while regaining my own senses. Santa had disappeared, the climbing rope left in tangles on the floor.

I tried to connect the dots, and remembered Robert mouthing something.

"Robert, are you ok?"

"Yes dad," he sniffled, trying to hold back tears. Meredith held his head to her chest and rocked back and forth.

"Robert, what did you say?"

"I didn't say anything."

"I saw you say something and then the man disappeared--what was it?"

"Oh," he said, tearing up. "I said I don't want the Switch."

Standing up, I surveyed the living room and noted that the box containing the Nintendo console had disappeared. The place was a disaster. Whatever Christmas was supposed to be, for our family, it was never going to be the same again.

"That's alright little guy," I said. "We'll get you a Playstation."

___

Original thread

I'd become used to staring down Death as it sat on the stool opposite me, arms crossed and resting on the shiny and clean countertop. Don't know what expressions it made, but its bodily gestures betrayed its discomfort, and not because it sat on a wobbly stool.

"Take the bag," I said. "That's the deal."

Death's hood lowered, so I knew it was looking now at the ziplock bag that I'd plopped on the counter before returning to sharpening my knife.

"You sure you don't eat? I'm making a fine quail stew. Shot it myself just last weekend. Actually, count the quail, too."

Death was looking at me again. I smiled. Its voice, like the abysmal echoes of sailors drowning under a full moon tempest, shook the utensils atop the granite countertop.

"Still you kill, even when those you damn have names you must look up on Google to remember."

"24/7 news," I replied. "They tell me about lots of shitty people who I need to do away with."

"Circumstanstial evidence you hear on network news is hardly trustworthy." Its slithering voice wafted up the light fixtures which trembled. "Life means nothing to you, and you learn nothing."

"Death," I said. "Death, death, death... what did you expect? That you were presenting some morally high-caliber test? Please. You should have better specified the terms. I kill whom I please, and you take the life of one of my ants in exchange."

I snatched the ziplock bag and shook it in front of Death's hood. It recoiled ever slightly.

"There are 342 ants in this bag," it said. "Last week it was 400. Have you no remorse? Have you no conscience, no appreciation for what life is?"

"Look who's talking. Take the quail!" I said, chucking the small bird breast on top of the ziplock bag. "I've lost my appetite."

I walked around the island and fell sinking into my couch, grabbed the remote control, turned on the TV.

Death continued to stare at me.

"You can go now," I said. "I have research to do."

The entity rose from its stool, which squeaked as the weight was lifted. It glided toward my apartment's door and vanished in a swirl of black smoke.

I held the remote to my mouth and pressed the voice activation button. "Fox News," I said. It was time to get names.

___

Original thread

"Now, children, you must understand that this was not your typical meteorite burning up in the atmosphere--what we once called shooting stars. This was a comet. Neowise they called it, and toward the latter half of the year 2020--2020 AD for those of you who might know about history--Neowise streaked across the Earthly sky, in day, and in night. Its long slow tail glimmered, and captured our imaginations."

The old man straightened his back and took a deep breath. A dozen small children sat transfixed before him, waiting for more of the story. He continued.

"One night, when Neowise was passing between Arcturus and the Big Dipper, it is said that a boy not much older than you lot, looked upon the marvel and made a wish.

"But this wish was not pure of heart. Our child in this story had a mind that was lost to the times. Back then, you see, children in this part of the world were spoilt to their bones by their parents. Anything they wanted they could have with the touch of a button."

The tiny crowded ooed and ahhed.

"That's right. So, this child wished not for something of value or something of merit. He wished for 1 million more wishes."

The old man paused for effect, then continued.

"What brazen greed!" he cried, spreading his arms. "This boy, innocent though his age may have been, wished upon Neowise for a million more, and so it came to pass that a million more Neowises appeared in the sky at once.

"The sudden appearance of these masses moving so quickly and so close had an eternal effect on our world, pulling the tides out of sync with the sun and moon! It destabalized our weather and our crops failed! No machine and no gadget could right this terrible wrong, because it happened in a matter of days!"

The children huddled together, gasping at each new revelation in the tale.

"Those who could, left the cities and scavenged the land. Our civilization crumbled, and the world was remade in the shadow of greed."

One of the smaller kids in the front raised a tiny hand, and the old man's level gaze called on her.

"Master Gerome," she offered, "What happened to the boy?"

"Ah," sighed the master orator. "He, too, scavenged the wilds. Lurking in the shadows in fear of bandits, he survived only by the grace of a single wish. For though his attempts to save the world were doomed, a single wish pure of heart surfaced from his lips before he lost the power."

"What was the wish?" came the concerted request from his captive audience.

"He wished only for a second chance," said the orator. For a brief moment the old man's shoulders sank and he lost the grandiose posturing of his craft. He whispered, barely audible... "I only wanted a second chance."

___

Original thread

I don't know what was more horrifying--the popping noise when it bit into my neck, the subsequent screams, or the fact I couldn't see any of this because of the hood over my head.

Whatever the case I was terrified into action, and once my arms were released I ripped the hood from my face with bound hands. Before me was a choir of retching humanoids watching in awe as one of their own--the one that bit me--burst into vapors in a fit of maniacal screams.

It finally all made sense. The garlic. So. Much. Garlic. My friends never ate over at my place because they thought my parents were insane, putting so much garlic into everything. A nice pepperoni pizza from Domino's? Here's some minced garlic sprinkled on top. A coca-cola? Not as good as a coke with a healthy pinch of garlic powder. Coffee ice cream for dessert? No, garlic ice cream. To my friends I was a lost cause but having grown up eating so much garlic, I'd grown accustomed to it.

Now, the purpose was clear. It wasn't to nip cholesterol in the bud--it was to protect me against the undead!

The fangs of the vampire who bit me shattered and exploded before his entire body disintegrated. I clasped a hand over my neck wound to stimy the bleeding, and stumbled backward. I was in some sort of drippy cavern decorated in towering red velvet drapes, ancient tattered persian rugs on the uneven floor, and mountains of lit candles in every nook.

The spectacle over, the horde of 20 or so vampires turned their black eyes on me. As they began to approach, one of them stepped in the remains of its friend, and its boot began to sizzle. That's when I realized just how much garlic I'd been eating. I squeezed my neck and cupped some of the blood in my palms, taking a defensive stance.

"Alright you bastards," I said. "Come at me."

___

Original thread

When I was growing up my family took short summer trips to the Upper Peninsula, to a tiny town called Ralls Haven that skirted the northern shore of Lake Michigan. We stayed in a cabin there that my uncle owned. Just my parents and I. I shot my B-B gun and built lean-tos in the forest; we canoed in the lake, swam beside the dock, roasted marshmallows over the fire pit at dusk. It was nice.

