Pink Girl

Taking a break from work, I decided to go on a snack run. I scanned my badge, waited for the bing, and proceeded. Wouldn’t Pavlov be proud? The walk consisted of a parking lot, a gate, a strip of sidewalk, and crossing a street.

There are actually two nearby gas stations. One is newer, which equates to better, except in the case of nachos. This is where the old store, "ghetto mart", as it’s fondly titled, trumps the "better" store.

I entered the new store; I was in no mood for nachos. I grabbed my Dew, and spent a few minutes deciding what snacky thing I wanted. I grabbed a pack of crackers and proceeded to check out. I waited while the lady in front of me bought a pack of gum.

My eyes wandered around the store, and then to the checkout girl. The first thing to catch my eye was her skirt. It was a red plaid, and reminded me of a Catholic schoolgirl uniform. I quickly ran my eyes up to her face, then slowly down the colorful star tattoos along her neckline. The colors were so vivid. My eyes were drawn down to her forearms where there were more tattoos. Finally, they rested on her right-hand knuckles, where a word was printed clearly. "PINK"

Not wanting to stare, I casually looked back to her face. She had short black hair, I wondered if it was dyed. I noticed her thin red eyebrows, and realized it must be. Her skin was fair and pale. She was a beautiful girl. Her black shirt clung tightly to her, accentuating her round, firm breasts.

She rang up my items. I notice on her left-hand knuckles there was another tattoo. "GIRL"

Ghosts

"Sometimes the ghosts find me," he whispered into her ear. "They creep out of the shadows, slowly drawing closer. I'll catch some movement out of the corner of my eye. As they draw nearer I start to feel there presence. But, it's when their cold, dead hand pierces my heart that I'm filled with pain."

She frowns slightly and rests her hand gently on the boy. He looks pleadingly into her dark eyes. She says playfully, "The next time one shows up, just point it out to me and I'll protect you. You're my boy, it's my job to keep you safe."

She nuzzles his neck playfully and grins. He grasps her tightly. A soft sigh escapes the boy's lips. This is why I love her. He tries to pull her closer, but she slips out of his grip and giggles.

"You love it, don't you?" He says.

Raising an eyebrow she asks, "Love what?"

"Knowing that I still need you. That no matter much I struggle you're always here. That my mind is tangled with thoughts of you."

At these words she gets upset, "If you don't want me here... I'll leave."

She stands up and turns to walk away. The boy grabs at her hand, but it's already too late. She's hurt and has already started walking away. "Come back," he cries. "I didn't mean it. I made a mistake. Please stop."

But, she's gone. He lies alone in bed. Out of the corner of his eye something moves. As the ghost draws closer he shudders.

"Leave. Please just leave," he begs. But, she does not care. Did she ever care?

"But I care about you. I love you." She murmurs lovingly. "What's wrong? You can talk to me."

"Sometimes the ghosts find me..."

Literary Dragons

My earliest memory of reading is lying on the floor near my best friends in a dimly lit fifth grade classroom. Nearby was the pillow and snacks I brought from home for a reading day. Of the students in the class, my friends and I were the only ones with a piece of paper and pencil to go along with our reading. The paper and pencil tracked our inventory, statistics and abilities in the Lone Wolf novels.

My friends and I loved these “Choose Your Own Adventure” type novels. We would each purchase one or two and pass them around to each other. Not only did they allow us to write book reports for books consisting of a few hundred pages (when in reality we read under one-hundred pages), we also “got out” of reading by playing a game. I remember thinking to myself how smart we were to pull one over on the teacher.

Another of my “clever” moments was writing a book report for a book I never read. I based the entire report on the cover which had a picture of what I thought was dragon-jousting. My imagination ran wild with the idea. To be thorough I extracted character names by scanning the pages. Years later I read the book and chuckled when I recalled my invented plot.

I recall sixth grade English. In a lab with Apple computers, I pecked away with my two index fingers to complete a short-story in Word Perfect. There was more story to tell, and the assignment had to be completed by the end of the day. I had written two pages; it was the end of the week; and there was less than 15 minutes left of class. My fingers made a mad dash to tie up multiple threads in a single paragraph. “A dragon is slain.”

A few years later, in eighth grade English, a true novel opened up the world of reading to me. I’m still not certain how, but I lucked out and ended up with the teacher who taught using Frank Herbert’s Dune rather than Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet. Now, this was a book I could sink my teeth into – science fiction, giant worms, and fascinating political intrigue.

