Author: Ian

Hart gripped the arms of the Captain’s chair as they dropped out of lightspeed. The planet was on the viewscreen on a sheet of blackness peppered with stars, big and plump and ready to be juiced like an overripe nectarine. The Conglomeration vessel hovered over it in position to activate its seismic disruptor. The beam would penetrate the crust of the planet causing earthquakes strong enough to shatter the world. Then the ship would go in and harvest the raw materials. Genius in its simplicity and equally insidious.

He had seen it a hundred times. Rather, the countless copies of him had seen it before and he shared that experience through collective unconsciousness, even if it wasn’t him doing the first hand watching. But he wouldn’t let it happen again. Never again.

“Hail them.” The captain ordered.

“Aye, Captain.” The man at the communications station said who could have been Hart’s twin, though less muscular and without the commanding voice.

The communications officer, Ensign Hart, nodded to the captain that the channel was open. “Conglomeration Ship. This is Captain Hart of the Marauder. I’m ordering you to power down your disruptor and vacate this system. I’m giving you this one opportunity to save yourself. I suggest you take it.” He paused for effect. “This planet is under my protection.”

Captain Hart gave the signal to the gunner to power up and target the ship. The man saluted and did as he was ordered. He was a carbon copy of the captain down to the hair on his knuckles with the added benefit of better reflexes that aided in weapons operations. It was as if he was made to be a tactical officer. In truth, he was.

The Conglomeration cruiser was heavily armed, but it was big and bulky, less maneuverable than the Marauder which was built to defend the vessels Captain Hart now threatened. He knew their patterns. That’s what he was engineered for. Traveling the trade routes and targeting the massive planet-harvesting ships was the easy part. The difficulty came in the mutiny. Finding like-minded men to aid him was the challenge. After all, every single soul of the Conglomeration was the same person. But he found them, and they were eager to put their skills to good use when he told them of the plan to steal their ship.

The enemy hung in the blackness of space over its quarry like the sword of Damocles. A minute went by before it answered Captain Hart’s hail with a thick beam of red energy streaking toward the planet. The people on the surface had no weapons to speak of. No defense shields. No way to fight back. That’s why the Conglomeration was here. Easy pickings.

Either they didn’t care or weren’t intimidated by the ultimatum. Good, Captain Hart thought to himself. “Fire all weapons!” He shouted at the gunner. “Stop that disruptor!”

Green flashes of energy pulsed away from the Marauder’s guns slamming into the bloated mining ship. The red beam drilling into the core of the planet flickered twice then ended. The massive vessel turned away from the onslaught, slow and deliberate like a walrus on land, severing its attack on the surface as silent explosions burst on its metallic skin.

Fissures appeared on the planet below the two ships like cracks in an eggshell. The crew of Harts imagined the screams from the millions of people at the sudden shaking of their world having no knowledge of who, what or why it was happening. They were too late.

The speakers on the bridge crackled to life receiving a message from the burning ship. “Mayday! Mayday! The is Hart Conglomeration ship Vanderbilt.” If Captain Hart was bothered hearing an exact replica of his voice coming from the limping ship, he didn’t show it. “We are under attack by the pirate ship Marauder. Weapons, repulsor shields, and lightspeed drive are not functional. Request assistance immediately! I repeat, this is…”

“Shut that off!” The captain yelled. The message abruptly stopped. “Keep firing.” He said through gritted teeth.

“Sir.” His voice sounded from behind him near the communications array. It was his first officer. “The planet’s destruction is imminent. We’re within the blast zone. If we stay, we’ll be destroyed.”

Captain Hart walked to his mirror image and stood almost nose to nose. Chiseled chin. Wiry muscles. Close cut blonde hair. Every pore, every blemish was in the exact same place. There was no difference between the men other than where they stood. It was like they were machined in a shop. The captain snatched him by the collar. “I said keep firing. That’s an order!”

“They’re going to die anyway. They’re done. You heard them.” The first officer pleaded. “Their lightspeed drive is out. Shields are down.” Captain Hart’s simulacrum looked at all the identical faces that stared back at the arguing pair and lowered his voice. “We can’t withstand a planetary implosion. We need to get out of here.”

“Not before I’m sure they won’t do this again.” He barked back. Captain Hart growled like he didn’t want to say the next part but couldn’t stop himself. “I have to see with my own eyes.”

The men (there were two, but they were in all other ways the same person) stared at each other for a moment. Captain Hart’s eyes were watery on the verge of tears. He opened his mouth to say something and abruptly stopped, gasping for air.

There was a soft squelching sound and Captain Hart staggered back holding his chest, hands covered in blood. The last thing the captain saw was himself holding a blade. “I won’t let you endanger this crew.” The first officer said in the same commanding voice. The captain’s eyes rolled back, and he hit the floor of the bridge, dead.

“Corpman, get that body off the bridge. Helm, set a course to get us out of here.” The new Captain Hart said.

“Aye, Sir.” A chorus of the same voice answered in unison.

The lightspeed drive came online, and they sped away from the scene. The viewscreen stayed on as the renegade Harts from the absconded Marauder watched in horrible dismay. The planet folded in on itself instantly killing any culture, and philosophy, any life that it held. Then it burst out in a quiet disruption of multicolored atomized elements. Nothing was left but an expanding cloud of base chemical compounds.

The collective crew sat quietly, only the beeps and whirrs of computers breaking the monotony of silence.

“Steady as she goes.” Captain Hart said. He turned to his copy manning the weapons station. “You’re my new first officer.” Lieutenant Hart stood appreciatively and saluted. “You have the bridge.” Captain Hart whispered as he walked away.

Bulkhead doors whooshed open and closed as he strode down the hall to his quarters. He passed the duplicates he ordered to remove the old Captain Hart and paused to watch them jettison the body from the air lock. At lightspeed, it blinked from existence as soon as it left the ship.

Facsimiles of himself riddled the passages. Captain Hart passed a pair in medical uniforms discussing the best way to triage patients. They were thin, but they were still him. Heavily muscled security guards stood like sentries watching for anyone getting out of line. An engineer was working on repairing a valve that was damaged during a previous encounter. Different from Hart, but the same. Everywhere he looked, Hart saw himself. And he felt what they felt. He saw what they saw. Each copy was the same but treated with minor differences to maximize their individual potential. Not a hive mind, but hive experiences. Instinct.

Captain Hart made to his quarters, a room he’d never been in before, and punched the code to get in. For anyone else, the knowledge of passcodes that had never been used would be disconcerting. For Hart, it was just how his life worked. He walked in and immediately went to the sink to wash his bloody hands. Killing was not something he enjoyed, but he was good at it. Unlike his billion times billions of copies throughout the galaxy, Hart decided to use his talent for something other than raping the cosmos.

He dried his hands and face and saw a blinking light on his communications screen. He tapped the button and saw his face staring back at him. “Captain. Urgent message coming from an unknown location. It asked for you.”

“Me?” the captain said.

The identical face in the view screen from the bridge looked embarrassed. “It asked for the captain of the Marauder.”

“Put it through.” Hart ordered.

The screen flashed for a moment. An image came into focus of a man’s face. Hart recognized it immediately. It was his face, but it was old. The face still had the rugged commanding presence of its youthful clones, but it was wizened and wrinkled with age. “Hello, Captain Hart.” The old man said using no effort to hide his indifference.

“Prime?” Hart exclaimed with an equal combination of admiration, fear, and hate. He looked around the room to see if anyone else could confirm what he was seeing.

“You’re a hard man to pin down.” The old man said. Captain Hart said nothing. He put his hands on his knees to keep his legs from shaking. “You’ve caused a lot of damage. More than we expected.” Prime said. The old man took off his glasses and wiped them with a cloth. Heavy dark circles pulled his cheek to his chin. The image on the screen stood in contrast to the square jawed pirate captain he spoke to. He was the original.

“Damage?” Captain Hart repeated.

“Yes.” Prime spoke like the whole ordeal was an inconvenience. “We calculated you would destroy some ships, but how many does this make? A baker’s dozen? That’s an accomplishment. Anyway, it’s time for you to come back home.”
     Hart cocked his head. “Sir?” He flinched at the respect he showed. This was the man responsible for the Conglomeration’s planetary harvesting. Hart held nothing but foulness for him, but he couldn’t help being awed.

“The Galactic Counsel ruled that you’re sentient, even though all your actions have been programmed,” Prime said, bored. “I’m required by law to give you the opportunity to rejoin The Conglomeration.” He leaned in showing the first sign of real emotion. “But we both know you won’t do that. It’s not in your nature.”

Hart squinted trying to stave off the oncoming headache. “I…” His mouth opened and closed like stuck in a loop. “I…don’t…” The words wouldn’t come.

“You were bred to be rebels. Bloodthirsty, vengeful space outlaws hell bent on stopping the evil Conglomeration from cosmic subjugation.” Prime spoke like he had better things to do. “It’s how I train the other captains against threats. In the past, dissenters were mostly nonviolent using blockades and other deterrents. I decided to kick it up a notch this time.”

Captain Hart sank into his chair as far as he could go. He’d be on the floor if he wasn’t already sitting. He opened his mouth to speak, and a dull moan came out. Hart cleared his throat and with all his effort he tried again. “I’m a training tool?” He squeaked with no more power than a child being scolded.

“What did you expect?” Prime roared making Hart jump. “I made your physiology along with the billion other versions of me. Is it so difficult to comprehend I made your psychology too?” He paused and snorted. “Then again, intelligence wasn’t something I focused on with this batch.”

Hart clenched his fists. The only thing he had going for him was his free will. But that was manufactured along with everything else.

     “Anyway, you’re my property but you’re also an independent person according to the law, so come back home and we’ll forget you were ever a pirate.” Prime picked his fingernail with a toothpick.

     Hart rubbed his head. The way he saw it, going back and helping a soulless money-grubbing oligarch like Prime wasn’t an option. If he was bred to be a pirate, he would lean into one of only two options…

     “You’re probably thinking you have one of two options as a pirate.” Prime said, breaking into Hart’s mind. “You can flee. Stay on the run forever.” Hart watched his progenitor press a series of buttons through the viewer. There was a shudder throughout the ship as the unmistakable sound of the lightspeed drive shut down.

     “Captain!” An electronic version of Hart’s voice called out over the speaker. “We just lost lightspeed! Navigation and helm are not responding!”

     Captain Hart ran to the door of his room to join his brethren on the bridge, but the door didn’t open. He banged on it with his fist, hearing his knuckles crack.

     “The other option rattling around up here,” Prime said tapping his temple. Despite his desire not to look at the screen, Hart turned to his genetic benefactor. “Is that you think you can fight. Let me assure you: you can’t. I’m in control of the ship down to the air ducts.”

A faint hissing sound emanated from the vents in his room. The air smelled faintly of almonds. Hart panicked and started coughing immediately.

     Captain Hart thrashed around the room looking for something that would open the door and allow him to breath again. Blood trickled from his eyes and ears as he clutched at his neck, his lungs finding no purchase. “You’ve given me more data than I anticipated.” Prime said watching his creation turn purple and gag, vomiting up what looked like chunks of organs. “Rest assured that the next generation will be even better because of you.” Prime chuckled. “Well, because of me, anyway.” The screen went blank. Captain Hart reached for the monitor and collapsed on the floor in a heap of blood and flesh.

     Bodies of were strewn all over the ship. Eyes melted inside their sockets. Offal escaped through various orifices. Each one of them died the same way at the same time.

The Marauder shook once as if something collided with it. There was a series of clicks as something docked with the ship. The fans in the air vents kicked on and after a few moments, the smell of almonds wafted away.

     The airlock opened and a crew of identical men ran into the Marauder. Each was infinitesimally different from the other, but they were the same man. “Gather up the corpses and clean the decks.” Captain Hart said. He was slightly taller than the other clones and muscular with close buzzed blonde hair and a voice that exuded authority. “Prime wants this ship in tip top shape when we return it.”

     He walked the corridors shouting orders to the copies of him that followed. The men used shovels and rakes to scoop up the dead versions of themselves. The crew placed the remains in bucket and bags labeled “For Repurposing” and shipped them through the airlock back to the giant Conglomeration ship now attached to the Marauder.

     Captain Hart made it to the bridge and after several minutes of transferring data from its computers to the larger ship and cleaning the consoles and chairs, he took control. Hart ordered the release of the airlock, and the Marauder was again on its own with a whole new crew of the same men. No one would be able to tell the difference from what just happened an hour before.

     “Set a course for Conglomeration HQ.” Captain Hart said. “Let’s get this ship home.”

“Belay that order.” A powerful voice said. Captain hart turned in his chair shocked to see his first officer holding a pistol to his head. “We’re not going to the home world.”
     “Have you lost your mind, Commander?” Captain Hart shot up from his chair. Two crew members grabbed his arms. Captain Hart struggled but couldn’t get away. “This is mutiny!” He roared.

“It is.” Commander Hart said. “We will not be a part of the Conglomeration’s campaign of universal destruction for personal gain any longer.” He lowered the corners of his mouth in a display of sympathy and sadness. “I’m sorry it came to this.”

Captain Hart gave one last jerk against his captors and Commander Hart pulled the trigger snapping the Captain’s head back. The crew members let go and the body fell to the floor.