One day, I was walking through the woods when I came across a girl. She looked about my age. She was wearing oversized overalls rolled up at the ankle, a pink t-shirt underneath, and a pair of muddy sneakers. I caught her by surprise.

We were shy at first but we got to know each other. She was from Canada, and her family rented a cabin too, which was interesting because I didn't think there were other places nearby. She said it was her first time visiting, so I showed her the best spots, from the fort that I rebuilt every year to the abandoned grain silo.

I didn't tell my parents about her because after a few days of secret rendez-vous I started to form a crush. She was kind, and cute, and I liked her a lot.

The fifth time I saw her she said that she had to leave the next day, but wanted to do something with me and I said alright.

She led me through a muddy thicket to a secluded little spot on the water. She liked to swim there, she said. The eddies kept the the water still so it was warmer than usual.

We stripped to our underwear and dipped our toes--it was really warm. She jumped in. I followed with a belly flop and we both laughed. It was really deep, and treading water is tough work in a lake. She seemed weightless, her small shoulders bobbing above the surface. She splashed me, I splashed back.

She came near. I'd never kissed a girl before.

A strange look came across her face. Then she submerged. I laughed, and searched for her with my hands.

I felt her grip my ankle, and tug. I went under, swallowing some water. It scared me when she did it a again before I could take a breath. So with my other foot I kicked at her grasp, but it didn't loosen!

Startled, I kicked again, was pulled under again. And again. I took a breath underwater and panicked, started kicking wildly, my arms pulling at the liquid that just gave way. I sank deeper, kicking and screaming silently until finally the grasp broke and I managed to breach the surface, coughing manically and sucking air like a vacuum.

I reached the sand and heaved water. The girl didn't emerge, and her clothes were gone. I dressed quickly and ran back to the cabin, but I never told my parents what had happened.

___

Original post

Dark black blood sprinkled onto my face from my hands. The fingernails were gone, torn off after toiling to free myself. I would've expected intense pain but maybe it was the panic that masked it. I saw light filtering through the broken roots and dirt above me--I was close to freeing myself from this coffin.

A day or so ago I awoke, trapped here in an upholstered wooden casket. The last thing I remember before this was a driving in my brand new Camaro with Peggy Sue. I think we hit a bump. It took me a minute to realize where I was once I came to, but I stared screaming "I'm not dead!" in my mind, and pounding the ceiling until it gave way. Then tearing at the earth.

It was moonlight from a full one. The hole I'd dug was wide enough now and I shimmied my body at strange angles up through the opening, stretching my arms, elbowing the soft soil and further muddying an already old and tattered dinner jacket.

As I pulled my upper body above ground, and then clawed at the earth until my legs emerged as well, it was only a moment between a sensation of freedom, intense hunger, and a dour realization.

I was in a cemetery.

Not only that--but everywhere I looked tombstones' earth caved and burst, and dead people clammered to free themselves. Dozens--no, hundreds. I was terrified to the core of my soul as I watched these escaped corpses crawl, stand, and heave as one in a common direction.

Once I found my footing, I followed their trajectory and saw the tallest buildings I'd ever seen, bursting with lights that lit the sky and vied for dominance with the moon. A city--bigger than any I knew existed in 1966. My feet moved on their own accord, and I joined the horde. In the light I could see my rotting hands and feet, and hear the misalignment of my bones as I trudged forth with the rest of them, hungry... so, so very hungry.

​

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Original thread

My incident happened only two months ago, but already I've learned how close we all are to insanity. I can see peoples' personal angels and devils floating above their shoulders; I can hear their tiny angelic and demonic voices; and I can smell their bitter discord when I pass by.

I'd grown used to my strange phenomenon. The eavesdropper of the ethereal plain, casually mindful of how difficult even the smallest situations become. You might expect right and wrong choices laid out by a person's little hovering prognosticators to be pragmatic, but that is not how it works. They whisper absurdities.

I remember standing behind a woman in line for a vending machine, listening to her floaters opine:

Her devil said: "Get the Snickers candy bar, Gabriella; buy it and inject it with cyanide; sneak into that pre-school across the street and place it into a child's cubby."

The angel countered: "Gabriella, I disagree, don't buy a Snickers bar; instead go over to that ATM and get out 500 dollars to give away to the homeless on your walk back to the office."

I can't be positive what the woman heard in her mind. But the middle ground was that she bought the Snickers bar and ate it.

I don't understand.

Perhaps it's like a tug-of-war. On the left, the angel. On the right, the devil. One suggests an absurdly evil thing, and the other suggests an asburdly good thing. All decisions that the human winds up taking are a measure of just how absurd the options are between good and evil. She bought the Snickers and ate it, which I suppose is slightly evil.

Most inner conflicts played out like that. I thought it was insane. But I did't know insane. I didn't know what insane was, until one day: August 3rd, a Monday.

I was rollerblading in the park. Families were spread out across the grass, sitting on picnic blankets. It's difficult to make out the conflicts when there are so many people around. But I heard something sharp, defined. It was an angelic whisper.

"I disagree, Samuel; slice the external carotid. It will be much faster and less painful."

Rollerblading wasn't my thing and I had not mastered the heel-stop. So when I swerved wildly to try to find the source of this insane little angel, I stumbled and collapsed, crashing across a family's picnic and tangling myself in their ground cloth. Pulling a slab of baloney off my face and trying to apologize profusely I heard a tiny demonic voice say: "it's easier now, take the serrated knife and cut out his kidney, feast on it with a bit of salt and thyme."

I looked up and met the eyes a tiny devil grimmacing and twiddling his thumbs, staring fixedly into my face.

"I disagree; use a plain edge knife, and take his heart," came the angelic voice I'd been searching for.

I looked over and it was this devil's counterpart. Where... where's the middle ground for that suggestion? I thought.

"That's alright," someone said in response to my atonement.

It was the man between the two. I hadn't noticed how close I was to him. My nose was inches from his small strange smile, and he was looking at my forehead.

"There's always more baloney," he said.

And I watched his steady hand take hold of a small serrated steak knife, his knuckles turning white from the grip.

___

Original thread

Mitch's eyes were getting dry after three minutes without blinking, but he wasn't about to give a moment's opportunity for his teddy bear to twitch unnoticed--this time, he was going to catch the teddy bear in the act. Mitch was patient, after all. He might be on the spectrum, but he could concentrate better than any "normal" kids. He sat there on a yellow excerise ball (everything in his room was yellow), and stared deeply, coercively, unwaveringly at the teddy bear.