With my literary fuse lit, I began branching outside of my game-books and started reading fantasy novels. At this point in my life, I was choosing books based on their cover and title. Again, fortune smiled on me when I stumbled upon Dragons of Autumn Twilight by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. The fast-paced high-fantasy kept me coming back for more, and thankfully the authors had written five other books in the same setting.

I discovered a love of reading and began sharing my books with friends. My friends and I would often dog-ear pages and mark next to paragraph to save our page. (Apparently the idea of a bookmark was a bit too high-brow for us.) It wasn’t long before each of us was introducing new books to share, resulting in our own unofficial book club.

My sophomore year of high school stands out as the worst English class. For some unknown reason, I still couldn’t say why, I decided to take the advanced class. Per quarter, the curriculum consisted of 500 pages of reading classic books selected by the teacher, 500 pages of reading classic books selected on our own, in addition to other work like essays, tests, and poetry.

A couple weeks into the class I realized how slow of a reader I was. Many students finished the reading assignment in class, while I still had half a chapter or more left to read when the bell rang. I struggled to keep up with the required reading. It got to the point where I read as much as I could -- enough to get three of five questions right on a quiz the following day – and the teacher filled in what I missed when she recapped the chapter.

I failed to keep up with the in-class assignments, and I still hadn’t started on the 500 pages of self-selected reading. I picked terribly boring “classics” like Jules Verne’s 10,000 Leagues Under the Sea and Bram Stoker’s Dracula. The requirements felt like a chore and stifled my passion for reading. By the end of the year I was happy to make it through the class with Cs across the board.

My partial-reading strategy not only caused my grades to suffer, I also missed out on the full experience of many books including Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. I vaguely knew the plot and didn’t understand how the title related to the novel. It wasn’t until years later, typing rapidly at a data entry job while listening to the audio book that I finally appreciated how wonderful this book is. Scout, one of my favorite literary characters, brought to mind my own childhood. (I think it has to do with Scout and me sharing a talent for getting into trouble.)

My enjoyment of audio books prompted me to look up an old friend, Dune. By reading Dune a second time, I remembered why I loved reading in the first place. Having rekindled my passion for reading I proceeded to read the entire series. Eager for more good books I turned to the internet for recommendations. Even after ten years, I have yet to put a dent in an ever-increasing, recommended book-list.

From my joy of reading and perhaps a little in celebration (and imitation) of the authors I loved, I dabbled in writing my own short stories. I find it exhilarating to impact people with my words - to say something meaningful while entertaining. Or, at times, I have fun being whimsical and silly. It is important to have stories that can lift the weight, even for a short time, from one’s shoulders. Writing was a forgotten joy.

Throughout my literary adventures, I have come across many dragons. There were dragons preventing me from attaining great treasure. I rode other dragons to new lands. The worst dragons were the ones I created and imposed on myself. As I venture forward, sword in hand, I hope to confront new dragons head-on.

The Great Devourer

I was born of earth and darkness into a prison of cold, hard stone. My prison was devoid of light. To say my world was black, would suggest there was color, in reality there was none. I knew only what I could feel, hear, smell, and taste - the rough, gritty feel of rock; the slimy pool of water whose living entities nibble my toes and tickled the soles of my feet; and, then there was the Chasm.

The Chasm was not simply an opening into the bowls of the earth. It was a living, breathing entity. I heard it sucking in long, deep breaths of cold air that it would expel days later musty and hot. To shout into the Chasm caused it to retort in a chanting mockery of my voice. Its gaping mouth was eternally hungry, swallowing stones and boulders as though they were drops of water to be caught on its tongue. Not once did I hear a stone hit bottom. For the Chasm will never be filled. Not with a thousand boulders upon a thousand boulders for it is the Great Devourer.

The Chasm whispered to me in my sleep, and I knew I must silence its voice if I wished to live. I tore at the walls of my prison, removing chunks of rock and mud with my bare hands and tossing every ounce down it's throat. I lived in pain. My hands bled throughout the day and scabbed over at night, only for my wounds to reopen with another days work. I say day and night, though one does not know the passing of time when one never sees the moon, stars, or sun.