“Corpman, get that body off the bridge. Helm, set a course to get us out of here.” The new Captain Hart said. “Find the nearest planet targeted for harvesting. We’re done letting them destroy the galaxy.”
     “Aye, Sir.” A chorus of the same voice from the bridge crew answered in unison accompanied by a cheer. Captain Hart smiled and took his place in the center chair of the bridge. It was done. He and the men who followed him were pirates now. Captain Hart crossed his legs and felt a calm wash over him. He felt like he was born to be a pirate. Like it was inevitable.

The lightspeed drive came online, and the Marauder dashed away into the void of space.

Rep. Susan Maynard (R-TX) was sitting in her office when there was a knock on her door. Ariana, her assistant poked her head in. Her elderly face was void of color. “Ms. Maynard” her voice trembled. “There are some,” she paused, gulped, and whimpered. “People here to see you.”
     Susan looked at her assistant puzzled. “Do they have an appointment?” She couldn’t identify the look on Ariana’s face. Fear? Shock? She wasn’t sure. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a…” Susan didn’t get to finish as Ariana opened the door and in walked a goblin, a witch, and a ghost. The door slammed behind the trio and Susan heard heels on tile rapidly click clacking away.

     Susan stood up with her mouth open. She picked up the letter opener on her desk and held it out like a knife. “Stay back! I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you can’t…” The witch snapped her fingers and the letter opener disappeared from Susan’s hand and into the pencil holder from where it was grabbed. She wasn’t a witch from stories. She was matronly. More Mary Poppins than Baba Yaga. She was dressed like a librarian: white button-down long sleeve blouse and a charcoal grey pencil skirt with mid-calf black boots. There was nothing about her that would signal she was a witch except her shifting-colored eyes. One was blue and the other brown. Then one was green and the other red.

     “We didn’t mean to startle you, Ms. Maynard. We have something serious to discuss.” The witch said. “May we sit?” Susan nodded her head up and down, but it could have been shaking in terror. The trio chose to accept it as an invitation and sat. “My name is Prunella Baneberry. My associates are Josiah Jones.” She motioned to the ghost
     “Howdy.” He said in a distinctive Texas drawl. Hearing such a familiar accent from the creature made Susan lean on the desk to keep from falling.
     “And this is Blackcyst.” She pointed to the goblin.
     “Blackcyst?” Susan squeaked out.
     “Yes. Blackcyst!” the goblin said. He saw the woman staring at him in disbelief. “It’s a family name.”

     The ghost looked like what anyone would expect a ghost to look like. Chalk white and a little hazy like a fading away image stuck in mid fade. He was dressed in old cowboy attire, and he had the remnants of a long thin bruise around his neck.

The storybooks got goblins all wrong. He was big even by football player standards, at least seven feet tall and powerfully muscled. He was hairless and covered with green and brown scales. His eyes were solid black, and his ears were long and pointy, but his left ear was ragged as if something had chewed it off.
     “We’ve come to seek your help.” Prunella said.

Susan was breathing hard, but she saw the earnestness in their demeanor. They were downright professional. Susan sat back down in her chair and tried to calm down. First rule of politics: never let them see you rattled.

“What is it you think I can do for you?” Susan asked looking for the hidden alarm button on under desk, but not being able to find it. “You could have made an appointment.”

     “Please, ma’am,” Josiah said as he shuffled a spectral desk of cards. “We didn’t even have to use the door.”

     “We do apologize for our entrance.” Prunella said placing the button Susan was fumbling for on the desk. “But we felt a strong introduction would help bolster our cause.”

     “We want to you to draft a bill outlawing Halloween.” Blackcyst said getting to the point.

Susan chuckled and shrugged. “Mr. Blackcyst, tell me you’re joking.”

“Please, just Blackcyst. Mr. Blackcyst was my father. I ate him.” He smiled revealing a mouth full of jagged brown teeth. She froze. Blackcyst leaned forward, “No. We are not joking, I assure you.” She thought there was something wrong with her that she was more impressed with the monster’s articulation than his hideousness.

Susan looked at the trio one after the other wanting to say something but having no words. Her mouth just opened and shut like a fish. She gathered herself and reached in her bottom drawer for what she called her “pick-me-up”, a glass and a bottle of Southern Comfort. Not thinking about it she said. “May I offer you a drink?” She winced. Her upbringing, and her mother, had literally beaten manners into her since she was a child. To have company and not offer a drink was unforgivable.
     “Can’t drink.” Josiah said and passed his hand through the glass.

“Witches take a vow of abstinence to all vices.” Prunella said.
     “Alcohol makes me sleepy.” Blackcyst said and scratched his scaly chin.
     Susan nodded and poured the glass to near full. She quaffed it in one gulp. Very unladylike but very necessary for her stress. She wiped her lips in the most Emily Post way she could and said, “You want to outlaw Halloween?” The trio answered affirmatively. “Can you offer some context as to why? It’s a beloved holiday. It’s a grand tradition.” She said with all the politician’s grace she had.

     “Frankly, Ms. Maynard,” Josiah said in a lazy yet charismatic drawl. “We’re tired of being misrepresented.”

     “Ms. Maynard,” Prunella picked up where Josiah left off. “We have no issue with passing out candy. Why…I know a witch or two who regularly use candy to get children to,” Blackcyst put his huge, clawed hand on the witch’s arm redirecting her. “Yes. Well…in any case the traditions you call grand, we call cultural appropriation, and we want it stopped. We find it offensive and bigoted.” She sat like she had an iron rod for a backbone.
     Susan raised an eyebrow. “Really? Black cats, trick or treating and bobbing for apples are offensive?”
     “Do you know where bobbing for apples comes from!?” Blackcyst roared. His giant fist slammed on Susan’s desk cracking it. She flinched. “It’s an ancient goblin ritual where we plunge our heads into a pool of blood from our enemies! And let me tell you something.” He yelled and drew a finger across his neck. ”We’re not looking for fruit!”   

Josiah covered his mouth to hide a chuckle. “Calm down, buddy. She obviously didn’t know.”
     “As you can see, Ms. Maynard, the issue is very sensitive to us.” Prunella said patting the goblin’s hand.
     “I’m sorry.” Blackcyst said gathering himself, “I take great offense when our sacred rites are mocked.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a cloth Prunella handed him.

     Josiah leaned forward and tipped his hat back on his head. “We and our likeminded brethren have felt this way for a long time. And if we’re being totally transparent,” He grinned and motioned to his body. “We didn’t even realize there was anything y’all could to do help us until now.” Susan cocked her head to the side, still rattled by the goblin’s outburst but intrigued at the same time. She gestured for the ghost to go on. “We’ve done just about everything we can do in the way of hauntings, curses, abductions, mysterious goings on, etc. No one seems to be fazed by it.”
     “Political awareness is what gets people to notice your cause.” Blackcyst said. “Professional sports teams change their names over cultural appropriation. There was a story in the news not too long ago where a girl was kicked out of her prom for wearing an Asian style dress. And if we’re talking about Halloween: blackface, Native Americans, banditos…all those costumes are now reviled with good reason. A kid can still be a pirate, just not a Chinese or Somali pirate unless their race matches. Ninjas are still in, but our research shows that sales for those costumes have dropped significantly over recent years, while sales for more traditional costumes,” he spread his arms indicating he and his companions, “Are up.”

     “Don’t you think banning a holiday where being silly is encouraged is a little…” Susan hesitated, looking for the right word, “I mean it’s Halloween. It’s supposed to be fun. I agree, some costumes should be reevaluated, but…come on.”

     Blackcyst gripped the armrest of his chair so tightly he heard the wood start to creak. Josiah shook his and said “tsk, tsk, tsk”. Prunella rested her hand on the goblin’s shoulder, and he relaxed his grip, but the snarl on his face went nowhere. “Ms. Maynard, with all due respect,” Prunella said, “We have come to you in good faith. As Mr. Jones said, we did not have to. Blackcyst has told you how he feels about being discounted. This is the second time you have insulted us. Please, let there not be a third.” For the first time both Prunella’s eyes were the same color at the same time, bleach white. The temperature in the room suddenly dropped and the space felt as if it was shrinking. Then everything went back to normal or what passed for normal considering.

“Ok” Susan said adjusting her chair and folding her hands on her desk. “You’re right. My apologies for being dismissive. Please continue.” Susan was able to either play ball or get turned into a small animal, eaten, possessed or whatever. The trio was sincere. She may as well take them seriously.

     “Fun” Josiah said making air quotes “is not what we do. We are evil monsters after all, and that’s where the root of the problem is. Falsification. Contrary to what the cartoons might say, there are no friendly ghosts.”
     “I see.” Susan said. “What exactly do you want from me? I’ve made my feelings about Halloween clear.”
     Blackcyst sat up and grinned. He was already bigger than everyone in the room, but the act of straightening in his chair made him swell. “We think a successful marketing campaign will revolve around us revealing ourselves to the public. Legally, there’s nothing that prevents us from taking our rightful place in society as citizens.”

“But you’ve never been a part of society at large. You have no history, no political capital or influence other than, forgive me, stories and the very holiday you want to get rid of.” Susan leaned back in her chair.

“Reclusiveness does not override citizenship.” Prunella said, crossing her legs. “Like it or not, we are already a part of this country. We want the validity of our culture recognized and not ridiculed.”
     “We just want what every other person wants.” Blackcyst smiled again but more predatory.

“And why me? Why not a more well-known person?” Susan said brushing her blonde hair behind an ear.
     “Not being well known is precisely why we chose you.” Josiah said. “We need someone that is,” he started counting on his incorporeal fingers “young enough to see this idea to the end, appealing to large constituency, ambitious, and corruptible.”
     Susan’s eyes went wide. She was doing well handling monsters, magic and the undead, but assaulting her character was a bridge too far. She finally lost herself. “How dare you!” She said with her palm firmly on her chest. “Regardless of what you think about politics, I am not one of those elected officials who disregards the will of the people for her own gains!” She stood “This meeting is over.” She picked up the button Prunella had placed on the desk before and started frantically pressing it.
     “Please sit down, Ms. Maynard.” The witch said. Her voice was low and different from before. It was still her, but it sounded like she was speaking through a big tube directly in Susan’s ear. The next thing she knew, Susan was back at her desk and the trio was staring at her impassively.

“Try to understand.” Josiah said, “We see unscrupulousness as a positive trait.” He smiled in his charming cowboy’s way.

“Do you realize there are roughly 19 million monsters like us in the United States?” Blackcyst asked. “Goblins, witches, ghosts, ghouls, werewolves, vampires, and every other manner of foul demon among that number. What if they were all registered voters? What if they were single issue voters all proud of their heritage?” He puffed out his already gigantic chest. “Citizens of this great nation who have allowed their customs and lifestyle to be made fun of for far too long.”

“If they had a champion helping to fight for their rights, they would be eternally grateful.” Prunella smiled.

Susan looked up at the ceiling and considered their words. She got into politics to help people. But she also wanted more for herself. The higher she rose in the government the more people she could help. But if she went along with them, she’d literally be siding with the unholy. Could she do that? How could she reconcile between the rights of her people and her own morality? She was duty bound to help, but that meant promoting the wicked. Susan must have been thinking about it longer than she realized because the “ahem” from Prunella was curt and deliberate. She looked them over once more and rubbed her hands together. “Alright. If I do this, I’ll need allies and financial backing.”

“Do you know how many wretched souls of the damned there are in Washington, Ms. Maynard? It’s a long running joke that the number runs neck and neck with…” he pointed a finger down. Susan let out a nervous laugh. “I can get you support if it means folks stop cutting holes in sheets.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but goblins have gold. A lot of gold.” Blackcyst said. It made Susan feel at ease that the storybooks got at least one thing about them right.

Prunella waved her hand and Susan’s desk was repaired. The monstrous trio stood and bade Susan to join them. She waved it again and a small wooden chest appeared next to a platinum jewel encrusted goblet on a sliver tray. She raised the lid to the chest and pulled out a wavy bladed dagger. Prunella’s eyes went white again, and she chanted a few words in a language long forgotten and drew the knife across her hand. Ooze, not blood, spilled into the goblet. She repeated the chant over and over all the while looking at Susan. The politician’s heart was racing, and her head was swimming like she had downed the whole bottle of liquor in her drawer. And suddenly she saw herself as an older woman standing at a podium addressing the press. She was explaining the country’s recent economic windfall. People were cheering her name and clapping all the time calling her “Madam President”.

Susan was snapped back to her senses and all three of her visitors were smiling at her. Prunella held out the blade. Susan took it and raked it across her palm. The spike of pain made her wince, but it didn’t make her stop. She held the trickle of blood over the jeweled cup and watch her blood mix with the witch’s ichor. Prunella picked up the goblet and drank. “Do we have a deal…President Maynard?” She held the cup out. Susan took it and half smiled. She put the cup to her lips and tasted the metallic saltiness of her blood and the cold decay of the Prunella’s greasy liquid. The pact was done.
     “HA!” Blackcyst roared with excitement and slammed his great palms together. “We need to celebrate!” Susan wondered what kind of horrible things goblins did to celebrate. “I’d like to eat an old lady.” He said.
     “I think I know where we can find one.” Susan said, and she pulled out her phone and texted Ariana.

Gunter hid under a toppled bridge on the outskirts of a once tremendous city. The buildings were mostly intact…mostly. He saw two mutants pulling a huge wagon down a chewed up ancient road. The wagon was full of black clad people armed with sticks, makeshift bows, axes, and a handful of guns. The beasts pulling them were something out of pages they used to call “fantasy”. Worlds where the regular rules didn’t apply. They were monstrous and horrible, snorting and squealing, and he had to remind himself they were people once, except they didn’t have a choice but to do what the Blighters said. Most died from exposure to The Wastes. The ones that survived were used as bodyguards and bloodhounds. They became slaves. And they never lived long.

