7 Sins Saga: Greed

The briefcase sat on the desk.

It was a simple, leather-bound rectangle, placed innocently in the middle of the cedar desk. He looked up and across the table at the woman, who was sitting forward, with her elbows on the table. "Interested?" she asked, a slight smirk on her face.

He reached out a hand, used to taking things that were rightfully his, by birthright if not earned by hard work. He slid the case closer to himself, the metal clasps making an awful screech as they slid across the well-polished wood. He waved away his bodyguard, who left the room discreetly, the sharp click of the lock marking his departure.

Two sharp clicks permeated the silence. He hinged the lid up, obscuring the woman's face from view, and looked inside. Bundles of cash were stacked neatly, hundred-dollar bills that he imagined greeting him like an old friend. He was friendly and familiar with money, even intimate, and as he picked up a stack, he let it run across his fingertips in a gentle caress.

He turned his eyes upwards. The hatch to his safe box hovered just above his head - a safebox full of cash, gold bars, heirlooms, all of which he had obtained through various levels of legality. He accepted his kleptomania and need for possession in open arms, and it showed. His neat suit, gold cuff links, and band upon band of impressive jewelery all showcased his craving for more.

The smell of freshly laundered money was intoxicating. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting out an audible sniff that echoed around the boardroom. He could hear his guest shuffling around with impatience. Let her wait, he thought to himself. The money is as good as mine.

He opened his eyes, ready to negotiate. He reached out a hand and made to pull the briefcase closed. Something cold - very cold - touched his fingers.

A skeletal hand delicately stroked his arm. Slowly, the briefcase lid dropped, resounding with a sharp clack as the locks engaged, revealing the face of his client. As he watched in mute horror, her skin peeled back like the lips of a flower, shriveling into black crisps that crumbled into scattered ashes.

The skull grinned at him. "I was so hoping you would pass the test."

Its skeletal arms tightened until he cried out in pain. "And you should really give your bodyguard a key to this room. By the way, isn't all that money extremely heavy?"

He let out a shrill yell, but it was drowned out by a loud crunch from overhead. Looking up, he gasped silently as the heavy safe emitted a low groan, and the reinforced ceiling began to sag. The skeletal face whispered in his ear. "Oh well."

With a sharp crack, the hatch split open, pouring gold bars, stacks of money, precious gems and jewels, antique furniture, and all the goods he had ever collected; tons and tons of material wealth falling like rain. He screamed.

The Seed

I was cleaning my room today

and found a small pouch I didn't remember having

It was brown, made of a thin leather, and it had a black drawstring across its mouth.

I poked a finger inside, widening the opening, then carefully tipped the sachet onto its side, bouncing the edge on my palm to dislodge anything hidden within its depths.

Out rolled a small object that I at first took to be a pebble. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be some sort of grey seed.

I was about to throw it into my nearby trashbin when my curiousity struck.

Turning the seed over in my hands, I pondered what to do with it. Planting it seemed like the best idea, so I walked to the bathroom to get a small cup and some water.

The soil I scavenged from the bottom of my running shoes, which had been confined in my closet for the winter.

I knew the ground outside was too hard to obtain even a mote of soil from, so I had to settle for the secondhand dirt scraped from the treads of my Reeboks.

Tipping the dirt into the cup, I pressed my pinky finger in, making a hole just wide enough to admit the small seed.

As I tipped the seed in, an odd smell wafted into my nose. I sniffed, drawing a deep breath, trying to discern the scent from all the others in my room. It was acrid, like burning newspapers. It smelled like ashes.

The dirt quickly collapsed over the seed, burying it, and the scent of ashes.

I tipped a bit of water onto the surface of the dirt. It hung there, poised on the brown earth, the surface tension maintaining a round, bubble-like droplet.

Then it was sucked into the pores of the soil, as if something below had greedily drank it down.

I left to bring a bag of garbage to the garage

When I returned, rubbing my arms from the cold, the cup was gone.

At first, I thought I had left it somewhere, and that my mind had been distracted by the mess littering my bedroom floor

but then I noticed the thin ring of water on my desk where the cup had sat.

Upon closer inspection, I also noticed small tracks of water leading off the edge of the desk, like tiny footprints.

I tried to follow the thin droplets, but the carpet below had guzzled them up, leaving only a slight moistness in the material.

My door had been closed, so chances were that the cup was still in the room. I tried to pretend a draft had blown the cup off the desk, leaving a stream of water where it had tipped, but my window had been locked and shuttered. Even the blinds were down, and in a sudden grip of fear I tugged them open.

Light streamed into the room, but it only served to lengthen the shadows.

The lamp on my desk suddenly threw a threatening projection onto the wall. The plastic models on my bookshelf no longer looked like robots but demonic figurines.