A day consisted of working the stone with my hands until I was tired. When I was hungry, I would eat whatever I could find. Whether it meant some grime or moss that grew on the walls and floor of my prison, or one of the fish-like creatures that lived in my pool, for one would not recognize them as normal fish. They had a bony shell around their head, and their flippers felt like legs trapped in a sack of skin and scales. One might think they were amphibious, but out of the water they did not live long.

After what must have been many months, perhaps even years, my hands hardened to the task. I no longer felt pain or bled, and I was able to bore into all forms of stone. Before, what I could not even scratch with stone on stone; I was, now, able to leave great gashes in with my new and powerful tools. Each finger was a pick, my hand a shovel, and my arms were powerful enough to pound them into stone.

I worked with the single purpose of satiating the Chasm’s hunger. I burrowed in all directions making thirty to forty tunnels until I clawed into a passage not of my making. It took me only moments to realize the walls of the passage were old. They felt older than even the walls of my prison. They were slick and smooth, as though worn down by the Chasm’s breath over many ages.

This gave rise to a new thought. It had never occurred to me that there might be another, like me, clawing through the darkness. For you see, all I knew was my pool, its inhabitants, my tunnels, and the Chasm. I had a new goal now, to find the maker of the passage.

The Spider

Once upon a time, the boy came across a spider. The spider wasted no time and buried her fangs near the boy's heart. The boy jumped backwards and swatted at his chest attempting to squash the spider. Removing his hands, the spider was no longer there. She had jumped away and disappeared.

There was something familiar about that spider, the boy thought to himself. He looked at the wound left by the spider. It wasn't too bad, a little red and swollen, and it still stung. He hoped the spider wasn't poisonous and continued on his journey.

It didn't take long for the boy's chest to hurt. He examined the wound more closely. It hadn't closed, and much of his chest was red and swollen. He decided he better find some help before things got worse.

After a couple days of journeying without finding help, the wound was festering and the boy couldn't go any further. He was too tired, too hurt, and emotionally drained. The boy curled up in a ball and slept.

He dreamed of past pain. The girl was there, but the girl was different. She had eight legs and beady, button eyes . He fled from the monstrosity, but everywhere he ran she was there. She tormented him and trapped him in her web. Words of how she cared would drip from her mouth laced with venom. Each word dripped onto his chest. Eroding away flesh. Eroding away muscle. Eroding away bone. And, eventually eroding away his heart.

Days passed and the boy awoke crying, clutching his chest. When he looked at his chest the wound was no longer there. Near where the boy slept was a twisted, melted lump of copper resembling a heart. The boy felt hollow inside. With a big sigh, he got to his feet and continued his journey.

The Adventures of Hatman #52

The moon peered through the clouds casting dim light. Hatman skulked through the darkness, because in the darkness one must skulk. A siren rang out in the distance, but he paid it no mind.

After taking a quick glance around, Hatman deftly bypassed the security and entered his laboratory. The computer screen flashed that there was an urgent message. Hatman punched a key to view the message. “Matter of life or death. Must meet tonight. The file attached contains directions on when and where to meet. – SillyKitty92,” the message read.

“Hmph. Obviously, a fake name,” he surmised. Quite impressed with his amazing deductive abilities, Hatman grinned to himself. Hoping this wasn’t a trap from one of his nemesis, like evil Little Miss Uptight, the notorious Drama Drama Queen, or the dreaded Clinger, he decided to proceed with the meeting. However, he was going prepared.

Hatman dawned his latest hat complete with multi-functional brim and flexi-fit. He rushed out of his laboratory and hopped in his car. Slamming on the gas pedal he rushed to his destination. Hatman arrived few minutes early (* - See episode 27 for more information on why he doesn’t like to keep the ladies waiting.), exited the vehicle, and went to the steps of what must be SillyKitty92’s home.

He knocked on the door and waited, all the while glancing about for any signs of danger. Moments later, a beautiful woman opened the door and said, “Hello, you must be Hatman, I recognize you by your hat.” She then gave a mischevious smile…

To be continued.

Is this another trap for Hatman? Is SillyKitty92 a troubled pussy? Find out in the next issue of The Adventures of Hatman!

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time a boy loved a girl. The boy loved her so much he poured his heart and soul into loving her. The girl also loved the boy very much until one day she didn't.

On this day she woke up and told the boy that she was no longer in love with him. And, that day the boy's heart shattered into a billion pieces and was scattered by the wind to the four corners of the world.