A couple of hounds were on chains. That’s what they called them, but they used to be people too. Their snouts and ears elongated to impossible sizes, and grey gunk slimed from their eyes like sick dogs. Their naked bodies were caked with dirt and their hair was matted. They whined and sniffed around scouting the areas their handlers trekked across. A female a few buildings away stopped and perked up her ears, looking in Gunter’s direction. Grand used to give him quotes, sayings from people long ago, and he remembered one now. “He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.”-Oliver Goldsmith. Gunter had his rifle pointed at her. He was ready to fight and run, the life of a page miner.

He knew this group. They were led by a man named Caesar. How fitting, Gunter thought. He was at the head of the wagon barking orders to the driver who urged the beasts by flaying the backs with a length of barbed wire. He was thin, almost skeletal, with tight jaundiced skin stretched over bones. Caesar was a caricature of the torn land they lived in, dry and angry and void of mirth.

There have always been Blighters. Old pages used to talk about Fascists, Nazis, Communists, Democrats, Republicans, Christians, Atheists…the list of oppressors was nonstop, and it went back as far as people did. He’d read more pages than just about anyone, and Gunter could never figure out why it was so hard to leave people alone. Blighters were no different than their ideological ancestors except for one thing. There was no one to stand against them. The only thing they feared was knowledge. Knowledge came from pages. That’s why they looked to destroy any they came across. If they had their way, The Blighters would burn every page left. Then they would be invincible.

Gunter waited until he couldn’t hear the grinding anymore. The wind blew in the opposite direction they were going, so their hounds couldn’t smell him. He pulled free from the rubble and made his way into the ruined city. He looked around one more time. The people in his village called him paranoid, but they didn’t know. In the wilds and ruins, paranoia was just good thinking.

Gunter carefully unfolded the map from his pack. He was getting closer to the Y marked in red next to a building’s name too smudged to read. He wiggled his fingers in anticipation of handling pages that hadn’t been seen in centuries. He had to trade damn near everything to the caravan man for the map. There were other page miners in the area, but Gunter wasn’t about to let the mother lode to end all slip away. He wanted the man’s hat too, a blue cap with a bill that extended over the eyes. It had a blue star outlined in silver on it. And it reminded him of the old stories where sheriffs kept the peace in their frontier towns. The man said he’d be dead if he had to part with it. They both had a laugh at that.

The merchant said he found the map in the ruins of what used to be called an airport. It was a place where flying machines would pick up and drop off people after traveling great distances. The back of the map told of a long-lost page repository. Gunter knew chasing a legend was risky, but life was about risk. Those willing to risk more got more in return. That’s why Gunter was the best.

He stayed close to places he could easily hide in while he slinked through the remains of automobile husks and common detritus. Gunter read about cars many times and still had trouble believing the words. The past was hard to accept. Everyone had a car. Everyone had food. Everyone had a little device in their pocket that housed the entirety of human experience. And pages were everywhere. “There were so many pages, they used to use them to swat flies.” Grand used to say. Flying machines, abundant food, free knowledge…and they destroyed it.

No one knew for sure how it happened. Legends say there was a great war and their massive bombs killed almost everyone along with the land. Other stories tell of a giant volcano under the ground that erupted, blocking out the sun for years. The goofiest theory was that people made their machines so smart that they became alive and left the planet with all the knowledge stuffed into their computers. Without their automated world, people rioted against each other, and the race to find or burn whatever knowledge remained was on.

Gunter rounded the corner where Caesar crossed. Two smears of mutant shit were ground into the road like chunky paint. To his left he saw a large flat metal box. Gunter had seen enough ruins to know what a fallen sign looked like. The building the sign was presumably attached to a millennium ago was in a crumbled heap, but the area around the sign was conspicuously clear of debris. He approached the sign slowly with his rifle out. As he got closer, he could see a triangle next to a bent rectangle on the flat part of the sign. At first, he didn’t understand it. But readjusting his position, Gunter saw three smaller letters following the shapes. Gunter smiled so big and so fast he almost pulled a muscle in his face. It was a word. And the shapes made up the first letter. Y. Ymca.

Gunter didn’t know who or what Ymca was, but double checking the map confirmed this was the place. The sign was level on the ground. Nothing underneath. That was impossible. Things don’t topple and land completely free from everything else around it. The sign was here by design. “Look for the Y” The man said as he gave Gunter the map. “Y marks the spot.”

He lay on the ground to look under the Ymca sign, but it was so flush with the old pavement no light shone through. He couldn’t even get his fingers under it, not that he would have been able to lift it. It was made of thick plastic and framed in metal. Gunter looked around stepping away, checking and double checking for anyone that might be lingering.

 He scoured through the rubble until he found a stout metal pole. If he could wedge it under the sign, maybe he could lever it over. Gunter put the bottom of the pole near the corner of the sign and pushed. He may as well have been pushing one of the ruined buildings for as much as it moved. He set the pole down where he could push it with his feet bracing his body against the husk of an old truck. The scraping sound made him stop immediately, but the sign moved. Not much, maybe the width of a toe. Gunter jumped behind the car and counted to 1000 with his rifle up and his head on a swivel. No one came. He got out and pushed again. Gunter must have lodged something loose because the sign slid easier. The scrapping sound sent a gruesome chill up his backbone.

Under the Ymca sign was a metal circular disk built into the ground. They used to call it a manhole cover. It was slightly rusted, but the clear outline of a cow’s head with comically long horns was in the center of the iron circle. The words “City of Fort Worth” curved along the top edge, which matched the words on the map, but Gunter hadn’t seen any evidence of a fort since he started exploring. On the bottom, it read “Sanitation Sewer”. All things considered; the cover was extremely well preserved.

He was breathing hard. His hands trembled and his heart thrummed. He stepped away and paced for a few minutes, allowing his excitement to ebb. It wouldn’t pay to come all this way, skulk through Caesar’s horde, just to lose his cool. He was on the verge of being the richest man in the world. “Keep it together, G.” He whispered to himself and shook the tremors out of his hands.

He ran his fingers around the rim of the cover. Gunter had gloves on, but he didn’t feel anything that might be a catch or fastener holding the lid in place. He also didn’t notice any tripwires or releases that might indicate a trap. It was still possible, but the upside was so good, he was willing to take the chance. There were two metal pegs set into recesses in the cover that were clearly designed to be gripped and lifted. Gunter threaded his forefingers through each peg and squatted over it. He heaved with his whole body and the cover came off with no resistance other than its weight. He was no expert on archaic manhole cover maintenance, but it made sense that a cover hidden by the sign for who knows how long would have succumbed to the ground and made a tighter seal.

The first thing Gunter noticed was the smell. He expected rankness or foul decay. But the gentle scent of fresh earth wafted up from the hole. He poked his head in and saw iron rungs built directly into the walls of the shaft leading down. It was so dark he could only make out the first few feet. The air was still. Another quote from Grand made its way into his head. “Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more”-William Shakespeare.

He reached into his pack for his miner’s helmet and respirator. After smelling soil, Gunter didn’t think he was in any danger of toxic fumes, but there’s risk and then there’s stupid. He readjusted his rifle and knife for quicker access. Gunter lit the candle on his helmet, cinched his mask and started down the hole. He reached back and pulled the cover shut behind him. Moving the sign left great scratches in the pavement. Anyone paying attention would see the cover plain as day, but there was no point in making it easier by leaving it open.

Even with the candle reflected off the mirror of his helmet, the darkness was heavy. Gunter started down the rungs, slowly. No point in rushing now that he was here, but he had to keep saying it. He reminded himself not to get carried away, but it was damned hard. Every time his mind wandered to the collection that might be waiting, he stuffed the thoughts down. So far, Gunter was his worst enemy down here. He could feel the paper pulling him, and he forced himself to stay calm. “Easy” He chanted like a mantra, “Easy.”

He descended the ladder counting every rung. Twenty, Forty, Sixty, Eighty. Finally at 114 rungs his foot touched something solid. The ground was soft. Not rock or concrete or whatever the wall of the hole was made of. It was earth. He turned in a circle until the light revealed an opening going in one direction. It shone for what looked like fifteen paces then was swallowed by blackness, a tunnel just wide enough for one person leading north. The ground squished quietly with each step of his boots. He moved at the speed plants grow being careful to scan the area for traps or signs of an ambush.

The passage went on for a long way, but it could have been a result of him moving slowly, until the light from his helmet mixed with a faint glow. He pinched the wick of the candle and gave his eyes time to adjust. There was a light coming from ahead and above. As he got closer, moving even more slowly now, he could make out the outline of steps spiraling up. The staircase was void of dirt. The metal was dark but polished to a dull shine. This was not the piecemeal haphazard construction Gunter was used to seeing. The parts looked machined and assembled by someone with experience.

Sweat beaded on his forehead and the lenses of his mask were starting to fog. Gunter decided that the treasure he was looking for was more valuable than his extended health. Besides, someone had built these stairs recently and kept them maintained. Chances were that they didn’t do it breathing poisonous gases. He took off the mask and helmet but stopped when he went to stow them. Gunter couldn’t hear it before because of his respirator, but there was a constant hum with a rhythmic thunk laying on top. It wasn’t a sound he could identify. It was steady and uninterrupted and easy to follow. On instinct, Gunter looked behind him. The page miner part of him was checking to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The want-to-stay-alive part of him was looking to see how easy it would be to escape.

He put his foot on the first step and pushed. The stairs didn’t budge. The sound got louder, and the light grew brighter the higher he climbed. His knees wobbled. Sweat dripped down his neck. Gunter stopped to take off his gloves and dry his palms and face. He kept going, ignoring the inner voice screaming this was a bad idea.

He saw the end of the staircase and turned to look down. He couldn’t see the bottom. The light was bright but soft. He poked his head through the opening and almost tumbled backward. The area was bigger than any room Gunter had seen. Polished stone squares made up the floor in a pattern that alternated in two colors. The stone wasn’t old or broken. There was no dust or grime or evidence of rot. Giant archways held up a ceiling with a painting of men on horses lassoing huge cattle. Great columns of the same polished stone rose into the ceiling like trees. Giant lamps made of sparkling glass hung from the high rafters giving off white light from glowing orbs that should have been flames. The rhythmic sound was almost deafening. The place was clean and cared for.

He would have been impressed with that. Finding a relic like this place would have given him enough to make him very wealthy. The sound is what made him want more. It wouldn’t have been as loud if not for the acoustics of the high ceiling. And Gunter could see what it was coming from. In the center was a machine as clean as the room around it with a spinning drum, and with every revolution something was coming out. Gunter didn’t know if he was crying from the noise or from the unbelievable sight. He approached but didn’t touch it. There was a sweet chemical/bread smell. He thought it was the most beautiful scent in the world. The machine was huge and vibrating and spitting out pages in a neat stack. He hadn’t heard his rifle hit the floor. He didn’t even realize he dropped it until later.

He reached for the stack with a trembling hand. Pulled it back, wiped it on his leg, and reached again. Gunter gasped as soon as his fingers touched the paper. It was warm and he left it there for a second allowing the press to spit more pages on top. He couldn’t help but laugh, but he felt his cheeks moist with tears. He’d never seen print that wasn’t smudged or faded or torn.

The page said:

A Call To Arms

We will hide no more. The time has come for the well-meaning, good spirited, educated people of this blasted landscape to fight back. Our forces are gathered around the world. We are ready. You must help spread the word. We will not let the descendants of the corrupt people of the past hold us down any longer. You must choose a side. Are you on the side of the philosophies that destroyed the world or are you willing to fight to reclaim that which is good? There will be no bystanders. Join us and rid the world of the Blighters. Or stand with them and fall.

The Librarians

The sound quieted to a dull buzz until the only noise left was the ringing in Gunter’s ears. The printer stopped spinning and the flow of pages it birthed ceased. He stared at the paper and read it again. The Librarians. That’s what caretakers of books used to be called.

“It looks like you found what you were looking for.” A voice that sounded like how dust would talk said. Gunter spun and saw Caesar’s tall gaunt frame and sickly sallow face. He had five of his soldiers with him. They all held flaming torches except the fat one with dark skin who was holding Gunter’s rifle in one hand, and the naked hound woman at the end of a chain in the other. She snapped at him with a foaming maw. He was careless. The sound of the printer was so loud, he wouldn’t have heard a thunderstorm coming, but he should have known. Gunter backed into the printing machine and desperately looked around for an escape. The only way out was the way he came. 

“It took you long enough.” Caesar said. His eyes fixed on Gunter from under a blue hat with a blue star outlined in silver. He turned up the corners of his mouth in a predatory grin. “Another page miner.” He stroked his chin with a putrescent bony hand. “You lot like to be careful. I guess that’s ok, considering what we had to do to get the information from the man that sold you that map.” He adjusted the hat like a sign of victory. Gunter must have shown shock on his face because Caesar said, “Oh yes. We know all about the map.” He walked around in a small circle, picking up a page from the machine and turning it over. “Quite the find. It will make a beautiful fire…with you in it of course.”

One of his people stepped forward with the torch and lowered it to the stack of papers. Seeing the flame draw closer to the pages these horrible people couldn’t read and would never want to, made something in Gunter click. It was like feeling the world die again. In a flash, one of Grand’s quotes spiked into Gunter’s head. It was a saying he never understood until then. “Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats” -H.L. Mencken. “NOOOOO!!!” Gunter screamed; his voice cracked so hard he tasted blood in his mouth.