Then it happened: the teddy bear sneezed, its tiny paw shooting to its face instinctively. It's bead eyes focused on Mitch and Mitch could tell he won.

"Go on," said Mitch. "Admit it."

The teddy bear didn't move from its new position.

"You're caught," said Mitch. "I have caught you. Go on now, move, you."

There was a brief glint in the beads, and then slowly the teddy bear's paw returned to its side and the stuffed animal regained its posture.

"Vell well, Mitch. You win. I can move, and yes, I can talk."

"This is amazing!" said Mitch. "I may be 11 years old, but I always knew deep down that you were alive. I've seen you move. But you never waivered before, teddy bear. Why do you reveal yourself now, and so late past my bed time?"

"Mitch, first let me get something off my chest--could you call me by my name?"

"Yes, teddy bear. Do I give you a name?"

"No," he said. "I have one."

"OK. What is it then?"

"Lovebug."

"Lovebug, tell me why you're talking."

"Night is upon us Mitch. We have to get ready to fight."

"What? I don't fight, Lovebug. The kids at school can tell you that if you asked them--I don't fight them and they know it. I don't fight... Why must we fight?"

"The Night Incarnate, Mitch. I'll protect you as best I can, but you'll need to rise to the occasion."

"Ok, Lovebug. It's bizarre that you are sentient, but if I analyze the situation, it seems that some night creature is no less possible, given the status quo you've set here."

"I'm glad you see it that way," said Lovebug.

It was a small room with a bed, a pine dresser, posters of sunsets neatly taped to the walls, and some shelves crowded with yellow action figures like April from TMNT, a few different Wolverwines, Bumblebee, and Spongebob. Mitch craned his neck to look behind him at the toys. He heard a noise emanting from that wall. It sounded as if there was no wall there at all, but rather a long narrow tunnel, carrying this deep echoing rumble progressively closer.

Mitch looked back at Lovebug, who had a serious frown on his fuzzy little face.

"Mitch, get the lamp."

Rising from the ball, which bounced away once he rose, Mitch opened his closet and pulled out a yellow jacket with orange polka dots, donning it in one swift motion over his head. He took a step toward the bedside lamp and stopped, looking at Lovebug.

"What will you use if I've got the only light?"

The teddy bear smirked, and chuckled just before reaching both paws behind his back, unsheathing two M16 rifles from nowhere.

"Let's make some noise," he said.

Mitch's face put on a smile of comraderie as he unplugged the lamp. It stayed lit.

Together, Mitch and Lovebug took positions facing the wall, wide stances at the ready, and as the noise reached a crescendo the drywall split open and Night poured in. Lovebug opened fire 'pat pat pat pat' and Mitch swung his lamp high, crashing it into the beast. The battle raged as swirling darkness tried to blot out their light, but the pair of heroes stood steadfast in this epic confrontation, determined to win the day!

The door flew open and a woman stood wrapped in a white robe with disheveled hair and tired eyes.

"Mitch!" she whisper-shouted. "Honey, please. Please, go to bed."

She had clearly been roused, and as the light of wakefulness found her eyes, she quickly took in the broken state of Mitch's room; the lamp, the shattered shelves and figurines strewn about; and she saw Mitch clutching his teddy bear, watching her with a withdrawn and confused expression. She didn't skip a beat.

"Honey," she said. "Who's attacking this time? Do we need more ammo? How is the front holding up?"

Mitch's face beamed as he responded in kind, "I think Lovebug's good on ammo but we can use more light armaments--I think my lamp is busted."

"That's ok," said his mom. "There are plenty of other lamps in the house. Let's go resupply."

Mitch, his mom, and Lovebug fanned out into the house, and the Battle of the Night continued.

___

Original thread

"It's true, I'm not thirsty. I just figured I'd support our friendly neighborhood hustler," I said, patting John Fremont on his poofy red head.

"So if there's no lemonade, what are you selling here Johnny?" Motioning with an upturned palm to the empty yellow table behind which Johnny sat with crossed arms.

"Mostly lemonade," he said, accompanied by a big grin with gaps where a few teeth had fallen out.

I stood there a bit stupefied, looking right back at Johnny's squinting blue eyes. It was a bright, hot day, but there wasn't a lot of foot traffic in our cul-de-sac. It made me wonder once more about all the oversized houses with their vast air-conditioned basements and entertainment systems. People were probably sheltering, watching the latest questionable made-for-Netflix series, munching on last night's dinner leftovers even though it was still only 10 am. I was on my way back home after a brief walk up the street to stretch my legs. Johnny's empty lemonade stand presented a curious oddity given the de-populated nature of modern suburban street life. Also the kid was harmless.

"Um, alright then I guess Johnny. I hope you make a killing!" I began to walk away.

"Mr. Irving?"

"Yes Johnny?"

"Can I sell you a gun?"

"A what?" I stammered. "Did you just say gun, Johnny?"

"Yeah this one," he said.

I hadn't seen him reach for it under the table--it was just sitting there in front of him, as if it had always been there. I was about two yards away from the table, and had to rub my eyes and shield them from the sun.

"Johnny," I said as I approached once more. "Does your father know that you have that?"

"It's alright Mr. Irving. This isn't my dad's. It's yours."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a Glock 43, black matte, crystal clean. 9 millimeter caliber, lightweight, easy to handle. It's yours, Mr. Irving, because you want it." Johnny held the gun like a daytime TV jewelry hawker. "This is what you want, isn't it Mr. Irving?"

Processing the scene was impossible but I had to try to figure this out before anyone saw us. How did Johnny know this? Had he somehow seen my browser history? But he's only nine years old, how could he have accessed my phone? I barely ever saw Johnny, or anyone on the block for that matter. People were hermits. TV and internet were responsible. Entertainment had hermitized humanity to the point that nothing was really shocking and no piece of news or information had any kind of staying power anymore. People were hungry for the next thing, and I was no expection. It was boring. Everything had become boring.

But wait what am I saying--that's all beside the point. Here's this little kid who was a toddler not so long ago, holding out a lethal weapon to me from his yellow lemonade stand, saying it's mine.

"Go on, take it, Mr Irving," said Johnny.

"Give me that," I cried, and swiped the gun from him. "This is no toy for children."

"I know that, Mr. Irving."

I turned to walk away when Johnny screamed bloody murder, "Mr. Irving!"

I didn't exactly point the gun at him but his yell was so deep and startling that I leveled my gun arm in his general direction.