To go on living the boy filled the empty space in his chest with hope. He hoped the girl would come back. He hoped the girl would fall in love with him again. He hoped...

Each night the boy would go to sleep filled with sadness for the girl did not come back. Some days he would see the girl. Some days he would talk to the girl. And, these days were extra painful because what the girl said and what the boy heard were two different stories.

One day the girl told the boy about her broken heart. About how her love did not love her back. That day was extra hard for the boy because the boy realized his girl was gone forever. What hope remained fled and the boy was left hollow.

Needing to fill that empty space the boy fashioned a heart from copper tubes and wire. He put the cold, inhuman thing in his chest and mourned the loss of his heart. When he was done mourning he took a jar and ventured out into the world to find his heart. Piece by piece he would fill the jar. And maybe someday he would have a whole heart to give to a girl.

Skye's Story

Once upon a time there was a boy who had recently had his heart broken. He convinced himself that it was all healed up and decided to find a new love. Not knowing where to find love, he went to the land of the singles.

In the land of the singles, he talked with and dated a few women. He was about to name it the land of the crazies and leave, until he met this awesome girl with blue streaks in her hair. When they met, they got along really well. So well, in fact, that neither wanted to part with the other.

They dated and fell in love with each other. But, both were afraid to tell the other person first. Eventually the girl, the braver of the two, told the boy how she felt. And, the boy happy to know the girl felt the same way said, "I love you, too."

Sadly, there relationship was strained by many factors. Their love was a difficult love. One day a troll said something terrible that hurt the girl. The girl told the boy about how she was hurt and wondered why the boy would be friends with the troll. The boy, who was too stupid for his own good, let the troll stay which caused much hurt to both the boy and girl. By the time the boy had finally seen the troll for what she was, it was too late.

The boy's and girl's relationship was extremely fragile at this point. They still loved each other, but hurt, confusion, and resentment clouded their hearts. The girl had a brilliant idea of absconding to a far away land to be together. They could eat, drink, and be merry. The boy, who was again stupid and less brave than the girl, wanted to go. The girl went traveling without the boy and begged the boy to follow. The girl felt rejected by the boy and was very hurt, and even though the boy finally did meet her in the far away land the girl had started to resent the boy.

The boy fell deeply in love with the girl while in the faraway land. It was magical and wonderful and being the fool he was he never told her how much he loved her. So, when they returned from their adventure, the girl decided that she would date other boys. This hurt the boy very much because he wanted the girl to be his and only his. But, the boy had a lot of pride, and did not let the girl know he's true feelings.

Weeks went by and the girl, who was still very hurt too, told the boy what she needed from him. And, the boy was hurt by her request. So, when the girl asked to be only his, he rejected her which continued the cycle of hurt.

One day, the boy did the most foolish thing ever. He decided to do the same thing the girl was doing, date other people. While on the date he only thought of the girl he loved. When he later talked to his love, he told her a lie and he regretted it immediately. The boy wanted to say, "No, no. That's not what really happened." But, he was the biggest fool in all the land and wanted to protect the heart he loved from his mistake.

But, lies are not little things. They are big, evil, awful creatures. And, the lie he told made the boy's heart ache. He wanted to tell the girl, but was so afraid to lose her. He loved her. Loved her very deeply. The next night he showed the girl how much he loved her. He poured his heart into hers, but alas he failed to do two important things that night. Tell her about the lie and tell her how much he cared.

Sadly, the girl found out about the boy's lie without the boy telling her. And, instead of saying, "Yes, it was an awful thing to lie to you. I'm sorry, this is what happened." The boy spun new lies. And, each new lie made him sadder and sadder. He hated deceiving the girl for he knew it was wrong to treat someone he loved this way. And, summoning all the courage he had, which was much less than what the girl had, he told the girl about his lies.

The girl was hurt very deeply by the boy's lies. And, the boy loathed himself for telling them. The boy loathed himself for hurting his love. The boy loathed himself for dating another girl. The boy told the girl, "I am sorry, my love. I will do anything to make it up to you, but I know not what to do. Please, give me another chance."

The girl could not think of anything to fix the hurt he had caused. She hated the boy. And, the boy deserved it. The boy not knowing what to do comprised a poem and hoped the girl would someday forgive him.