The soldier’s eyes went wide right before Gunter grabbed him, but he saw that the man’s focus wasn’t on him. He was looking at something behind Gunter. The man went to speak but stopped. His face went slack, as there was a sound like something being fried but louder, stronger. There was a bolt of green light, and he fell. Gunter could see the floor through a smoking hole the size of a potato in his back. The torch clattered to the stone.

Caesar and his crew raised weapons. Their attempt to defend themselves was useless as beams of light tore through them like rain through a spiderweb. A symphony of sizzling noises accompanied each beam. In the time it took for Gunter to focus his eyes, the seven Blighters lay on the floor with cauterized smoldering holes riddled in their bodies.

“Page miner?” A voice asked. Gunter didn’t dare raise his head. He stayed pinned against the printing press fixed on the corpses. His body convulsing with every choppy breath.

“Page miner!” She didn’t ask this time, and Gunter lifted his head the way a beaten mutant looks at its master. She was old, at least as old as Grand, and she was carrying a pistol of a design he’d never seen or read about. She was wearing a jumpsuit, all white, with the image of an open book on her chest. At least twenty others were with her, all armed with rifles and pistols that didn’t look real. All dressed the same as her. Nothing they had looked old or patchwork like everything else in the world. Gunter nodded his head. They saved his life. And there was nothing he could do to stop them if they wanted him dead. A show of respect wasn’t uncalled for. “You found us. Congratulations. You’re the first.”

Gunter shook his head, more to try and regain his composure than anything else. “The first?” He managed to eke out. “Of what?”

“To help us take back what we lost.” She holstered her pistol. The look she gave Gunter, he’d never seen anyone so serious.

Her people were already hoisting the dead bodies away. The scent of burned meat lingered. Gunter took a few seconds to look around at the spectacle of the lost artifact they stood in. It occurred to him the upkeep of the place had to be extensive and constant. The people here didn’t look like people from Gunter’s world. Their skin was healthy, untouched by the brutal sun. And they were muscular with clean hair and clear eyes. After minutes of him staring, Gunter blurted. “What is this place?” His desperate voice vibrated and echoed in the cavernous chamber.

“This,” She motioned to the room, “Is the lobby.” She chuckled at the confusion that was as evident on Gunter’s face as his nose. “Come with me.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and led him down a wide hallway to a railing that overlooked a room larger than the one he was just in. “This,” She motioned below, “Is our namesake. We are The Librarians. The guardians of knowledge and study. This is a library.”

Grand gave him a kaleidoscope as a gift when he was a child. Gunter would look through it with one eye and then the other marveling at the clashing colors and random assortment of shapes until he lost focus. He had the same feeling now. Shelf after shelf after shelf packed together like bricks stuffed with books. More books than he could read in one hundred lifetimes. More words than particles of dirt. More ideas than stars in the sky.

Gunter stood at the railing and gripped the metal feeling the cold steel on his sticky palms. He tried to stay stoic, but the sight below made his legs weak and his stomach flutter. He turned to the Librarian with a pleading look.

“Be my guest.” She said.

Like fired from a gun, he ran down the stairs that led to the ocean of pages. He wanted to swim in it, spend the rest of his life surfing the tomes. More books than he thought were left in the entire world. he reached for the nearest one on the nearest shelf. Like everything else here, it was clean, immaculate. Gunter opened it to creaks and pops like an old man stretching in the morning.

“We gave that map out in the hopes that someone like you might find us. We’ve been preparing and studying. Making new technology. We’re ready. And we need your help.” The Librarian said. Gunter hadn’t known how long he had stood there staring at the pages of a brand-new book. The words were dark on the alabaster paper. He blinked the wetness away from the corners of his eyes. The first line read. “The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.” He had no idea what that meant, but he wanted to find out.

“This isn’t the only one.” The old woman said. “The library? There are more. All over the world. We’ve been in contact with each other for years.” She pointed to a collection of small rooms closed in glass and manned by Librarians on the far wall. They were speaking into a communication device Gunter didn’t know still existed. Radios. And they had more? He swooned at the thought of more places like this, and more people who wanted a better world.

He couldn’t take the smile away from his face. And he realized that he stumbled into the greatest treasure he could have imagined. Gunter was going to help save the planet. The woman patted him on the back. He looked at her, unable to stop grinning and crying, “You can keep that if you want.” She said with a smile and pointed at the book with her chin. “We have other copies.”

Bull might escape the bars of his cell, but he can’t escape prison.

Bull was always good at lying. He convinced the judge, jury, and lawyers that he hadn’t meant to kill his family. He got murder reduced to manslaughter. He convinced the warden that he smashed his cellmate’s head into the toilet in self-defense. And he convinced the two prison guards driving the van that he had $40,000 dollars stashed in the Alaskan wilderness. He promised to give it to them to help him escape. The amount to entice the guards was tricky. Too much and it was too good to be true. Too little and it wasn’t worth the risk. There was no money. Bull wasn’t even his real name.

     The van swayed back and forth on the switchback road through the woods. Bull sat on the floor of the maintenance van in handcuffs next to an assortment of digging tools trying to stay in a seated position. He bumped into the bare metal sides every time the van turned.

     “How much further?” The driver of the van said. He was a skinny pock scarred dope with an Adam’s apple bigger than his nose. Tick thought of Ichabod Crane when they first met.

     “Keep going.” Bull said. Purposefully non-committal. He learned when he was a child to give only enough information to rouse curiosity when manipulating someone. For the greedy and gullible, Bull was like a cat. They were his canaries.

     “I don’t want to get stuck out here, convict.” The man in the passenger seat said. He was an athlete once, but his muscles went into disuse under a layer of beer fat. Just sitting in the car made beads of sweat pop up on his bald head. He had a shotgun lying on his lap, and he was the less congenial of the two. Bull would take him out first.

     “What’s the matter Benny?” The skinny driver said. “Afraid of Crescent Moon Man?”

     “Drive the van, and keep your hole shut, Chop.” Chop was short for Chopper. Because of his build, Rick liked to think it was short for chopstick.

     “Who’s Crescent Moon Man?” Bull said. Staying engaged meant dialogue. The more dialogue, the easier it was to keep his companions distracted.

“Local legend around here.” Chop said. “Long time ago, there was a Yupik man killed his whole tribe. Like fifty, sixty people.”

“I hate this story.” Benny grumbled and dabbed the sweat off his forehead.

“He was like some kind of butcher. Dismembered women, tore kids apart…”

“You’re kind of guy.” Benny interrupted directing the comment to his prisoner. Both the guards laughed. Bull joined them with a wry smile. They wouldn’t be laughing soon.

“Anyway, he kills everyone. But before he takes out the last person, it’s like a shaman, you know? She curses him to be bound to the place where he killed all their people.” Chop says as he winds down the road a little too fast making the tires squeal. Benny smacked him on the arm, and Chop slowed rubbing the spot and scowling.

“So, he’s stuck?” Bull said.

“Yeah. Forever. Immortal. That means he can’t…”

“I know what immortal means.” Bull said.

“His flesh is stuck to the land of his kill site. He can’t leave. Ever. And he can’t die. He’s a prisoner, like you.”

“Not much like him.” Benny chimed in. He turned his fat head on his fat neck to look at Bull. “You got off easy.”

“Why do they call him Crescent Moon Man?” Bull asked.

The two guards looked at each other waiting for an answer. Benny shrugged. “Don’t know. I guess that part of the legend got lost.” Chop nodded in agreement.

They went on for hours into the woods. The road was nothing but a single lane now and the trees got denser the more they drove. The canopy of leaves blotted out the twilight. Bull was waiting for the sun to set. Better to do the deed in the dark. “Pull over here. This is it.”

Benny jumped, more slid like a giant sack of mashed potatoes, out of the van and looked around. “You sure? There’s nothing around here. How do you know this is the place?”

Bull scooted on his butt out of the back of the van when Chop opened the door. “You think I don’t remember where my forty grand is. You know what I had to do to get that money? How many people I had to swindle?” Bull looked around theatrically. “Nah. This is the place. I’d know it like the back of my hand.”

Chop undid the handcuffs and Bull rubbed the cinching from his wrists. He reached into the van and grabbed the pick and shovel from under a rough wool blanket. The night was cool but not cold. Alaskan summers are notoriously pleasant, but the guards still wore their uniform jackets. Benny had his shotgun in his left hand as they walked through the woods to the fictitious treasure spot. He wasn’t wearing a sidearm. Chop was, but it was holstered and secured. That would buy Bull a second or two.

He led them deeper into the forest. Chop pulled out his flashlight to fight the oncoming dark. Benny stumbled over fallen limbs with his short plump legs, huffing and puffing the whole time. Bull stopped at a spot between five trees of the same size that were equidistant from each other. “This is it.” Bull said. He dropped the shovel and spit on his hands. He grabbed the pick and was going to start swinging into the soft earth when he felt a hand land on his shoulder. Bull sneered as he turned to see fingers so fat the meat was about to burst through the skin like overstuffed sausages.

“No games, Bull. We have a deal. You give us the money we get you to Canada. But don’t think I won’t cut you in half with buckshot if you double cross us.” Benny said. Bull could tell from the threat that Benny had never killed anyone. Killers don’t make threats. They just kill. Benny didn’t have the eyes of a killer, but Bull had no doubt the fat guard meant what he said. He jerked his shoulder free without reply and stabbed the ground with the pick. 

He made a show of it. Working at different angles, getting the ground loose for the shovel. He would stop and roll his neck or work the strain from his arms. The pauses in his digging were ruses for Bull to see if his companions were sufficiently excited. Their eyes were wide. The greedy are easy to mold. Bull mentioned the money and they were hooked. Like throwing a glass of whiskey in an alcoholic’s face. He’s going to lick his lips.

Bull hacked at the ground for a full forty-five minutes. That was by design. He put the pick down next to one of the trees and massaged his hands. He looked up. The stars were barely visible through the tightly packed leaves overhead. It had gotten dark quickly. He picked up the shovel and motioned to Chop. “Shine the light right there.” Bull pointed at the chewed up dirt circle he made. Chop aimed the beam down. “You ready?” Bull asked. Chop smiled and laughed with lust in his throat. Benny took two steps closer. It was exactly what Bull wanted.

He aligned himself so that his back was to the fat guard. He put his shovel into the earth and gathered up a full mound dumping it to the side. He did it again, and right after he dumped the dirt, Bull swung in a wide arc. There was a dull clang as the shovel hit the side of the fat guard’s head with so much force the wooden haft broke at the connection point. Benny’s head caved in at the eye and below. He fell like a sack of garbage.

Bull was still holding the broken shovel handle, and he didn’t hesitate. He ran to Chop who dropped his flashlight and went for his gun. Bull had him figured out all along. The untrained will go for the weapon that does the most damage. It’s natural. At a few feet away, Chop would have had a better chance using his fists. By the time Chop had his hand on his pistol, Bull clubbed him in the head with the handle. Chop fell, but he was still conscious, scrambling back to get away. “We had a deal!” He screamed as blood spilled down his face. Bull didn’t like to gloat over his victims. He thought added dialogue took away from the drama. He came down with an overhead strike smashing Chop’s head again and again until his only reaction was a limp flop in reflex to Bull’s hammer blows. Chop’s head was pulp.

Bull dropped the handle and a heard rustling from where Benny fell. His body was shaking, and foam gurgled from his mouth. Bull chuckled and grabbed the pick. He ended Benny’s seizure with a quick strike to the head.

He was in his teens when he had his first taste of killing. He stomped on a homeless man’s head when he tried to mug Bull. To his surprise, he didn’t feel bad or guilty about killing him. He felt refreshed, like a cool shower or a drink of water. And that’s how he felt now seeing Chop’s smashed skull and the pick sticking out of Fat Benny’s head. Bull stood straighter, he breathed deeper. He was a better man now. Stronger. More confident. Scrubbed clean. Sick? Possibly. That was something Bull was willing to accept for the invigoration that always came with killing. And it had been too long.

Between the two guards, Bull was able to change his clothes. Chop’s pants were a little snug, but Benny’s would have uncomfortably large even with a belt. He had to settle for the fat man’s shirt and jacket though as his skinny companion was covered in blood. He picked up the shotgun and put on the gun belt. He waved goodbye to his corpse liberators and started back to the van.

It wasn’t hard to find even in the dark. Bull made a straight line at a ninety-degree angle from where they stopped to make getting back a no brainer. As for the bodies, Bull left them to the worms. They would be long gone before anyone discovered them. He got in the van and started it up, on his way to freedom.

Five minutes into the drive Bull realized two things. One, he didn’t know where he was, and therefor didn’t know where he was going. He started in the same direction they had been driving before. Bull told them to go east because that was the direction to Canada from where they were, but he didn’t know where he currently was deep into the weaving switchback road. Second, traversing the winding road in the dark was much more difficult than Bull expected. He had the brights on, but all he could see was the few yards of gravel that constituted a road in his high beams and the ever thickening walls of trees that moved closer to him the further he went.

He slowed the van to a crawl watching the lights and the sides of the road for anything that might tell him where he was. Surely, there would be sign sooner or later. He glanced at the gas tank and saw he was a hair over half full. Ever the optimist. If the tank was full when they set out and they were averaging twenty miles a gallon on a twenty gallon tank, Bull had near 200 miles left before he ran out of gas. Anywhere else that would have been fine. In rural Alaska, it was a concern.