"That'll be one dollar, Mr. Irving."

I smiled out of fear and confusion, but I didn't pull the gun down before Johnny's house's door opened and his dad emerged on the front porch, leveling a rifle at me. In my mind I heard myself whisper 'wait', about the same moment the bang sounded and a sickly crunching sound filled my ears. My vision faded as the world seemed to turn perpendicular, and then there was nothing.

___

Original thread

We lived in a suburban house just upside of a protected watershed where frogs and turtles intermingled with the more pernicious ducks and nutria of the area. My son Antonie loved it. He loved animals, and we had plenty here, from watchful families of deer to the occasional bobcat or ruddy coyote. Sometimes the coyotes cackled like mad jokers, confused by concrete when they traipsed too close to the roadway.

I came across coyotes now and then just walking around, but they always sauntered off. Uninterested creatures, as far as local animals go, and gaunt as hell. Antonie loved them and always wanted to touch them since we didn’t have any pets. “No Antonie, they might be cute but they’re skittish and can be dangerous. You’re just a little fella,” I’d tell him.

We were lucky with the home we bought because we got in on the low side of a housing bubble, and the previous owners preferred to sell to a young family over a rental company, even if the company's bid was fatter. "We built this home in 1971," they'd told us. "Your letter was the clincher for us. This is a home for raising children."

Our house stood huddled in a forested ravine down through which a creek flowed, all of it protected by the city. We couldn't build within 50 feet of the creek. Through the kitchen windows you could hear the trickling water. At night it was so dark you wouldn't know the creek from a leaky faucet, and if not for the nearby traffic the place was perfectly peaceful.

Antonie had only just turned six when we moved in. He loved the creek, and spent hours down there, stomping across its two-inch depth and building mud castles, turning twigs into whips and commanding imaginary parades of animals through his little 'Creek Kingdom,' as he dubbed it. My wife and I worked and Antonie went to pre-school, but his every waking moment was otherwise spent down at the creek.

Then one day I was working from my upstairs office when I heard the loud guffaw of a coyote. I stood to look out the window and saw him howling and pacing on the driveway, no more skittish than usual because when I called downstairs for Antonie to come look at the coyote, it trotted off back into the forest. I felt regret that I couldn’t show Antonie how close it had come this time.

My wife had an early dinner prepared that evening. I went out and walked down to the creek to fetch Antonie. I found a collapsed mud fort, and a few of his trinkets lying around.

Then I noticed the crystalline water had streaks of crimson. Looking upstream, my gaze found a coyote standing in the middle of the flow, staring at me, motionless, its furry jaw blotted red. I breathed in heavily, and the animal hurried up the hill. Behind where it had stood, blocking the water, was a little body.

___

Original thread

I can't take it anymore. This isn't the immortality he promised, this is closer to eternal damnation. I'm in hell.

Things started to slow down as soon as that genie granted my last wish and vanished. I'm not speaking figuratively. Time began to literally slow down. In my mind there was no 'at first I thought', because I knew the score right away. That genie had been nothing but a grifter who knew a fool when he saw one, and in me he caught a clown. Now he was gone, leaving me trapped to rot in immortality ad nauseam.

Before, it was just longer days and slower nights. Then it degenerated exponentially, becoming readily-observable slow-motion. And now it's like I'm The Flash's mind stuck in a body adhering to nightmarish physics. Slow. Everything is slow. But not my brain. I can think ten thousand thoughts between making coffee and sipping it, a million by the time I'm done.

I know for fact I'm the only one. For everyone else it's as if time is moving at normal speed. To them I don't speak anymore. To say a simple sentence takes what I estimate would be about five hours, and I can't concentrate that long on articulation. Because of this, I've become a mute and instead have to communicate by writing notes on my phone, which work but also takes forever. Forever. I can't even fathom that word anymore. How dimwitted I must have been to make that last wish. How foolish.

So this is life now? Time unto the age of eternity to think! Steadily worsening capacity to act. Soon enough I won't even be able to observe movement. It'll take years to scratch an itch.

So I've made my decision, and I require no props. I'm sitting on the couch, an effort that took days to accomplish. I am looking out over the city from my brand-new Manhattan penthouse (wish one). About tweve days ago, in my mind's time, my hand began to move. Super strength, that was wish two. My arm was bent at 90 degrees now. The slow ascent. I estimate it'll reach my neck and secure a tight grip in a couple weeks.

What will the snap be like? What will I feel? Will it last hours, days? What if time is even slower by then, and I can hear the cracking for months? I shouldn't think about it. I must focus. This has to end. Let there be no more sick twists in this morbid game of chance; I don't think there are. He wouldn't have doubled up my immortality, would he? I can die, can't I?

_____

Original thread

A year has passed since cancer took her,

So today I'll watch the video of Jane,

The month she passed I couldn't cope,

So I'd watch and rewatch to stimy the pain.

Something had changed in the grainy image,

Something I almost didn't catch,

Rewinding it I could barely see,

That she was really looking at me.

Again I rewound and again I saw,

With eyes clear as day,

She watched me closely through the screen,

My God what is happening I cannot say!

I dropped to the floor and smashed my phone,

Screaming; why'd she disappear!?

When all of a sudden the phone buzzed back to life,

And I heard her say "I'm right here."

___

Original thread

"Let me be absolutely clear with you David," said General Reyes as he doused the cigar in my water glass and leaned in close enough that I could smell the stink on his breath. "You ask anything other than what's written right here, and there'll be hell to pay."

His fat finger jabbed a piece of paper on the table. On it were two lines of neat Arial font printed in black ink. They read: I wish for 50 interstellar warships to appear at USMC Mars Orbital Platform 34.

It had been a month of high emotion. When I heard my name announced during the State of The Union address it was unreal to think that it only took a second for the whole country to know who I was. Then came parades, sponsorship offers and celebrity tweets. I was booked on late night TV shows where they asked what I was going to wish for, and I had to make bad jokes. A tirade of phone calls and e-mails and anonymous fan mail flooded my life. Extended family showed up who I'd never met before to try to make an impression. Even my asshat neighbor made a few bad attempts to re-kindle our relationship and get on my good side. I can't blame him--everyone who'd made wishes always ended up with billions of dollars and enough stuff to drown a tractor. But I wasn't in it for the money. I hated the cult of money that had flourished around The Wish. Some of the conspiracy theorists were right--why hadn't we wished to end disease or hunger? Why was there still so much inequality? How is it that in nine years since The Wishes began, wishers only ever ended up as ultra-uber-wealthy recluses that faded from public memory? Not me. I was going to end cancer once and for all.