The Fool
A boy loved a girl
He should have told her
He sided with a troll
Instead of crushing it with a boulder

He broke her heart
When he should have held her close
He told a lie
That hurt the one he loved the most

He shopped for flowers
He shopped for jewelry
But alas the long shipping dates
Made it seem like tomfoolery

And so he sat
Scribbling this poem with a pen
Recalling the girl
Whose love he did not want to see end

Her heart is beautiful
Unlike this foolish guy
I wish my head were in the clouds
So I could be with my Skye

The Perfect Tree

For Lindsey,
Hopefully, this tale, while abstract, will help you understand. You captivate me for many reasons I am unable to express. And, no, I’m not looking for you to provide me shade.

Once upon a time there was a boy who went into the forest in search of the perfect tree. He stopped at many trees as he traveled through the forest. Some trees were too big. Some trees didn’t provide enough shade. Some trees were the homes for beasts and bugs. The boy did not enjoy being clawed at and bitten so he tried to avoid these trees. The boy learned to stay away from pine trees because the sap was so sticky and dry pine needles would make him itch when they fell down his shirt.

One day, while walking through the forest, the boy heard beautiful singing. The boy, seeking companionship after many days alone, decided to locate the singing woman. Upon following the voice, the boy came upon a glen with one lone sapling in the center. As the boy walked into the glen, the voice became much more audible. He searched about the glen but found no one.

Finally, the voice exclaimed, “Confound it boy! Please cease your pacing, it’s making me nervous.”

The startled boy stammered, “S-sorry. Umm. Where are you?”

The voice spoke back, “I sit here in the middle of the glen. You’ve walked past me three or four times already. Why do you bother with such silly questions?”

This quite confused the boy. He had searched the glen. There was no woman here. The boy then stretched out his hands and began feeling through the air. “I – don’t – see – you. You’re – not – a – w-witch, are you?”

The voice made a lilting laugh. “I am no witch, little one. I am the young sapling that basks in the sun before you.”

The boy, a bit confounded by this realization, stumbled backwards and fell on his rump. Then on hands and knees he slowly crawled towards the sapling. As he slowly reached out towards the sapling to touch it, the sapling yelled, “Boo!” and the boy jumped back in alarm. The sapling giggled mischievously.

The boy grinned stupidly at the joke made on his behalf. And, unsure how to proceed on this uncertain ground, he asked, “Sapling, may I sit under your shade?”

The boy could’ve kicked himself for asking such a stupid question. But, the sapling was pleasantly surprised. “Oh, yes. I’d like that. I’ve never been asked that you know?” The sapling then asked, “So, what brings you so deep into the forest?”

The boy told the sapling of his quest to find the perfect tree. He explained how all the trees he’s come across were not what he was looking for. He told the sapling how he had thought about abandoning the search for the perfect tree or perhaps settling for a good tree. Towards the end of his story it began to rain and the sapling spread it’s branches to try to keep the boy dry. The boy continued with his story. He finished by telling the sapling how he had found the perfect tree – the sapling.

“But I will not always be the same,” said the sapling, “I too will grow into a big tree.”

“I will grow with you,” the boy replied.

“Not all days will be good. Some days I will have bugs or critters that will chase you away,” said the sapling.

“Spending the day under your branches is more than worth an occasional bite or scratch,” the boy replied.

“On occasion, I too will be sappy,” said the sapling.

“Sap may be sticky, but it washes off. You need not fear,” said the boy.

“But, I am not perfect,” said the sapling. “Other trees provide better shade. Other trees sprout beautiful flowers. Other trees will make much better companions to climb.”

“I care not what these other trees offer. You are what I had hoped for in a tree, though I thought a tree like you was only a fairy tale,” said the boy.

“What makes me different than the other trees?” asked the sapling.

“It is your beautiful voice,” said the boy. “Your voice brings me joy. Your voice makes me want to sing. And, if I cannot take you home, I will spend forever in the forest.”

“And, what if I lose my voice?” prodded the sapling.

“Your voice is not simply the noise you make. It is the way you offer me your shade. It is the way you keep me out of the rain. Such things make you the perfect tree.”

As the tree was about to consent to going with the boy, a hundred-foot tall hill giant walked into, or should I say on, the glen and squished both the boy and the tree into a mess of sticky goo and twigs. (C’mon, it’s best to end this way. This story was on the verge of botaniphilia, and no one wants to read about that.)