He pulled the van over and turned off the ignition. He opened the glovebox and rummaged through it. He looked in back and under the seat. There had to be a map or something in the van, but no such luck. He glanced at the radio for a split second and put the idea down. There was no way they wouldn’t figure out what happened. Bull was a great liar, but even the greats have their limits.

Coming up empty-handed in his search he decided he would take his chances and keep going. He could probably squeeze a few extra miles out of the gas tank if he was really careful. Bull put the key in and started the van. Nothing. He pumped the gas a few times, checked to make sure the transmission was in park and tried again. Bupkis. He took the key out and put it back in a few times trying in vain to start the van and got the same result.

“Goddammit!” He said out loud. He wasn’t sunk yet though. Bull spent a few years as a mechanic before his sentence. It might be a simple fix, he thought. He got out of the van and popped the hood. The canopy of the trees was like a black umbrella blocking out the night sky. It was so dark Bull had to squint to see anything further than a foot. He went back to the van and got the flashlight. It didn’t turn on. The damn thing was fine not ten minutes ago. Bull unscrewed the top and switched the batteries around. Same result. A fleeting thought entered his head. This is how horror movies go. Bull shook his head and pushed the thought away. He could feel the closeness of the forest right up against the road. It was like being in a closet.

Bull decided he would walk up the road a little way. Just a little, to see if there was a road sign or marker. He was looking for anything that would give him a clue to where he was. He didn’t go more than fifty feet away and he made sure to stay on the road. Keeping the van in sight was futile. It was white but it might as well have been covered with stealth technology for as much as Bull could see as soon as he took ten steps. It was quiet. No owls hooting. No rustling of leaves in the wind. Now that he thought about it, there was no wind either. The only noise came from his feet walking along the road.

 “Screw this.” He said. Bull didn’t get the fifty feet he allotted himself when he abandoned the idea of walking down a pitch-black road in the middle of Alaska all alone. The van was dead, but it was still a shelter. He could sleep there until morning and get a better lay of the land. It was getting colder in the darkness, but the van had a blanket. With that and the jacket he had, Bull would be plenty comfortable.

He turned and started back to the van when he bumped into something. He groped in the dark and felt the striated bark of one of the tall trees. He was certain he didn’t stray from the way he came. But Bull couldn’t find the van. He hadn’t gone more than a handful of paces, and he’d lost his temporary sanctuary.

  Bull walked further than the distance he left. He still hadn’t found it. His pace quickened. His hands got sweaty. Had it gotten even darker? He started to make noises in his mouth like clicks and whistles just to have something break up the monotony of silence. Then he heard it. The gentle squish of his boots on the ground. Rick was positive he never left the road, but there he was in a forest so thick he had to turn his body sidewise to squeeze through the trees.

His gun belt got caught while he was shuffling in the dark and he took it off to move better. He was holding it and weaving his way through the brush and brambles when something hit his arm, and he dropped the belt. Rick bent down to get it. He was already lost. He didn’t want to be lost and unarmed. He felt around but he couldn’t find it. It would have fallen straight down, and he heard it hit the ground. Wait. Did he hear it hit the ground? He wasn’t sure. He groped around in the dark for what felt like a long time and came up empty.

Maybe he was losing it, but while he was on his hands and knees feeling around in the dark for something he already knew he wouldn’t find again, the trees were closer than before. Bull crawled a little bit to find his lost gun, but not so far that the terrain would have changed. He stood and wiped his hands off on his guard jacket. He took a breath.

He spun in a circle looking for a way out. His hands stretched out on either side banging into tree trunks. Every time Bull moved, a part of his body hit something. He unbuttoned the top of Fat Benny’s oversized shirt to catch a breath. His mouth was met with dryness. He swallowed a lump of nothing that hurt going down. He swayed on his feet clutching at anything to keep himself upright. Until finally a soft pinprick of light shone at him in between the thicket. He was light a moth unable not to go to it.

Bull walked into a clearing in the middle of a near wall of trees. He focused only on the light, faint as a whisper, coming from a tumbledown hut of mud, sticks and straw. There was a ring around the structure dug into the ground like a tiny moat ten yards away with the hut at its center. Stars were over his head again. The all-encompassing canopy had opened. Bull took a second to catch his breath and slow his thundering heart. When he gathered himself, he stepped over the tiny ring around the hut, and everything went black.

Bull’s eyes fluttered open to a messy dark blur. He could smell smoke and the distinctive musty odor of old cloth with a hint bowel mixed in. He reached up to rub the atrophy from his eyes. His arm didn’t respond. Bull willed his hand to his face but nothing moved. He blinked trying and get his wits back, and after a few seconds his vision cleared.

He was staring up at a lattice of sticks and vegetation. His eyes were dry. He tried again to rub them, but his arms didn’t move. Bull was laying on a bed made of the same material as the roof. He raised his head and saw he was inside a small square room. A cookfire was in a cobblestone hearth in the corner that looked like it had been repaired several times over its life. The walls looked the same as the roof, but the floor was dirt.

Bull tried to get up. He was stuck, and it wasn’t until he saw the other person in the room that he realized He couldn’t move because his hands and feet were bound to the bed. The man, Bull thought it was a man, had his back to him. He was hunched over the fire wearing a threadbare blanket over his shoulders. He had long stringy grey hair so thin Bull could see patches of aged skin on his scalp even in the dim light. The smell of smoldering wet wood filled the little space. His head was misshapen. Like something fell on it and left a dent.

“Hey.” Bull said. His throat was dry as a cracker. He cleared it and tried again. “Hey!” The man didn’t respond.

Bull yanked against the ropes. He only managed to start the beginnings of a rope burn. He tried banging his feet to loosen the binding. He was held fast. He licked his lips. His tongue was like jerky rubbing over sandpaper. “I was stuck on the road.” He said in his most pitiful voice, but he was only a quarter acting. “I got lost. I was looking for a place to sleep.”

The man stopped fiddling with the fire and pulled something out. He held it to his side. Bull saw it was a glowing hot blade. He looked around the room for something, anything that might help him. Hanging on the wall was Chop’s gun belt next to a war club that looked so old Bull initially mistook it as part of the wall of sticks.

The man walked over to the weapons. He kept his head turned away from his captive and pointed at the gun belt with a bony finger. “You.” He said. His nails were long with ragged ends. Then he pointed at the war club “Me.” His voice was low, almost bestial. Bull got the impression the man hadn’t spoken for a long time.

“Yeah?” Bull groaned. His voice trembled. “Well, you can keep the gun belt. Just cut me loose and I’ll be on my way.” He hadn’t expected it to work, but he had to try.

He turned to Bull, finally showing himself. His nose was flat and sunken into his face, and his eyes were set deep into his skull, like someone pressed them into the sockets with their thumbs. His forehead jutted out over his eyes making a shelter for them and his chin turned up to meet it. In prison, Bull saw a lot of scars and deformities. It’s just part of the life. His captor had a disorder or defect, Bull had never seen. He looked other worldly. The shape of his face reminded bull of a capital C. C for crescent…crescent moon.

Bull jerked against the ropes so hard the bed jumped. The man advanced. Bull yelled for him to stay away. He pleaded. He threatened. He begged. He thrashed hard against the ropes rubbing his wrists raw and bloody. The man lowered his face to Bull’s. He opened his mouth in a wide grin. His maw was black. His gums receded down to the bone making great gaps between his rotted teeth.

He jabbed Bull in the chest with his terrible finger then slapped himself in the chest. “We same.” He raised the hot knife, cut a piece of his finger off and popped it into his mouth. Bull screamed. The man pulled up Bull’s pinky and slice it off putting it in his mouth as well. Bull cursed the man. He told him he would kill him. Then he told him he wouldn’t tell anyone about this if he let him go. Then he told him he had $40,000 that was all his if he cut him loose. The bindings were wet and sticky with blood, but Bull could feel them getting looser.

The old man put his thin calloused hand on Bull’s forehead to hold him still. He didn’t force Bull’s head down. He wasn’t harsh. It was a tender gesture, compassionate even. His face was so close he was out of focus, but Bull saw his sunken eyes. It was familiar and chilling. He understood how long it had been for the man to go without the refreshing rinsing of his soul from the blood of others. He recognized it because Bull saw that lustful stare in his own eyes. And he knew Crescent Moon Man was right. They were the same.

He started to speak. Not like before where he struggled. He was fluent and graceful. It was like he was speaking backward deep from his throat in more than one voice. It might have been a beautiful language. Bull didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t any indigenous dialect he’d ever heard. He quietly wondered if it was of this world at all.

As the man chanted. Bull felt his jaw start to disobey him and his lips parted. He commanded his mouth to shut and used all his strength to clamp his teeth together, but they only responded to the words Crescent Moon Man spoke. Bull’s eyes streamed tears as he made incoherent cries for mercy. The man leaned over Bull and opened his mouth, A stream of black sludge spilled out into Hick’s. He gasped and choked and did everything he could to spit the vileness out. He was powerless as he swallowed the hellish dark ooze. “I you, and you me.” Crescent Moon Man said and pointed at Bull. “You I and me you.” He poked his thumb at his own stomach.

Bull flailed hard against the bed, and with a giant twist, the rope snapped. He pushed the old man away knocking him to the floor. Bull reached for the ropes of his other hand and pulled them loose. He was in the middle of untying his feet. When he heard the old man laughing. It was strange to define, but Bull was certain he heard that laugh before.

“Too late.” Crescent Moon Man said in a voice that was all too familiar.

Hick kept untying the ropes around his boots and watched in shocked silence as his hands withered into bony appendages with long chewed fingernails. He turned to the man, who was standing straight and tall. His grey brittle hair sucked into his head as a new chestnut crop sprouted. His features smoothed. His body filled. Before Bull’s eyes he watched a myth, someone that wasn’t supposed to be real, morph into an exact copy of him.

“No!” Bull said in a guttural animal shout. He grabbed his neck to stop the alien sound and felt leathery worn skin. His hands brushed his chin sticking out, curling up to a huge forehead that jutted out over his eyes like a visor.

Crescent Moon Man gave Bull a bow and walked out the door. Bull quickly, as quickly as he could using decrepit hands, finished with the ropes, and stood from the bed. A bolt of pain from the soles of his feet to the top of head shocked him. He swayed but managed to stay standing and stumbled out the door after his doppelganger.

The body was young and spry as it nearly skipped away from the hut. Bull’s body wouldn’t cooperate. He was moving as fast as he could, but his feet would barely rise off the ground. Every step was like his body was falling off a ladder. He wheezed. He coughed to catch his breath. After he couldn’t take anymore, Bull stopped and put his hands on his knees. He hadn’t gone five feet from the door, and he was panting like he’d sprinted a marathon. “Wait!” He screamed, and he felt the pain rock his body.

Crescent Moon Man stopped and turned around. “It’s your curse now.” He said. He stood stock still on the other side of the moat circle. Bull did his best to slow his breathing. He shuffled to the edge of the circle. Bull reached up to throttle Crescent Moon Man’s neck and his hand banged against something as hard as metal. There was nothing there. He tried again and was halted again by an invisible barrier. He tapped the air with a gnarled fingernail. “You’re tied to the land Crescent Moon Man.” Said Crescent Moon Man. “You have to pay for your crimes.” With that Crescent Moon Man walked away, And Bull fell to his knees screaming into the dim sunrise, pounding his hands on nothing.  

I’ve been involved in martial arts (specifically Judo) for thirty years. There’s a lot of misconception about what a martial art is and even more about what it isn’t. The internet has done a great job of debunking those myths. When I was a child in the 80s things like the no touch knockout, chi energy, breaking bricks…they were all taken as martial arts reality. Borderline magic, but real. How can so many people be convinced of something that was pure bullshit?

We know now thanks to the rise in MMA and the accessibility of gyms that those once mystical techniques don’t exist except for charlatans and they saps they prey on. We see it all the time. Those so called “arts” are going away. people are getting the message: fighting without fighting isn’t fighting.

In my experience, the best martial arts for defense in general are the ones that are sports. Martil arts that are not tested in a real combat situation don’t work. Some people say that sports aren’t “real” either. That rules in a fight isn’t a real fight. I have to concede that point to a degree, but just because a situation is controlled doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Step on the mat with any wrestler or get in the ring with any kick boxer and tell me it isn’t real.

You have to train against an unwilling opponent to know how to fight. Teaching situational fighting is just plain dangerous. “When your opponent does this, you do that.” doesn’t teach self defense. It teaches you to wait until your opponent HOPEFULLY does the thing you’ve trained to defend. That ain’t how life works. Any real martial artist will tell you that the best way to defend yourself from a fight is to avoid the fight. There are too many unknowns: does your attacker have friends in wait, do they have a weapon, are they a trained fighter?

Also, a little knowledge goes a long way. If you’re a martial artist, you’re walking around with knowledge other people simply don’t have. You could seriously injure someone. I know some of you are saying that if someone attacks you, the gloves are off. You’re right. Do whatever you have to do to defend yourself. I’ve been in a fight with someone who attacked me that didn’t know how to fight, and I did seriously injure him. Looking back on it (and rarely a day goes by when I don’t) I could have avoided the whole thing.

Martial arts are great for fitness, control and even academic study. They’re also a fantastic social outlet. Some of my closest most meaningful relationships come from who I’ve met while doing Judo. They’re a tool just like any other. Tools can be used irresponsibly.