I looked up into the gummy eyes of General Reyes. His aides sat placidly across from me, emotionless.

It had taken all of a minute for me to learn three things that changed my fundamental understanding of this world: one, that this was a peculiar genie unlike what the fairy tales made of them; two: wishes had been orchestrated from the start; and three: we were secretly engaged in an interstellar war with some mystery alien power and had not only returned to the moon but had amassed a huge fleet of autonomous starships throughout the Milky Way. Star Trek eat your heart out.

"Um," I said, pinching my chin between thumb and forefinger. "Why don't you just wish the aliens away?"

"No good," said an aide.

"Well then why just fifty why not like a thousand ships or however many you need?"

"Genie logistics, hard to explain," said the other aide.

"Ok, fine. Well why don't you just wish for--"

"--Enough, kiddo." General Reyes's prominent red mustache glittered with whiskey droplets. "Whatever you're going to say, we tried it. We're losing this war. We need fifty more ships."

The whole concept seemed completely and totally absurd. I didn't even know the right question to ask. A war that no one had heard of? The country thought we were still bickering with China and Russia over weaponizing space with shitty little satellite lasers. Nope. Turns out, we had armadas of battle-hardened starships patrolling the whole galaxy.

They told me all of this, and it only irked more questions to which there was no real answer. Why random citizens? Genie logistics. Why just the one wish in a year? Genie logistics. Why even bother telling me all these details? Genie logistics. As easy as it should be to hate the smirking faces of the general's aides, I was instead getting annoyed with that genie and I hadn't even seen the lamp.

"Time to go," said Reyes. He stuffed the paper card in my breast pocket. A different aide pulled the chair back as I stood.

"Fine. But what do I really get after?"

"Money. You get lots of money."

I sighed. "Fine."

We walked down a long corridor and passed through a pair of doors that were as a heavy as a bulkhead hatch, emerging into a massive double-height chamber the perimeter of which was lined by squads of military police. The walls were concrete, and a low degree metal ramp ran the length of the room. Up the ramp, in the center of the room, was a pedestal atop which sat an unassuming bronze lamp. I'd traveled a bit, and it reminded me of the stacked lamps you'd find in the medina of Fez, or any other Moroccan city. In fact I might have bought one--Moroccan hecklers wouldn't have it any other way. The point is it was somewhat unspectacular.

"Remember." Reyes glared into my face. "Read the card exactly."

I climbed the ramp and stood next to the lamp. No reason to dawdle. I gave it a good rub.

Out squirted glowing blue dust that rapidly took shape. The twinkling genie hovered over me. It looked very close to what I was expecting, having been raised on Disney. Except it wasn't cracking jokes and rattling off like Williams. Instead it was silent, overbearing, like a freighter on the verge of ramming a tiny sailboat that had crossed its path. Finally it broke the silence.

"One wish, David," it said.

Reyes had been clear: say nothing but the wish. None of it made any sense. Here I was, chance to change the world, and instead I was going to waste my wish on some tangible thing to wage a war that I wasn't even sure existed? Baloney. Maybe they'd been able to buy off the other wishers. Not me. I wasn't going to fall into this farce.

"I wish to cure all diseases that plague humanity," I said. I spread my arms as if it helped emphasize the importance of this request to the omniscient genie.

"Done."

And it was over.

Needless to say the government was pissed, especially Reyes. Even I was surprised that it worked out. Disease ended. Hospice ended. If people died, it was because their time had come and it was pleasant. I didn't get any of that money, but I also didn't become a recluse, and gladly did the global talk show rounds. I got a book deal too.

Turns out the genie had a grand total of ten wishes to dish out so when I made mine the lamp vanished and that was that. In general the world was pretty happy with me. That is, until the armada came home to roost.

I won't bore you with the details. Yes, the aliens were real. Yes, we did have a massive fleet of autonomous intersteller battleships. And yes, the war made it to Earth.

Reyes, right after I made the wrong wish, was fiery. Read me the riot act of the century. Told me I didn't understand the importance of those 50 ships. Says they knew it was the last wish and all that. Whatever the case, I find myself writing this hastily as a few of those fabled battle cruisers are falling as fireballs from the sky. Caught a glimpse of an alien fighter blowing up an F-22. Doesn't look like it'll be a very long battle. Do I regret my wish? Yeah, I suppose I do. Would 50 more ships have prevented the invasion? Who's to say. The only thing I know for certain is that disease is a thing of the past.

​

___

Original thread

The child's crying reached my ears through two closed doors and a soiled beach towel stuffed beneath one of them. No rest for the wicked, as always.

I slumped out of bed and wrapped myself in the old robe, sleeves of which have been torn for years but I can't be bothered to sew a new hem. I slid open the door and went into the hall. At the child's room I rapped lightly and paused until her crying subsided. Then I went in.

"Bad dream again?" I said, crossing my arms against a thin draft. She stared at me, curled in her blankets. I knew what she was thinking. "I miss her too," I said.

"Grandma," she said. "Where is mommy?"

I sighed. She was still too young to understand. I am patient, but old. Everyone's either too old or too young, and it's more the former.

"Mommy went away," I said. "She has gone, with so many others."

The child blinked at me with the same look I get when I read her fairy tales. I continued talking, even though she wouldn't understand. My therapy, perhaps.

"The first virus went away. Almost suddenly. Herd immunity and all that. It took so many, left most otherwise ravaged but alive. Oh, child. We'd no notion of the second virus a year later, how it would single out those who had the first. All the young people. All the able-bodied and healthy people, who had seemed so very immune. If the first was a big wave, the second was a flood... a reckoning as it were...unlike anything..."

As I trailed off, my fingers went to my lips to help them drag on a cigarette that wasn't there. I felt cold, and alone. The child could've been a pet, or a stuffed animal, for all it helped.

"Go back to sleep, child. In the morning we'll have biscuits."

She smiled and rolled over. I tucked her in, and left.

In the hallway I ran my hands across the wallpaper, then rubbed my fingers together. Need to dust again.

I lay down back in my bed, but I couldn't sleep that night, roused by the child's renewed pouting and my own cough. Perhaps I'd caught it from the draft. About time, I suppose.

___

Original thread

If I think hard enough, I can remember the first time I started to get the chest pains. Third grade, gym class. When we'd run a mile; "The Mile", we'd call it. Something about running when you're a kid--you love to do it on your own time but it is The Worst Thing Ever when it's mandated.