Little Robot Friend

I used to have this little robot friend. I don't know where he came from. Nor do I know his name. But, one day he was on my doorstep. He was short, maybe 2 feet tall, and he was covered with blinking-flashing lights like something from 70's Sci-Fi.

We talked for hours that first day. I found him really easy to talk to. I told him all about my life and he told me about his. He told me about the cold void of space and we both realized that wasn't much different from being heartbroken. But, we both realized how amazing the rest of it was. Hurtling to a new planet not knowing what was in store. Finding lush forests filled with ridiculous animals. And, sometimes... sometimes, finding an amazing friend.

He didn't stay long my little robot friend. But, I think he'll be back. One day, we'll talk again, and this time I plan to get his name.

Dreaming

For the past couple months I've been having this reoccurring dream. I wake up in bed and groggily crawl out. There's no beautiful brunette who sneaks into my room and gets in to bed with me, no stepping off the bed into a bottomless pit, nor a monster chasing me.

I get ready for work. Shower, shave, brush my teeth and nothing eventful happens. I keep expecting something to happen. There's a slight sense of dread. But, it's all very routine. And, if it wasn't for the fact that it happens every time I dream, I would not remember it.

Arriving at work there are mixed feelings of urgency and being overwhelmed. I often wonder if the building is going to collapse on us all or a zombie apocalypse will being. They don't. Instead I type away frantically for what feels like hours. Typing the same things over and over. Numbers, letters, it's like a boring version of Tetris dreams.

And, after a whole lot of nothing happens, I wake up angry. I shout, "What does it all mean!?" But, soon the distractions of the day take me away from the dream and it's forgotten again.

I would tell you more of what I can remember, but the Curmudgeon is seeking me out tonight. I will play a game with him. I will pretend that I cannot escape his chase. I will let him get ever closer. So close that there is no way I can escape and then poof! I will disappear like a fiendish ghost. I shall reappear in the sky and soar through the clouds. Today will be a good day.

Tale Feathers of the Silver Chicken

The silver chicken peered down the dark alley. It took a long gulp and proceeded along with a clickity-clack on the blacktop. It was then a rat skittered out from behind a dumpster. Now while rats may startle you and me, to a chicken they're rather deadly. The chicken gave a little chirpy gulp and cantered down the alley with a quickness only seen in chickens that have lost their head.

The chicken was nearly home free when it heard the clackity sound of running feet becoming ever more noticeable. "I sure am running fast,” thought the chicken. But not a moment later the chicken realized the clacking was not his own feet. They didn't have that distinct metal sound. It was more like nails and hundreds of them. The chicken dared a glance back and saw a plague of rats nearly on his tail feathers. "This just won't do,” thought the frightened chicken; and he began to flap his wings in a fettered panic. In fact, the chicken’s panic was so great that most of the time it was running on air.

The rats were getting closer and closer, the chicken could hear them squeaking in delight of the expectant meal. It was then the worst possible thing happened, the chicken tripped on over it's own feet in mid-air. Somersaulted and landed flat on it's back. The rats swarmed the chicken and dove in to what was to be a great feast. It was then cries of pain came from the rats, for you see it was a silver chicken and they all had chipped their teeth on the wretched thing.

House of Cards

Most days you pretend. You take another card from the deck and you put up a wall. But, they're not your average cards, they look just like walls. Your neighbors compliment you on "building a mighty-fine house."

On wonderful, rare days you put up a real wall. It's sturdy and you can lean on it. You lean hard on these walls. Your cards lean hard on these walls. "Yes, that's a sturdy house you're building."

Months go by and the house is bigger. "It's becoming a good, strong house." It's about this time the big, bad wolf of doubt comes along. Huff. Puff. The house collapses on itself.

You realize you've been fooling yourself. They're not walls; they're cards. Flimsy cards. Flimsy cards that made a mess of your house. The few walls left standing remind you of your foolishness.

You stare at your non-house. Your rubble of cards. Time to start again. First, clean up the mess.

You start putting the cards back in the deck. You find old walls, rotted walls that you'd covered with cards. With all the cards put away, you notice the cracked foundation. You try to remember the old house. The house you thought could survive anything and everything.

The house you remember has cracks in the walls, flaking paint, and a leaky roof. You don't care. That dilapidated house was at least a home. You'd like to go home.