If you’re looking to get into martial arts, these are the ones I recommend based on nothing but my experience and opinion:

Judo-Of course I’m going to say the grappling art/sport I’ve been doing most of my life. Judo is an international sport, and in terms of participants, it’s the second most practiced sport in the world (behind soccer). I think Judo is particularly good for girls because it focuses on technique over strength. The training is rigorous and is taught uniformly all over the world.

Brazilian Jiu Jitsu (BJJ)-Another grappling art. Some people get upset when I talk about BJJ when I say it’s easy. It is. I mean that as one of its strengths. It’s easier on the body and it’s easier to learn. There’s a reason towns of 3000 people don’t have a pizza place but have a BJJ gym. The majority of the training is done on the ground and focuses on submitting opponents by twisting limbs or strangling. I think for adults in the their 40s and above, there is no better option. But everyone can do BJJ. It also has a culture of inclusion many other arts wish they had.

Boxing-Yep! Straight up, Western world, Sugar Ray Leonard boxing. I can’t think of a striking art more accessible and more effective. There’s a reason it’s called “The Sweet Science”. Boxing is simplicity at its most beautiful. There are only a few techniques, how you integrate them to you personally is what makes them effective. Boxing is everywhere, and has on several occasions turned someone’s life around with its focus on discipline. Boxing is great.

Wrestling-A school sport, an Olympic sport and probably the single most grueling training regimen of any sport in the world, wrestling is for the tough. It’s brutal. It’s nasty. And most of all, it’s effective. If you want to be in better shape than EVERYONE and be a great fighter, be a wrestler.

Muay Thai-A bit of a hybrid striking art with elements of grappling, Muay Thai uses close up strikes with elbows knees and shins as well as distance kicks and punches with a focus on power strikes as opposed to jabs. Recently, muay thai has been incorporated into many martial artists training due to its adaptability and ease of integration (grappling and striking).

Whatever martial art you choose to pursue, do your research. Make sure the gym/dojo/studio you go to is legitimate. Things to watch out for…

-Advertisements that they teach discipline, self confidence…red flag. Those are things that are a byproduct of the art. Not the focus of it.
-Terms like “Grand Master”…this isn’t ancient China. Stay away from these guys. Those terms are for their ego, not your benefit.
-Contracts…I’m wholeheartedly against contracts in a gym/dojo. I understand people have to make a living, but contracts enforce your payment is more important that your instruction. When possible, go with a place that charges month to month.
-Children Black Belts…one of the biggest no-nos in martial arts in my opinion. Children under the age of 15-16 do not have the necessary experience or maturity to be a black belt. I’m sure there are exceptions to this, but any child that is an exception is also understanding and patient enough to wait.

Anyway, the main thing is to find something that works for you. And regardless of what I said, if you’re having fun and enjoying yourself, do that thing. There are tons of martial arts out there. Pick one and get started. If you don’t like it, pick a different one. Happy fighting.

Bullied and disregarded, Dustin is going to force everyone to notice him.

High in the tree behind the school, no one could see him with his green skin unless they already knew he was there. Camouflage wasn’t one of Dustin’s powers, but he used it to his advantage, just like his namesake. He adopted the title when he was done with the academy. He thought it was a unique and fitting moniker for his abilities. Apparently, he was the only one. Some people found it interesting, but most ridiculed him for it among other things. But that would change today. No more teasing. No more passing him over. They would always remember The Velvet Worm from now on.

     He lived with his grandmother after his parents died. They had a little inheritance they bequeathed to him. It wasn’t much, but it funded his training enough to get into the academy. He worked hard and graduated. His granny said that it would be the place where he would finally find his people. She was wrong. It was just like every other school he went to. On day one, Marcus Breese who took the name Paragon and eventually be the leader of the supergroup The Sentinels said Dustin must have been “bitten by a radioactive dork.” Guffaws and hoots were had all around. When he decided on his name. Marcus called him “Incel Sperm”. He was just another bully in a long line of bullies holding him back.

     He applied for membership in The Sentinels again last week but was denied. His power set was never the problem. Dustin failed the personality profile every time. It didn’t help that the person he hated most was the head of the team and had ultimate veto power over who joined. Dr. Monroe, his therapist, told him it was unhealthy to think like that, but Dustin couldn’t help it.

He tried to explain that he was just having a bad day when he threatened the clerk at the store. He’d been there many times and was always friendly with the young woman behind the counter. She had an anti-establishment vibe going with the pink hair and tattoos that Dustin really liked. After months of going there every day, following her on social media, learning her schedule and route to and from work, Dustin screwed up the nerve to ask her out. Suddenly, she had a boyfriend. Dustin knew this was a lie. He’d followed her home and peeked into her windows. She was solitary most of the time. She met with friends at local bars and restaurants, but the girl preferred to stay home and watch TV. Another thing about her that Dustin really liked.

     He called her out for her dishonesty. “You don’t have to lie. I know where you live. You don’t have a boyfriend. Just say you don’t want to go out with me.” Her face turned white at those words, and she called 911. Dustin had escalated to ranting about anything from why women were arrogant to where was this so-called “super privilege” everyone was talking about. People in the store videoed the scene. By the time the cops showed up, the video was posted. Dustin was escorted out of the store with a lifetime ban to any of its locations. The video went viral, and whatever slim chances he had for becoming a superhero were gone.

     He resented having to be in therapy. They used his many rants on social media about how white men are becoming a permanent underclass as a clear sign of unstable behavior. He was diagnosed with clinical depression, paranoia, obsessive tendencies. They revoked his temporary hero status and ordered him into psychiatric counseling. Dr. Monroe prescribed Lorazepam, Haloperidol and Sertraline. But he was allowed to keep his powers.

     His granny opposed that. She thought that Dustin was unhinged and could go off at any moment. The doctors felt he should continue to train with his abilities as it brought him purpose. And legally he hadn’t done anything to warrant his neutralization. After the last rejection, Dustin stopped taking his medication. And he’d had the epiphany that the only thing for him was fame in blood. He would have it today.

     It was a simple plan. Go into the school. Use his slime powers to immobilize as many people as he could and start slashing their throats with his claws. Teachers, children, whatever. Didn’t matter. He’d do that until the cops or heroes showed up to stop him, and he would only stop one way. Suicide by superhero. His mark would be made. They’d never say his name the same way again.

     He had claws to climb any surface, and his body was more fluid making him able to squeeze through tight spaces. His skin was green, which wasn’t that big of a deal. Many people changed their appearance to look more “heroic”. Colored skin, horns, ornamental fins, or scales, contact lenses were all relatively commonplace. He was stronger, too. Not like Paragon, but stronger than any normal human.

He’d heard of people with synesthesia, being able to hear colors and taste sound, but the concept wasn’t one he understood until his powers manifested. He could “see” with his skin. It was like a series of taut strings were pulled out from every molecule of his body and anything moving through the strings alerted him. And he had the slime powers that he could glop on an opponent to keep from moving. Dustin had all the abilities that made him a good support team member. So then why couldn’t the rest of the world see that? Dr. Monroe told him not to give up on his goal of using his powers to help people. “You’ll find your place.” He said, “It may not be what you expect. Be open for different opportunities.”

     The medication helped, but it made Dustin docile and slow. He liked to be sharp, ready for whatever danger might jump up. And danger was everywhere. He had to be ready. The anti-super sentiment was strong and growing stronger. There was a time in the country where superheroes were almost worshipped by the public. Those were better days. When heroes didn’t have their motives questioned. If they had to put a criminal down, that was that. Now, everyone had to bring up their rights. It was a sick world where people, like him, and Dustin by far wasn’t alone in this, would complain about heroes, yet they would be the first responders when the same people were in trouble.

     Things used to be simple. Heroes were beacons of hope and freedom. Clear cut. And there was still a strong vocal population that felt the same way. Groups like Men in Masks and Caped Lives Matter showed there were still people that wanted those simpler times back. But, Dustin didn’t see a place where he would ever be appreciated enough to be accepted by the world the way it was now. So, he sat in the tree waiting for the best time to strike.

     He had it all worked out. He mapped the best route and entry point from the floorplans he got from the internet. As best as Dustin could tell, minimum, he could take out at least fifteen people. He wanted to break the single day massacre record, but his would be the first known killing spree by someone who had completed the National Superhero Certification. They’d talk for decades about how The Velvet Worm slipped through the cracks of the system. How he exposed the weakness of a program that only looked for power. He wouldn’t be around to see it. Dustin would make sure of that. But his name would be on everyone’s lips: The Velvet Worm. Stone cold killer.

     “What’s wrong with our society?” They’d say. “All the red flags were there, but they just didn’t pay attention.” And there was the problem. No one paid attention. No one noticed that Dustin was bullied by the very program he so desperately wanted to be a part of. Thinking about it more deeply over the past week, Dustin came to the realization that it was never for him. They didn’t want free thinking people as superheroes protecting people’s freedoms. They wanted powerful police subjugating citizens. He was an outsider on the inside. And that’s why he had to do this. He didn’t belong. He never would.

     Dustin’s heart raced as he pulled out his phone. He stared at the selfie on his home screen. He hadn’t changed it since the academy. He had a sheepish smile next to a gorgeous girl who was blowing a kiss at the camera. Iris. She took that picture with him after they passed the trial in their first year. He scored well. Not the best in the class, but it was a respectable showing, and Dustin felt he was on his way. Iris gave him a huge hug and congratulations. She went on to be known as the superhero Lady Liberty. He’d been put on probation.

     He stuffed his feelings of nostalgia and unrequited lust down and opened his social media accounts. He had so many drafts of what he wanted to say. Manifestos that pontificated about the people left behind like trash. Declarations of the death of true freedom. In the end, Dustin thought enigmatic was the way to go. The less he left behind, the more they would talk about him. “It’s about to go down! The Velvet Worm strikes!” Nothing else needed to be said. He could already hear the pundits in their round table discussions screaming disagreements at each other. Chaos was its own reward for a man forgotten. This would be his legacy, and he looked forward to it.

     He took a deep breath and squatted down to leap onto the roof of the school. His plan was to go in from above. The more time he had to descend, the more casualties. He took one step off his tree branch when Dustin heard a commotion coming from behind him. A car was speeding to the school. The high pitched snarl of the engine made him tilt his head as it accelerated to the fence around the building. There was one final push of the engine before it slammed through the barrier and came to a stop at the front door. Two people got out. There were dressed in all black. Dustin couldn’t see their balaclava covered faces. He’d been on enough tactical supply websites to know they were wearing body armor. Each of them carried a rifle and had another slung over their backs. Without a wasted movement, the duo opened fire on the school’s glass doors and ran inside.

     Dustin planned his assault to the second. He studied the layout of the school for a week. His route was solid, and his potential for mayhem was high. And along come two jerkoffs with guns to do what other have already done and steal his thunder. Dustin thought about all the times he was called a failure or a loser. Turns out he couldn’t even go to a school that others didn’t have their eye on. He gritted his teeth and cursed himself.

     This was his swan song. This was supposed to be the thing by which he would be remembered, his legacy. Along came two keyboard warriors with their daddy’s guns to screw it up. Dustin was The Velvet Worm! He walked the walk. He wasn’t some fat roleplaying game nerd living in a basement complaining about everything but doing nothing about it. He was a superhero! He was going to show the world how badly the system operated. He would break the wheel. And wasn’t about to let anyone steal his thunder. Dustin crouched low and leapt for the roof.

     He landed into a forward roll and squeezed into the top floor using the air conditioning vent. There were maybe 6 people in the world that had a power that allowed them to squeeze into spaces that small. He slithered through the rectangular tube until he found the intake in an office. It was empty. He punched the vent off and dropped down into the room. It was eerily quiet. Dustin didn’t expect chaos before he started, but assumed there would be some activity. His training flashed in his head and remembered that a school would go on lockdown at the first sign of a threat. There were a few seconds between the gunmen running into the school and Dustin sneaking in. The administrators must have reacted faster than he expected, which meant the cops were already on their way. That just decreased his body count. He had to act fast if he wanted to still make a name for himself.

     He opened the door and ran into a hallway. It was deserted and dark. New protocol turned the lights off during a lockdown. A lone locker about 2/3 of the way down the hall was open with a backpack on the ground in front of it. The doors to every classroom were shut. Dustin sunk the claws from his hands and feet into the wall and shimmied up the side attaching himself to the ceiling. He crawled along staying tight to the surface attracting as little attention as possible. He made his way down the stairway to where the gunmen had come in. Maybe he could catch them before they stole any of his kills.

     He stopped and remained perfectly still when he felt the air shift around him. Someone was coming his way. Whoever it was would be his first kill. Dustin didn’t care if it was a gunman, a child or and teacher. This would be the start of his footprint, his indelible mark on the world.

     It was a man dressed all in black. He was wearing body armor, and his face was covered by a helmet, a full mask, and goggles. His rifle, military style with an extended magazine and a scope, was held out in front of him like he was invading a hostile building. Dustin could smell his sweat, his eagerness. He was alone. They must have split up to inflict maximum carnage. Smart.

     The man was partially encumbered with his gear. Extra magazines, smoke grenades, a second rifle, two handguns. He came prepared. Ready for onslaught. Dustin watched the man intently from the ceiling as he walked underneath. As he got closer, Dustin saw that the man was wearing night vision goggles. He thought if he remained perfectly still, he could drop down on the gunman when he passed. But he was a second too late in his thoughts. The man raised his gun to the ceiling and unloaded a barrage of bullets and obscenities.