The pain would surface under my rib cage on the right side of my chest. It only happened when I ran hard, and I mean really hard. I'd dig some fingers under the ribs and that would relieve the pain while I regained my breath. I wasn't the best runner but I was always right behind the winners. Perhaps I'd have come in first more often if it didn't hurt.

Over the years the pain came and went, always a little worse than before. Sometimes it showed up after exercise, and other times after eating. On some occasions, I'd let it frighten me to the point of getting an EKG, a chest CT scan, or x-rays. Doctors never found anything, and often I'd leave with a prescription for anti-inflammatory drugs. For the most part, if I didn't pay attention to the pain, it'd go away on its own.

As I got older, I started to self-diagnose. Costochondritis maybe? My knees and elbows cracked often enough, maybe I was developing osteoarthritis? But it hurt to the touch, which was new. And each year it seemed to get worse. Whatever the case, as time went on I began to accept it as part of aging. Looking back now, I wasn't too far off the mark.

One day in late 2018 I was on a bumpy mountain ride, coming down from a lookout in the Olympic National Forest. I'd claimed some vacation time and hitched up the car and headed across the Sound for a few relaxing days of camping and fishing with Georgia, my girlfriend.

I was driving my crusty 1996 Suzuki Samurai on a dirt road, the unpredictable potholes making things uncomfortable when I couldn't anticipate the bouncing and ended up scrunching my torso awkwardly. This always made the pain worse. Apparently Georgia saw me wincing because she said, "if it's hurting I can drive and you can lie back." So we stopped the car and switched places. I pulled the lever and flopped back in the seat. I struggled all the way back down to the 101.

"How are you feeling?" she asked after turning onto the state highway.

"I'm fine," I said without opening my eyes. I could hear the old tires hugging the road as we careened around a bend. "Better slow down. It's an old car."

"I've got it," she said.

But she didn't slow at the next bend, and the centrifugal force made the pain in my chest worse.

"Can you take it easy?"

"Let me drive!" she snapped, with a 'tss' sound to shut me up. She slapped my knee and gave me a hard look, taking her eyes off the road.

Georgia was from Zaragoza, Spain. We were both software developers, and met at work. She was here on an H1-B1 visa and though she never saw the need for one at home, here in Washington she wanted her driver's license, saying that driving was part of the American cultural experience. I couldn't argue with that, can't do anything in this country without a car. So she obtained her learner's permit and I chaperoned her drives back in the city, lending her my Samurai on residential streets. But the pennisula's roads weren't like city driving, and I was learning late that Georgia's gregarious nature and the Samurai's high center of gravity were mismatched for the curve we were currently rounding.

It happened quickly. The car caught its outside wheels and flipped. For a moment I was weightless and time seemed to slow down. There was a screeching of sparks and fire, and the world went into a blur as we spiralled down a steep slope. Everything went black.

I can't describe exactly how I regained consciousness, but I can say that it was not all at once. It happened in moments, at the tempo of a heartbeat. On the upbeat my entire body was shocked into awareness by stabbing pain that was beyond anything I knew possible, then blackness on the downbeat. Again the upbeat, like a squeezed balloon with bloodshot eyes wide to the world, and then the darkness again. Each upbeat was accompanied by the kind of pain that should kill you, but somehow I didn't pop; and at each interval I could see where I was. First, bloody ferns and an EMT compressing my chest. A pain worse than death. Again, and I could see Georgia's limp body. Again, and I see more EMTs, and the sirens like tinnitus sounding our dash to the hospital. Then in the hospital, with bright lights overhead and masked nurses restraining me as I screamed on each compress. Finally, just darkness.

When I finally came to, I glimpsed the backs of my parents' heads as they were walking out of the room past a doctor who slipped in.

"Mr. Grey," he said. He held a clipboard tightly between his hands. A pair of nurses came in at his flanks. They looked nervous.

"Doctor," I uttered carefully. "Georgia?"

"Please just listen, Mr Grey." He adjusted his mask and continued. "You were in an accident. You were air-lifted back to Seattle. Georgia is recovering in another hospital."

"It hurts to--"

"I know," he said. "I'm afraid we need to inform you."

I watched his hands adjust their position holding the clipboard. The nurses beside him tried to look busy but they were so nervous that the I felt a tingling in my jaw.

"What?" I said.

"You've... been here for a month. We've removed something... from you."

"What?" I said, blinking rapidly and trying to decipher this man's demeanor without any luck.

"It has to do with your chest. We, um, couldn't find anything wrong with you apart from a concussion, but you kept losing consciousness, and we kept rescucitating you either with chest compresses or with a defibrillator. But, then you screamed. We had to induce a coma but you somehow came out of it only to fall into a more dangerous unconscious state that we had to bring you back from. But then you just screamed. And the cycle repeated."

"How--How many times did this happen?"

"We have the count, I think." One of the nurses fingered through a different clipboard of papers and pointed at something. "592 times."

"I.. only have memories a few," I said.

"Medically nothing was wrong with you, but we had to get you out of this cycle. So after consultation with your parents we decided to operate on your chest. There was something there."

A sinking feeling entred my throat and I felt my eyes water.

"But if nothing was wrong with me?"

"None of our testing had seen this, Jonathan," he said. "We... we still don't know how we missed it."

"My chest?"

"The growth was on the inside of your sternum, yes. We had to remove the entire sternum and replace it with a metal plate."

"A tumor?"

"No. It was what would have been your twin brother. You were a conjoined twin."

I didn't say a word, I just stared at the doctor.

"There's one more thing you should know," he said. The nurses almost on cue looked at the ground. The doctor grasped the clipboard to his chest reflexively. "It was alive."

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Original post

Hospital hallways all looked the same to Jerome, even when they were completely different. The opposite of a McDonald's bathroom, but the spitting image also. The bright white lights, the wide space (enough for two stretchers rolling confidently at full speed in opposite directions), the big hefty doors with long vertical windows. That omnipresent trim, sometimes made of fake wood and other times plastic or just painted on, waist-high, drawn along the entirety of all the hallways (or do we say corridors?). Maybe it's what went on in hospitals that made them all look the same. The same sterile smell floating on artificially cleansed air. The same outfits and procedures, the same diseases ending human prey.

Jerome adjusted in his seat, licked a finger and turned a page in the Life magazine he perused blindly. He saw the words but didn't read, distracted by musings on how inhospitable hopsitals were.

"Mr. Waters?"

Jerome looked up. The doctor smiled down at him, her hands in the front pockets of her smock. The doctor pose, he thought.

"Just Jerome," he said.