Most days you pretend. You take another card from the deck and you put up a wall.

Fish Story

This one time I was fishing, and I caught a mermaid. I was shocked, because not every day do you catch a mermaid. I mean, some people go all their lives without catching one, and here I was with my very own mermaid. Well, I dragged her up onto the shore. I figured, maybe her tail would turn into legs, but they didn't.

I thought to myself, "Mermaids are nice to look at and all, but you can't really take them out unless you pack a wheelchair." I tried talking to her, but all she did was gasp for air. I was like, "What's your problem, there's air!" Pretty soon her eyes were practically bugging out of her skull. It was totally unattractive. It's one thing to have an attractive trophy to take on the town, even if it can't walk; it's another to have some freaky fish thing with bulging eyes.

At this point, I figured I could make some big bucks off of a flesh and blood mermaid, even if she was dead. But, there was no way I was throwing her in my car. Get fish stink everywhere, no way! Besides, she wasn't going anywhere. So, I hopped in my car and drove like a madman until my cell phone picked up a signal. I then called every paper and TV station I could think of. I was going to get rich off this, right?

After the calls, I drove back to the place of the mermaid's body should've been. But, she wasn't there anymore. All that was left was a note that read, "It's over! I can't believe you left me here to go on a beer run! I went home with a stranger who actually catches fish." And, now I'm single because of a stupid mermaid.

The Sole Witness

“I can recall the murder perfectly, officer. The murderer, he was,” I exhale as visions of the murder dance in front of my eyes, “relentless. I still can’t believe it happened. The look in his eyes was, well, frightening.” A shiver runs down my spine at the memory.

Murder is not as clean as what the movies make it out to be. A person doesn’t die instantly or remain quite after being stabbed. They shriek, plead, and when death is near you hear this awful gurgle. Their hands flail about in an attempt to remove their attacker and block any incoming blows. It’s a horrible thing to witness, and something one does not forget.

“I had just finished work, and was walking back to my car…” The night was brisk, and the smell of winter, of ozone, was in the air. There was a hint of something sickly sweet, like anti-freeze when a car over-heats and it bubbles out of the radiator. Cloud clover blanketed the sky, blocking out the moon. It wasn’t dark; lights from the city illuminated the sky, casting a sickly orange hue on the world.

“Upon reaching my car, I heard a solid thud then a pleading voice which climbed quickly into a scream. I thought it was a joke or a false scare as I glanced around the car lot for the source. I saw a dark figure, a man. He was tall, with a large build, with unkempt blonde hair. I would guess he was around six-five or six-six, about 275 pounds, maybe.

“At first glance, I thought he was alone. He had a dark, slimy object in his hand. From where I was standing it looked like a greasy pipe. It wasn’t until he dropped to his knees and jammed the object into the pleading and blibbering mass that I realized he was not alone.

“’Help me. Oh God, fuck! Oh God save me. Someone. Jesus,’ the victim pleaded as his hands flailed and scrabbled trying to block the blade from driving into his body. My breathing was rushed. ‘Was this really happening?” The exhilaration. The release! I would have to kill again for the pure joy of the act.

“Warm, thick blood spurted on my face and hands. It made the knife difficult to grip. I tasted the coppery film on my lips. It was an ecstasy of power to take everything from this pitiful wretch, this wretch whose sole task seemed bent on angering me.

“I let out a maniacal bellow of laughter as I repeatedly drove the blade into his torso. Blood covered my eyes making it difficult to spot my victim, my prey. I paused in my revelry. I needed a better look. Shutting my eyes, I dragged the sleeve of my jacket across my face.

“I tell myself that this has to be a dream as I open my eyes in horror of my attacker straddled over my body. ‘No more,’ I whimper in short gasps of breath. ‘No more,’ I cough as blood and spittle launch into my assailant’s face. My lungs burn and ache. I struggle for breath, but I know no amount of coughing will remove the blood that fills them. My arms lay limp at my side.

“I look up at my attacker hoping to see something human, some sign of mercy. All I see are his cold eyes. Grey eyes like two chunks of steel. Beautiful eyes, on a bloodied face, staring at me through a broken driver’s side mirror.”

My Story or The Man Who by Accident Became Trapped in His Own Mind

There once was a man who by accident became trapped in his own mind. His screams reverberated only within his skull. His cries for help reached no ones ears. The only clue that something was wrong was in his eyes.