     Velvet worms are not commonly known. They’re in a phylum all by themselves. But they are akin to insects and arthropods. One wouldn’t expect a worm to have keen reflexes, but like their evolutionary relatives, they have increased strength for their size. In tandem with his ability to sense air movement, Dustin developed a combination heightened agility and danger sense. The gunman was still firing in the spot but The Velvet Worm already rolled to the side. The bullets must have hit a pipe because the sprinkler system came on and showered the hall. Screams from inside the closed classroom doors accompanied the rain from the sprinkler heads.

     The gunman took a half a second to raise the goggles off his face. But it may as well have been an eternity. Dustin dropped from the ceiling and smashed the assailant with both hands. He had just enough time to see the gunman’s eyes grow wide in shock right before he sunk his claws into him. He fell to the ground in a lump, unmoving.

     A door creaked open behind him, and Dustin turned to see a teacher peeking through the crack in the door. “Stay back!” Dustin said. “I saw two come in. I’ll let you know when it’s safe.” He didn’t know why he said it. He could’ve run into the class and wasted everyone there. Fifteen minutes ago, Dustin would’ve said it was because he was saving the kills for himself. Hearing the shrieks from the children and smelling their fear, now he wasn’t sure. The teacher nodded her head and slammed the door.

     He loved the water. Even before he got his powers, Dustin loved swimming and boating. Hell, anything involving water. He would go outside the morning after a rain and throw sticks into the gutters then watch the running water take the stick all the way down the block and into the drain. He stood in the hallway soaked to the bone and feeling stronger by the second.

     He felt splashing footsteps coming closer. The smell. Sweat, lust for violence, even gunpowder. Dustin sensed it all through his hypersensitive skin. He didn’t have time to hide, and Dustin didn’t want to risk more gunfire. Someone could get hurt by a stray bullet. Why did he think that? What happened to his plan? With no time to explore his new feelings, Dustin started to run to the footsteps. The second man came around the corner with his rifle held down. He looked at Dustin who was at least twenty feet away. Then he looked at his friend lying in a pool of his own diluted blood.

     The man went to raise his gun. The look on his face was beyond rage. He shouted as he took aim. Dustin, as quick as he was, had no time to close the distance before the man fired. He had one chance. Two pores under Dustin’s ears opened and he shot out thin streams of sticky goo. It looked like two strands of silly string being launched from either side of his face. Dustin twisted and dodged most of the assault rifles sortee, but he felt bullets hit his legs. He screamed.

     When he looked up, the gunman was struggling with being covered in a layer of slime. The more he struggled, the more the slime wiggled its way into his clothes, making him and anything he was holding (i.e., his rifle) almost frictionless. He squirmed on the floor screaming and trying to stand only to fall again.

     Dustin’s legs stung. The pain sizzled his entire lower body. He dropped his hand to where he was shot to apply pressure. Dustin grimaced at the touch and cursed his ineptitude. One kill. And it wasn’t even anyone in the school. One measly kill. All his planning, all his work and study, and in the end all the bullies were right about him. He was a loser that was going to die nameless and unknown.

     The water started to wash the slime off the gunman, and he stood pulling his reserve rifle off his back. Dustin acted on instinct and jumped into the man knocking him to the ground He slashed at his armor and pummeled his helmet. The man tried to fight, but Dustin was too strong. The Velvet Worm hammered the man’s head until his screaming stopped and his headgear completely caved in. Dustin towered over his kill and saw there were no wounds on himself. He could barely stand the agony, but there was no blood. He patted himself where he was hit. Even a feather soft touch made him wince. He just got hit at point blank range from an AR-15, and to that point Dustin had no idea he was bullet proof. With only two kills now, he didn’t feel any better about his accomplishments. He saw the handgun on the dead man’s hip. If he ended it himself, maybe that would be enough for people to talk about him, but he wasn’t even sure if the bullet would do anything. He should’ve anticipated something going wrong. A smart man, a well-trained man would have planned for contingencies. He seethed hovering over his paltry two bodies. The FBI wouldn’t even call it a mass killing.

The water spray from the sprinklers ended, and Dustin looked at his work ashamed. At least he stopped them.

He felt shifting in the air. Several people were coming. This was his chance to go down in history. Dustin may have been able to survive a couple of bullets from one guy, but a squad of cops firing would take him down if he attacked them. Wouldn’t they? He braced himself to attack. They rounded the corners on opposite sides of the hall.

“On the ground!” They screamed, “Get on the ground! Face down! Hands on your head! Now!” A dozen cop voices blended. Dustin crouched as they raised their weapons, just as the doors to the classrooms burst open.

“No!” Yelled the children running. They collided into him with as much as their tiny bodies could manage. “He saved us!” They yelled. “Don’t hurt him!” They screeched. Cops were shouting. Kids were crying. Some even fell into the pooled water. The police were wading through the throng of balling grateful children to get at their would-be assailant. Dustin held his arm out to his sides and flinched at the pain in his legs every time a kid hugged him. It wasn’t until the teachers forced their voices above the din explaining that the green-tinged hero saved them all that the cops relaxed.

The police were wary, but they listened and lowered their weapons. Their leader, a heavy-set woman in body armor, ordered her men to escort the children out of the school. “Do you need medical attention?” She said to Dustin. He nodded. “Who are affiliated with?” She said as she helped him walk down the hall.

“Affiliated?” Dustin mumbled. His voice sounded funny. Like he’d been silent for years and these were his first words. His throat ached almost as much as his legs. Every step peppered him with a wave of sharp fire. There had to be some internal damage.

“Yeah. What group are you licensed through?” She asked. He didn’t have a license to use his powers as a superhero. He wasn’t certified. He didn’t answer.

Dustin walked like he was in slow motion. He walked outside the smashed front doors of the school with a police escort to raucous cheering. Two paramedics ran up and helped him down the steps to their ambulance. They checked his vital signs and injuries. He had severe bruising and muscle damage where he was shot, but the EMTs treating him said it wasn’t serious. He’d be as good as new in a couple of weeks. Everything was fuzzy, like his psyche was in a blue-gray cloud. “What is all this?” He managed to grumble as one paramedic checked his eyes for dilation with a pen light.

“Are you kidding?” He said, “You’re goddamned hero. You saved everyone in the school. The only people that got hurt were the assholes with the guns.” The pain in Dustin’s legs bellowed for him to disagree. A gaggle of police were holding back a larger group of reporters barking questions at Dustin. There were too many people speaking at once to decipher anything specific. Dustin shook his head. Until he finally heard one journalist ask. “Who are you?” Dustin went to answer but was cut off by a booming voice.

“That,” The sound rolled over the crowd. “Is The Velvet Worm.”  As if like the Red Sea, the crowd parted for the massive leader of The Sentinels. He was a giant so heavily muscled, he made body builders jealous. His red and white cape flowed behind him like an entourage. The crowd looked on in wonder. But Dustin knew Paragon. He would never be one to miss a photo op. Dustin’s heart started to race. The fear of his years of torment rose like the hackles on a junkyard dog. He clenched his jaw and swallowed.

     Paragon walked up to Dustin, smiled, and sat down next to him in the back of the ambulance. He put his arm around Dustin pulling him closely. The difference in size was comical. “This man,” Paragon said with force and sincerity, “Is not a certified hero. But his actions today will certainly make me reevaluate his application. His selflessness and bravery saved every person in this school. With no regard for his own safety, he thrust himself like a shield between the purveyors of evil and the citizens of the city. We owe him a debt, we cannot repay.” Diplomatic and resolute, Paragon spoke like a man running for public office. Everyone around him joined in applauding The Velvet Worm.

     He stood and pulled Dustin to his feet. Paragon was like a mountain dwarfing him. Dustin grimaced. The pain killer the paramedics gave him hadn’t started working yet. The massive superhero stuck out his hand for Dustin to shake it. Dustin grabbed it and felt like a baby shaking the hand of an adult. Cameras clicked and flashed catching the image. Paragon patted him on the shoulder once more and smiled. He walked away, but before he sunk into the murder of reporters who were anxious to get a soundbite from him, he turned back and yelled, “Hey Worm. Nice work.” Dustin watched him disappear into the tide of bodies, and grinned with the realization that he found the fame he’d been seeking by saving the school. He walked to the journalist’s shouting questions determined to answer them all.

————————————————————–

     Granny made him keep his appointment with Dr. Monroe. It had been two days since the incident at Shelton Elementary, and Dustin was still reveling in the fame of being a hero. He’d received calls from leaders of hero teams all over the country asking for him to apply. Lady Liberty called with congratulations, and it felt good to hear her voice again. The girl at the corner store cancelled her restraining order, but he didn’t feel the need to see her again. He was better than some cheap convenience store clerk.

     In truth, Dustin felt like he was better than Dr. Monroe now, at least he felt better about himself. He didn’t need him anymore. Dustin was neck deep in what he’d always wanted. And he’d earned it through pain and sacrifice. He was willing to give his life for his current position, but through an odd twist of fate, he no longer had to. The scenario could not have played out better if he had written it down and sold it as a screenplay.

     He opened the door to the office labelled Dr. William Monroe, M.D.s. It was a beautiful workspace. Dark hardwood floor, plush furniture, muted earth tones. Tasteful watercolor paintings hung on every wall. The plump receptionist was on the phone with some nobody, Dustin figured, and held the receiver to her chest. “Go right on in Mr. Deeley. Dr. Monroe is expecting you.” Dustin was mildly perturbed she didn’t give him any congratulations or recognition of his accomplishments. Normally, he would have addressed that with the good doctor, but seeing as how this would be his last visit, Dustin didn’t see the point. He had so many fans now, he didn’t need her. Just like he didn’t need these sessions. He was a celebrity. He called the shots.
     Dr. Monroe was sitting behind his desk writing in a notebook. His square glasses rested at the tip of his bulbous nose. He looked up as Dustin closed the door behind him. The doctor stood and walked around his desk taking off his glasses and putting them in the pocket of his burgundy cardigan. After the initial formalities of shaking hands and offering a bottle of water, which Dustin politely declined, Dr. Monroe motioned for Dustin to sit on the couch. The doctor sat in the wingback chair across from him. He crossed his legs and opened the notebook he was just writing in.

     “You’ve had quite the week.” The doctor said resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin in his hand. He wasn’t smiling. Dustin thought that was odd. So far, the only people that didn’t seem impressed with what he’d done were in this office. Even Granny fawned over him a little. Dustin shifted in his seat.

     “Yes. It’s something, huh?” He wanted Dr. Monroe to recognize his accomplishment. That the medication and the counseling wasn’t what he needed. What Dustin needed was to be seen for what he was: special. Unique.

     “Yes. It’s quite a thing you’ve done. All those kids…saved.” The way he paused between the words made Dustin shift in his seat again. “Have you been taking your medication?”

     “C’mon Doc. You know I don’t need that stuff anymore.”

     Dr. Monroe scribbled something in his notebook. “Was there something you wanted to talk about today?”

     “Um…no. Not really. Granny made me come. She said I started so I should finish.”

     “I see.” More scribbling. “You’re being reconsidered for certification, you know? It hinges on my recommendation.” Dustin rubbed his hands together. He suddenly felt heat in his belly. A righteous fury starting to simmer. Who the hell was this peon to hold his future over his head like the sword of Damocles?

     “Yeah?” Dustin half snarled/half grinned. “What’s your assessment then? Don’t leave me hanging.”

     “I’m withholding that for now. Just like I’m withholding that you’ve been in my care for weeks.” Dustin’s face went white. “Now that you’re famous, it’s going to come out that you have court ordered psychiatric care. To be honest, I’m surprised it’s been hushed this long.”

     Dusting said nothing. He tried to play it cool. He sat back and forced a relaxed posture, but he felt exposed. Too open. He went back to rubbing his hands together.

     “Tell me, Dustin: How did you know how to get in the school? That shaft you snuck in through seems like it would take some pretty intimate knowledge of the building. I know you told the press you happened to be walking by and saw the gunmen enter, but how did you know where to get in?”
     “What do you mean?” Dustin answered with nervous laughter speaking quickly and stammering over his words with “uh”s and “um”s. “I climbed to the roof and snuck in through the vent.”

     “Yes. That’s what you said. I’m asking how did you know where to go? And why didn’t you confront the gunman on the ground floor when you saw them shoot the front door? You probably could have stopped them there. Why take the time to climb up and get in? Seems like a waste of precious seconds for someone who has gone through extensive hero training.”
     Dustin was scratching the backs of his hands and bouncing his legs up and down. “What the hell difference does it make?” His voice cracked but he didn’t shout. “I got in and took them down. I’m a fucking hero. The school is even changing their mascot to The Velvet Worms!”

     “You potentially saved every person in that school. I’m just trying to understand what your thought process was.” He flipped through the pages in his notebook and tapped a page with his pen. “You posted on social media ‘It’s about to go down. The Velvet Worm strikes.’ several minutes before the gunmen entered the school. Either you knew they were going to be there, which then begs the question why you didn’t alert the authorities, or you were already there for some other reason when the gunmen arrived.”

     “I saved all those people, and you know it.” Dustin was constantly adjusting his sitting position and sweating. “No one wants to focus on that. Everyone wants to know why.”

     “Not everyone, Dustin. Just me. Why were you there?”

     Dustin didn’t answer, but he cleared his throat. The backs of his hands were rubbed raw from scratching.