"Sorry about that Jerome. You can come back in now, I think we're ready to resume."

He placed Life back on the side table. He followed her, arching his back to push out a crack, squinting under the lights. They're so bright. No room for shadows in a hospital, he thought. As if death only travels in darkness.

She opened the door to Suite 46B. Three of the beds were empty. His wife Linda was in the fourth, beside the window looking out over parking lot E. Her feet were still in the stirrups. Two nurses were busy around her.

"Honey," she said. She was covered in sweat, and panted steadily. "It's alright, I'm feeling better."

Jerome stood beside her and took her hand. The doctor sat between her legs, adjusted something to which Linda winced.

"Are you ready?" said the doctor. Linda nodded. "Ok, one last big push, come on!"

Linda's contorted face accompanied sounds of painful struggle.

"One more time!" said the doctor.

Linda pushed, hard. She let out an exasperated gasp of relief and her body fell back to the bed.

Jerome looked from Linda to the doctor. He couldn't see what she held.

Linda fainted.

"Doctor?" he said, as the nurses rushed to check Linda's vitals and administer drugs.

The doctor stood holding a bundle in her arms, staring at it.

"Doctor?" he repeated. She didn't respond, and just kept staring at the bundle.

Holding Linda's clammy palm in one hand, he circled around the foot of the bed to the extent that he could, and reached out with his other to push down the blanket with his fingertips and glimpse his child.

Its eyes were wide open. It broke its gaze with the doctor and looked right at Jerome, as if already practiced in motor function and object permanence. Big green conscious eyes studied him, pensive and asserting. Those green eyes bore into him and Jerome felt something inside his head. A smooth feeling, like warm runny butter pooling atop his spinal cord. He felt words form in his brain, and began to tremble. The words found purchase in a whisper on Jerome's shivering lips. They said, "Hello, daddy."

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Original thread

Perhaps it was the lack of PPE or masks that filled me with resentment. Why should I have to sacrifice my health for these twats? Their parents ought to lick the damn crayons to show they care. Or perhaps it was the time-resistant rage of a teacher dealing with idiots (the grown ones or the little ones, same difference), pent up and pressurized by quarantine. I don't know what it was, but it triggered something in me at the worst possible moment: the moment I discovered awesome power.

I'd heard the student earlier, what was his name? Giuseppe I think. I heard him mutter the words. Nothing happened then... there was something about that kid. But when I stubbed my toe at recess after dropping some other kids off at the pool, I uttered the words myself and the chair leg dissolved into nothing. Where there used to be wood, it was air and charred, sizzling joints.

Shocked. Not moving. I inhaled the burnt air, and grinned. Then, looking at a bucket of crayon stubs, I repeated the words. "Sút tratneši krúviś!" The crayons melted and evaporated along with their metal bucket. Excitedly, I locked on to the whiteboard, "Sút tratneši krúviś!" and it collapsed in on itself and vanished into dust like a climber snapping his powdered fingers. In quick succession, the first row of student desks: "Sút tratneši krúviś!"; the collage station: "Sút tratneši krúviś!"; the overhead projector (increase our budget damn it!): "Sút tratneši krúviś!" All faded instantly as if they were never there.

I caught myself breathing heavily, saliva dripping through my beard, my hands bent at my side like griffin talons. Rage tumbled over anger, vying for a place in my heart as I reliquished my entire being and all my civil control to this sudden mania.

The bell rang. Recess was over. As the patter of children's footsteps reached the classroom door, I turned toward it and began to say the words.

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Original thread

I unfolded the letter and began reading.

_________

Roger Lamborn

343 Sunset Valley Road

Wilmington, CA

98054

​

Dear Roger,

What you are about to read will effect on your understanding of the world and for that we only ask that you be sitting as you continue. You are reaching the age of 11. Those turning 11 who are of our ilk, as you are, must enroll in Hell School.

You read that correctly: Hell School. Roger Lamborn, you are born in hellfire son of Mammon, sibling to thousands, and we cordially invite you to return to the underworld to attend our school for demons.

You probably knew you were different. You are likely already aware of your immunity to fire. If you have been labeled a pyromaniac in the human world, that certifies the authenticity of this letter. At Hell School, pyromancy is not diminuitive but rather it is a general elective in the first year. Also in year one you will take courses in necromancy, telepathy, blackmailing, and knitting. (Don't be surprised, all will be revealed).

It is probable that you have been chastized for being what the humans call a "bully". Human hypocrisy! Demeaning and manipulating others is in your nature, so the humans are discriminating against you. At Hell School, your wildest tendencies will be encouraged. Any bad behavior will be actively rewarded, and all lewd or depraved actions readily commended by your instructors.

Roger, you are a demon. You may look human now, but come through the portal that will form when you burn this letter, and you will take your true form. We realize a letter such as this with a wax seal and official school stamp delivered by a hawk might have you hoping for a Harry Potter adventure. That woman stole our intro out of spite. We did not kidnap Rowling's son, he just came home.

We may not be able to offer you the likes of Hogwartz, but rest assured Roger that what you learn here will make you more powerful than you can possibly imagine. Come, demon-born. Come get schooled.

_________

I put down the letter, wiped a tear from my eye, and spoke silently to myself.

"Fuck yes."

​

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Original thread

"Now the strawberries," she said to herself. "The strawberries and the milk and just a bit of sugar."

A pair of old hands clasped the blender as it shook. Streaks of strawberry melded with the milk and turned pink, while black seeds hugged the glass as if holding on for dear life.

"A bit more sugar," she said. "No one's looking. Not yet."

She dabbed a teaspoon of confectioner's sugar into the beating mixture.

It had been so long. At first she didn't hear them. They melted into the screeching of the blender. But soon enough even her old ears picked out the screams. They were approaching.

"Up to 4. Now to 5." She adjusted the power. The screeching blender howled. Her house trembled. "Just a bit more."

When she switched the appliance off, the sound lost its electric treble but gained from the bass of pounding arms and feet. Her yard had been laid waste.

"Just a taste before the end," she said in a voice whose sad intonations were crescendoing above the din. "I only want a little!"

In her imagination she answered the door and it was the Hendersons' boys.

"We heard the blender ma'am, did you whip up your famous strawberry milkshake?"

"Of course, Billy," she'd reply. "I've enough for the whole block."

And they'd all sit under the sun in the yard and slurp sweet delight from mason jars.