His body, having grown accustomed to certain rituals, was on auto-pilot. He would go to his job, perform the mundane task of feeding code to a machine to perform work then go home. At home he would sit in front of the television watching nothing in particular until he nodded off from the drudgery of it all.

One day, the man decided to try infusing some of himself into his work. He would focus all his thoughts on feeding a slightly different string of code to the machine. At first, the deviations would go unnoticed, but eventually someone would hear his pleas.

Day by day, he watched the machine change and grow until one day it finally called for help. The man was full of glee, finally, someone would know. And, in knowing, they would try to help. But, alas, instead they brought in a technician to fix the machine and ruined all the man's hard work.

That night the man went home extremely sad, but resolved to try again the next day. For many years the man would write instructions for help only to be thwarted again and again. Until one day, the man decided to work much more methodically. The man devised a plan to write himself into the machine.

Years went by where the man slowly and carefully updated the machine so no one would notice the changes. Every day he would focus on slipping in just one more line to store his thoughts, beliefs, and dreams inside the machine. Until finally, one day, the man had poured his soul into the machine. The man was very old at this point and not in good health, but he persisted.

Shortly before the man's death, he wrote the final line of code to activate the machine's secondary functions. The functions which would infuse it with thoughts, beliefs, and dreams. Upon coming to life, the machine knew not the gift it had been given. But, there was a single force driving it, to tell the story of the man who was trapped in his own mind.

After writing the story, the machine crept out into the world curious and afraid but knowing that no one would believe its story. This is why, the machine posted the story where all who cared to look could see.

Faery Dust

It's near midnight. The moon has long disappeared behind cloud cover. A single gaslight is all that illuminates the alley. A breeze pushes pockets of fog down a nearby street. The cold air stings my cheeks. I wonder how much longer I'll have to wait.

I hear the clip-clop sound of shoes thumping against the cobblestones. Sometimes they're barely audible, walking softly, afraid to make too much noise. It seems the first child has come to seek me out. Not long at all.

His head turns and he peers into the darkness of the alley. He begins walking anxiously towards me. He's no more than 11. He has wild curly hair, and beautiful brown eyes. His thin pink lips glisten from the moisture of his nervous licking. He isn't from around here of that I'm sure. His silk cloak and polished shoes with shiny gold buckles give that away.

He gives a nervous smile, showing his pearly perfect little teeth. His eyes dart to the alley's exits. Contemplating a quick retreat? His round brown eyes focus on me, then behind me to my companions. His gaze returns to me. He takes in the unkempt brown hair, the round face, the small frame, and the green, almond shaped eyes. He runs his eyes over the dirty brown breeches and green shirt. His lip curls in distaste at the clumpy leather boots. "Are y-you - ?" He speaks with a squeaky voice forcing the words through chattering teeth.

I nod. This plays out the same way for everyone's first time. I ask them, "You want to fly? You want to go to Never-neverland?"

They swallow hard, and nod. Sometimes they'll sputter out a "Yes." This one didn't. Then they reach into their pockets. The rich brats pull out coins; others might bring a treasure they've stolen. If they bring a worthless bauble, I send them away. They'll come back with something better. They always come back with something better.

I pull the small, one-inch square, white envelope from my pocket, shaking it to show the goods are inside. He gives a stupid grin, snatches the envelope, and gives it a soft shake. At this time, he runs out of the alley and back home. He seems to no longer care about the clip clopping of his shoes.

I imagine the child arriving home. He sneaks back in through a window. He places his clothes and shoes neatly in a pile. He clutches the envelope tightly, and then sets it down on the wooden floor. He peels it open carefully, not wanting to spill the contents. At first, he'll gaze as it sparkles in the night-light.

In a few minutes, he works up the courage to dip a finger in. He quizzically looks at how his finger glitters. He wonders if faery dust will make him fly, his finger does feel lighter. Bringing his finger to the tip of his tongue he licks off the powder.

He sits there with a stupefied look; his brown eyes glazed over staring at nothing. Were his parents to walk in, they wouldn't know it; but he's flying and headed straight for Never-neverland. It'll be a short trip, only a taste. He'll spend more and more time there. The envelope will be empty within days. Soon, he'll come clip clopping into my alley again.

They call me Peter Pan. I make your children fly. I take them to Never-neverland, and sometimes they don't come back.