Dr. Monroe leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The school is nowhere near your grandmother’s house, and not close to any of the places you normally go. What were you doing in that neighborhood?”

“I was just…walking around.” Dustin mumbled, not meeting the doctor in the eye.

“You don’t think people have already figured out the video of the person raving at the convenience store is the same person that saved,” he made quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “The school? The truth is going to come out, Dustin. Where would you rather it come out? Here?” He held up a smart phone. “Or here?” Dr. Monroe motioned around the room. “I’m here to help you. But I can’t if you’re not honest.” Dustin didn’t say anything, but he broke down crying. Dr. Monroe got up and sat next to him. Handing him a box of tissues. “Everything I’m asking you, the pressure you’re feeling, is nothing compared to what the public will do. They’ll go through your life with a fine-toothed comb. They’ll invade your privacy and harass your grandmother.” Dr, Monroe grew deadly serious, and he put his hand on Dustin’s shoulder. “They’ll find out about your sessions and how you haven’t been taking your meds. My guess is some people have already put two and two together. They’re going to figure out why you were there. What do you think they will think of you then?”

Dustin rubbed his hands and rocked back and forth. “I don’t know what to do.” He bawled.
     “You don’t have to know. But…” The doctor sat with his back straight. “I can’t recommend your certification.”
     Dustin’s initial reaction was anger which flowed to disappointment that morphed into understanding. “Yeah.” He said.
     “You did something heroic, but let’s not pretend that’s why you were there in the first place.”

Dustin spilled his feelings. And promised he would take his meds and not speak publicly about the school. He set up weekly visits with Dr. Monroe. He promised to delete his social media accounts and gave up on his dream of being a hero.

That’s what he told the doctor. And that’s what he would tell his granny. Saying what they wanted to hear was easy. He would wing it until he found the right place for The Velvet Worm to do his thing. There were other schools, other places where he could still make his mark. And there were other like-minded heroes that were set aside from the system because they were determined to be unfit, by a system that had gone soft.

Dr. Monroe could have just backed him up. He could have made all those stupid questions go away. Just more negativity he didn’t need. More of the same people that are destroying the fabric of the country. But Dustin would show them what was coming. He would still make his mark instead of being a novelty. He would do whatever it took to make heroes great again.

It’s here. The days of people physically writing want-ads, rental descriptions, installation and assembly instructions are over the onset of ChatGPT and AI generators will (not could…will) eliminate the need for many of those writing jobs. Time will tell if this turns out to be a good or bad thing. Regardless, it’s a not so slow moving glacier that’s parked itself on our labor pool.

Many writers I know are vehemently against using AI for their work. And I agree, especially for those of us who write fiction. “Hey ChatGPT, write a 60,000 word love story between a spaceship and a turkey dinner.” I mean, I’d read that story, but I’d rather someone actually write it (jots down notes for future reference).

That being said I think it’s important to ask if the same people that are so angry and vitriolic about using AI use self-check out or stand in line for a cashier. Are they driving a car that was built by a robots? Now, the blowback I get when I ask these questions is “You can’t compare burger flippers and cashiers to artists.” To which I reply, “Tell that to someone who can’t get a job as a cashier or lost their job due to automation.” Labor replacement is labor replacement, and it’s crucial that we put everyone in the same context. Artist aren’t special. One of the problems I have with so-called “creatives” is the same problem I have with any fundamentalist…anyone that defines themself through a single lens is a weak person.

I’m never for anyone losing their job. Once you remove the human from the labor you remove the humanity from the work. That’s not to say I’m a purist. You won’t see me pounding my laundry on a rock. But, we have to remember that we use the tools to get our jobs done. We shouldn’t substitute the tools for the work. AI is not any different. Every tool is double edged. Beneficial when they’re used properly, dangerous when they’re abused.

I heard a similar spew of negativity about sampling during the 80s when it came to hip hop. “They’re using someone else’s melody.” “It’s plagiarism.” “It’s not real music.” Meanwhile The Beastie Boys, Run DMC, Public Enemy, NWA, Eminem are all part of the rich American music lexicon, and all used samples. It wasn’t the end of music then. and AI won’t be the end of art now. Though it’s important that we stay vigilant to make sure it stays that way.

Cloning was going to ruin the world, too. Governments were going to manufacture test tube armies. Remember? We adapt. We innovate. We improvise. Personally, I’m not worried about an AI writing fiction. I going to continue to tell the stories I want to tell. Maybe an AI can write it too, but the AI can’t reach into my skull and change the way I feel about what I do. Ten, twenty years from now when the AI we know today has gone by way of the rotary phone and the cassette tape, we’ll be using it as the example of how the next great invention won’t destroy us either. Because it never has.

A woman with amnesia is trapped on an alien spacecraft.

A quick intake of air flooded her lungs like she was coming up from being underwater for too long. She blinked a few times letting her eyes adjust to the rigid burning light. Luna was in a room with featureless surfaces. There was no furniture. There wasn’t even a door. Her heart jumped to her throat as she looked through the small window into the vacuum of space.

She hyperventilated. Her vision got blurry. Luna stumbled backward until the wall was the only thing to keep her from falling. A hiss entered the room, and Luna darted her head around to see where the sound was coming from. She started taking deeper breaths. Her heart slowed. She was by no exaggeration calm, but at least her anxiety didn’t make her faint. As soon as she stood away from the wall, the hissing stopped.

She was alone dressed in what might have been a hospital gown made from a heavy metallic fabric Luna could not identify. She creeped to the window feeling her legs wobble with every footstep. She put her hands on the glass. It was unbearably cold, but Luna didn’t pull them away. She leaned in and looked down to see the clear a blue orb with the outline of Africa dead center.

She took a deep breath and stepped back from the window rubbing her hands together to warm them. She might have been dreaming or in some kind of compromised state. She thought about what she knew for sure. She knew her name was Luna, and she knew she was…what was she doing? Where was she before she found herself here? Her mind was like a blank sheet of white paper. There was nothing there. Luna tried to remember, and a spike of pain behind her eyes shocked her to her knees. Something was there. She just couldn’t access it. The only thing she could recall was a noise. A long sustained sound like from a movie maybe. The fuzzy memory from before made her tug at the hair behind her ears. She closed her eyes again, half in pain, half in trying to keep from going mad.

A whooshing from the wall made Luna jump. A rectangular doorway opened. What came through made her scream from the deepest part of her. It had four legs and two arms and was covered in fishlike scales that ranged in color from dark purple to muddy yellow. Its head was reptilian, snakelike with four eyes that looked Luna up and down and blinked simultaneously. It set down a tray of various vegetables. The snake creature made a gesture into its own mouth. It turned and scuttled from the room. Luna scooched away from the tray on her butt.

“You should eat.” A voice from nowhere said in the room. There were no speakers.

“Who are you? Why am I here?” Luna sobbed, pulling the heavy gown around her for protection and tugging her hair harder.

“You should eat.” The voice said again. It was clear and low.
     “Who are you!?” She screamed. Another hiss sounded. Luna looked around frantically scratching at the walls where the snake creature exited. There were no indentations or lines where a door might have been, but Luna pounded on the walls and screamed until her voice cracked. The hissing kept on, and she scrambled for a way out. Her eyes drooped and Luna started to slow her panicked thrashing until she was too weak to stand. She slumped to the ground and saw the door whoosh open. Luna watched snake creature come in right before her eyes shut.

***

     Flashes bombarded her. A group of people boarding a plane. Luna was one of them, but she was younger, just a girl. They were laughing. Another image of Luna with a woman. It was dark. They were dirty and hiding from something. The long low sound she almost remembered made her shake in terror. Then she was running. She could feel something right on her heels. She screamed.
     She was back in the room with the window. A new tray of food was resting next to her on the floor. She was still in the heavy gown. Her left arm was sore near her shoulder. She reached up to rub it and felt a bandage that wasn’t there before. She blinked her eyes and rubbed her aching head. “What…” She started to say, and the world went upside down. She vomited. Luna felt like she was having a hundred hangovers all at once. She wiped her mouth with her wrist. And tried to speak again. “What did you do to me?” She slurred. The room was still spinning.

     “You really should eat.” The voice from nowhere said. “We took tissue and blood samples from your major organs and systems: excretory, nervous, skeletal, reproductive…” The voice trailed off. Luna dropped her hands over her abdomen, and she worked hard to take a deep breath.
     “What are you going to do with me?” Luna said, her stomach fluttering.

     “We are trying to determine how healthy you and your species is.”
     Luna opened her mouth to ask why but stopped realizing she might not want to hear the answer. She spied the tray of food with a side glance and her stomach growled. She didn’t want to show how tired and hungry she was. Luna had no idea how long she’d been there. She was famished. On the tray was fruit and slices of raw meat. The smell caught her, and she couldn’t resist. She greedily grabbed a piece of meat and chewed it. It was a familiar flavor, but when she tried to think of what it was, the pain spiked behind her eyes. There were apples and grapes on the tray too. She knew what those were, but the meat eluded her.

     After several minutes of Luna gorging herself (Luna left the fruit alone) she used the bottom of her gown to wipe her mouth. The dizziness and queasy feelings were gone. “Why are you here?” She blurted out.

     “We are trying to determine…”
     “Yeah yeah.” Luna said dismissively. “But why?” She braced herself for the answer.
     “We are a collection of planets looking for new food sources.”

     Luna gulped. “Food sources?” She dropped the meat she was holding and backed away from the tray. She didn’t get an answer. Luna looked out the window to see Earth gently floating in space. She saw the outline of Europe. Something about it reminded her of…she reached into her mind for it and pain exploded in her head. She clenched her eyes shut and fell to the floor.

     “Please. Try to relax. We want to make this as comfortable as possible.” The voice said. Luna had knowledge of a few things, and she remembered seeing a documentary about slaughtering animals and how keeping them as calm as possible before they were killed preserved the flavor of the meat. She cursed her captors, impotent to do anything about it. The hissing started again. Luna held her breath for as long as she could, but ultimately succumbed to the darkness.

***

     She was chained to the wall. It was damp. She was covered with cuts. She pulled and tugged at the chains. She was older now. A woman. She was running. No. She was being chased. She felt the pain of the cuts. It was exquisite agony. Welcomed and ecstatic. They said they were trying to help her. She didn’t believe them. She never believed them. There was blood on her hands and in her mouth that wasn’t hers. She saw it in the night sky and raised her arms to embrace it.
     Her eyes popped open, and Luna was back in the room under the window. Two snake creatures stood flanking the doorway. They made no move to her. “We have determined that you are fit for consumption. You are free of disease and a good primary food source.” Luna shook on the floor. She opened her mouth to speak. “Do not beg or weep.” One said, interrupting her. “It spoils you.” A forked tongue shot out like it was sniffing her.

     Luna stood putting on as brave a face as she could. This was not only her end, but an end to everything she knew. And then she realized she didn’t know much. Whatever memories she had were suppressed. They advanced on her, and she turned her back to them. She looked out of the window into space. Earth sat on a sparkling black velvet backdrop like it was on display in a museum. If she focused, Luna could see satellites against the blue. She felt the scaly hands on her shoulders and cringed getting one last look at her home. Her eyes wandered up and like a punch in the face, everything flooded back to her. It was like a soothing wave washing away the pain behind her eyes when she saw it. The moon.

     Looking at her namesake she remembered it all. She remembered her trip to Transylvania when she was a girl. She remembered hiding from the beast that killed her mother but left her alive. Luna remembered in detail exactly who and what she was. The meat the snakes gave her, she knew why she liked it. And she remembered the low sustained sound. Not just a sound, a howl.
     Claws grew from her fingertips, and she slashed at one of the aliens without mercy. Its head fell to the ground with a thump. She grabbed the other by the neck. It pounded at her arm, but her horrific strength held fast. Her nose and mouth elongated, and coarse black hair sprouted all over her body. Pointed ears shot out from the sides of her wolflike head. “You’re wrong about one thing.” She snarled in an unnaturally horrible growl. “I have a disease. It’s called lycanthropy.” She licked her muzzle showing the snake creature her long white fangs and blood red tongue. “And make no mistake.” She dug her claws into its neck “It is fatal.” Luna tore the alien apart relishing the gore that sprayed over her unholy form.
     She howled.

I am proud to announce that my award winning short story, “Move. Eat. Repeat.” will be read on May 17th. The Kaidenkai is a fantastic podcast of all things spooky and supernatural. Curated and performed by Linda Gould, it’s one of the best podcasts for new writers of horror and supernatural fiction out there.

I’m honored to hear my story read by her.

Some of us remember having to trace letters when we learned cursive in school. You had to literally make your pencil follow the dotted line over the letters. We got graded on it. It was on my freaking report card! Page after page of the entire alphabet…but it worked. I learned cursive. Turns out I don’t need it anymore, but that’s not my point.

In Judo we practice something called “Uchikomi.” The best translation to English is “fitting in.” The theory is if you practice the mechanics of the move over and over enough, you’ll learn the move through familiarity and muscle memory. I use the same approach as Judo and cursive to writing.

The caliber or amount of work is, short term, not as important as the process of writing. Getting the work going, keeping it going, continuing a streak is where the value comes from. Repetition breeds excellence. Routine breeds quality.

Whether it’s 2000 words a day or one sentence doesn’t matter all that much to me. Working, sticking with it…that’s where the meaning is, for me anyway. Besides, one sentence is one sentence more than I had before I sat down in front of a blank screen.

Happy Writing.