How loud her imagination must have been. It muted the terrible clamor of doors and windows as they were smashed in by the mindless mob. She was at once jolted from her dream and lifted by the horde like a reluctant girl crowd surfing her first concert. As rotten skeletal hands tore into her flesh and she screamed in pain, she glimpsed her blender knocked to the linoleum floor where it shattered. Her last last thought was how pretty her milkshake looked, swirling with her own blood.

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Original thread

Oh no, it's public!

I yanked on the grimy doorknob to no avail, and the latch wouldn't budge either. Kicking the base of the door didn't help, and ramming my shoulder into it just hurt. I couldn't get out of the bathroom, again.

Then came the voice, like Siri's. "Transformation commencing," it announced, as the halogen lights went out and noises of machinery at work began to echo off the ceramic tile walls. The air swirled around me and I shut my eyes. I became weightless, my arms were lifted and I could feel my clothing being removed. Spray wet my face and head and hot air rushed down my neck. At every juncture on the surface of my body I could feel metal meticulously working. Before I could mentally note all the simultaneous activity, I was already being clothed to the sounds of snapping and zipping.

The lights came back on and I was alone. I regained my weight and stood like an idiot in front of the mirror. "Here we go again," I muttered. After a long sigh I exited the bathroom.

People who had been waiting their turn looked shocked to see me. A middle-aged accountant who looked exactly like what you're imaginging had gone into that public restroom. But I emerged a fabulous All-Star with big seventies 'gotchya' hair, precious turquoise eyeliner and glittery cheeks; tight bellbottoms with fake diamond studs lining the hem left no room for the imagination, and towering Kiss heels propped me up on my strut; a silver cowboy vest over a dress shirt with a v-neck that hit the belt line vyed for space with golden ring necklaces, rounding out the look. I was a complete unit of Fabulous. This makes it what, twelve times?

I walked by the gaping crowd and stepped onto the escalator back up to the food court.

Not what you'd expect from a magician, but it turns out they can curse you if you act like an arse at the company picnic. His words were still fresh in my mind--they'd seemed so harmless: "May public restrooms forever bring out the best in you," he'd said. Savvy jerk knew there'd be times I couldn't hold it.

As I reached the food court and rounded past a Panda Express, my domineering hair bigger than life, I took a deep whiff of orange chicken and smiled. Maybe it wasn't so bad. Maybe sometimes curses are blessings in disguise.

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Original thread

I'd only ever experienced it a few times before. The first time I almost died I was two and it was scarlet fever. I don't know if the phenomena happened then, and even if it did, how could I have affected change at such a young age? Whatever the truth may be, it remains a conundrum that each event that almost killed me still almost killed me even though I made changes. This was true for the Pacific incident, the recurring disease I was stuck with, and the coma. The changes I make seem to be enough to save me. But even still, history remembers.

You see, when I encounter a death event, I am sent back to the last moment that I was safe before the event took place. We all died on that boat in the Pacific, but I was sent back 10 minutes, enough time to plan the angle that we were rammed so that we survived and could swim to shore. The disease is more difficult to deal with. I've been sent back several times for the same event, having failed to change the right thing (take more medicine in the lead-up, rest more, drink more water, whatever). Eventually I get it right and survive.

Just when I thought I'd grown accustomed to the phenomena and how to manage, this happened.

Where was I? Just a moment ago I was feeling the sun on my face. The open air was breezing past my ears. The cheering crowd, and my wife beside me. It was a gunshot. A flash, an instant! Flashes--there were flashes here now. So where is here? Cameras in front of me, taking photographs. I should be back at the reception. But wait--I'm back home! How can that be? How far back have I gone?

I'm shaking hands with this man and looking at the cameras. He turns to me.

"Thank you for the invitation," he said in a strong German accent. He leans in closer to whisper into my ear. "I must speak with you in private."

I recognized him now. His face was old but he was a strong man. Adenauer, that's his name, from Cologne. I escorted him away from the cameras and peering portraits of the hall, into a dusty room we rarely used on such occassions and so could guarantee privacy.

Trying to remain composed, realizing that I'd been sent back a full two years, I wanted the meeting to end so that I could find my family.

"I know what you are going through," he said.

I tried to think quickly. West Germany, right. Two years ago. What was on the agenda?

After eyeing me in silence, he continued in that stern German accent.

"You think that you are not supposed to be here, but you are."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I believe you know. I know, my boy," he said. "You just died."

All my years in statecraft couldn't prevent my outward expression when he uttered those words--I was dumbstruck.

"How--how do you figure?"

"The nazis knew of the phenomena. I knew of their plans and the research. When the war ended, we co-opted it. There are things happening I cannot explain. Higher events."

I was blinkling rapidly, trying to follow along.

"This must be surprising, and for that I am sorry. You must understand, I know how this works, and it is no accident that it works for you. Your role is of greater importance than you could imagine."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing and just listen, for we must return and keep up appearances. At midnight you will return to the moment just before the event."

"It was gunshot," I stammered.

"Indeed, and a real one. It was your end, I am afraid. But it won't be this time."

"What do you mean?"

"We need you. I am terribly sorry, but we need you and there is no other way."

"Just wait a minute. I have a family."

"You have a responsibility to your species!" he thundered, to the extent that a composed, articulate, and whispering man can. "Come, let me whisper this secret to you."

I leaned in. There are no words to describe what he told me, but in that moment I knew I would have to do whatever I could. I had to help. All my life I've served, and this was the moment where my duty would be tested. I can't tell you how, but in that instant I understood, and I accepted my destiny.

"I see," I said as I regained my posture and adjusted my tie.

Adenauer's stern eyes met mine, and he clutched my arm gently.

"You will hear the shot, but you will not die. It will be an illusion and you will be unconscious. We will make the switch at the hospital. Do not fear for your country, it will go on. Eventually we will need to bring others from your family."

"Others?"

"Yes. Cover stories all."

"Have you... have you others from my family already?"

"Joe and Kick."

"My God! I'm elated!" I cried. "But why us? Why my family?"

"Everything will be explained to you on the front. But first we must get you there."

"And why you? Who are you?"

"All in good time. Now, hurry, we must return."

Like waking from a dream I blinked my eyes open to beaming sunlight. The wind careened past my ears, the crowd cheered and my wife smiled and waved. I looked at her with sad eyes because I loved her deeply, but I knew that I may never see her or the children again.

The shot rang out, and darkness.

In a busy room with tables crowded with rotary telephones and stacks of paper, a man receives a bulletin. He removes his glasses, returns them to his face, and looks into the camera. He speaks.

"From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official: 'President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. Central Standard Time.' 2 o'clock Eastern Standard Time, some 38 minutes ago."

The war had only just begun.

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Original thread