Even my stuffed animals leered at me from their basket, their faces in eerie half-light.

I heard a quick scuffle from under my bed.

Cautiously, I reached for my Louisville Slugger, the wooden baseball bat I keep by the head of my pillow.

Slowly, I dropped to my knees. The unmade blankets dropped down to touch the floor. I reached a hand out to steady myself as I placed my head close to the ground.

With my other hand, I pinched a section of the blanket, ready to lift the curtain hiding whatever lay in wait under my bed.

With a cry, I pulled the blankets aside. Light streamed in, illuminating every dark corner. A jagged shadow lay huddled in the corner, sharp edges cast against the wall. I poked at it with the end of the baseball bat. It didn`t move, but made an odd clinking noise.

Using the bat, I manouvered the pieces into view. Shards of porcelain met my fingers as I reached out to scoop them up. The cup was shattered into 8 uneven pieces, each stained with dirt and a little water, which mingled into mud under my nails.

There was an odd red fluid that stained a few of the shards. I sniffed it carefully. It smelled like copper and iron.

I listened carefully. The silence enveloped me.

There wasn't a sound, other than the frantic beating of my heart.

I realized I had forgotten to breathe. I gasped once.

Twice.

Then something moved under the bedsheets, right in front of my eyes.

I grabbed the bat and swung. But whatever it was, it was fast, and dodged the crack by inches. It shuffled around under the bedspread, as I smacked the bed again and again, panting heavily.

I stopped to take a breath, and as I did, the lump under the sheets stopped too, as if it had read my mind.

A quiet tearing sound came from the rounded lump. A soft riiiiip that nevertheless penetrated the silence like a gunshot.

A hole appeared in my quilt. I spotted a thin claw, like that of a lizard, and a scaly, yellow eye. It blinked twice, then vanished.

The lump began to move again, this time towards the side of the bed where it met the wall. There was a thin crack there, between the frame and the wall, in which it would be able to slip and escape. I wasn't about to let that happen.

With the bat, I hammered away ferociously, blocking its movements with each swing. It seemed disorientated, moving in circles, trying to dodge my blows.

Eventually, it tried to make a break for it. The lump moved in a straight line for the edge, in a desperate gamble to reach the safety of the wall before I could take another swing.

The bat was too slow. Quickly, I scanned the room, and spotted my guitar binder on the desk next to me, within arm's reach. A binder filled with over 300 pages of tablature, as thick as a phone book.

I picked it up, hefted it onto my shoulder, and threw.

The book landed with pinpoint accuracy. I almost could hear a faint yelp, then the cracking of bones as the binder thudded, with grim finality, on the lump. It stopped moving.

Afraid of what I might find, I gripped the bat tightly in my left hand. With my right, I peeled the blankets back.

There was nothing there. Just a grey and black pile of ashes, and a thin trickle of smoke rising from them.

I picked up the entire bedsheet by the corners, avoiding the small mountain of ashes. Wrapping the cloth together, I bundled it into the garbage bag, then took the bag outside into the garage, pinching it by the corners.

I packed the bag, complete with the bundled bedsheets, into a metal bucket. Then I doused the entire thing with a generous amount of gasoline.

I brought the entire thing into my driveway. Standing a safe distance away, I tossed a match in.

I watched until the entire thing burned away. All that was left were ashes.

Feeling relieved, I returned to my room. The mess seemed less troublesome now, and I quickly disposed of anything unusual right away. My curiosity would not get the better of me again.

I tucked myself in that night, yawning from tension and nervousness. Closing my eyes, I put my hands behind my head, underneath my pillow.

And I felt something.

Hard. Round. Like a seed.

And another one.

And another one.

As I rolled them in my hands, realization dawning on me, I heard a thin crack. And another.

Then something cold touched my hand.

A Tearful Death

The Visitor
Oct 19, 2006

He was waiting for her when she got home.

He sat in the dark, on time, merely counting the minutes until she would return. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the blackness of the room, and the only sound was that of the ticking clock, counting by the seconds and minutes until she would return.

And suddenly, the front door opened, letting light spill into the room, chasing away the shadows. He rose as she entered.

For a few minutes they stood and watched each other. She seemed shocked, but then again, most people were, even though they saw him coming.

After a while, she spoke.

"I've expected you for a while," she commented in a weak but conversational tone of voice, as if she were talking about the weather.

"I know." he replied.

"You look more... weary than I expected. Not at all like I thought you would."

"Appearances are misleading. The occupation isn't the most rewarding in the world." He motioned to a maple dining chair. "Would you like to take a seat, before we end this?"

"Thank you. But if you don't mind, I'd like to have a cup of warm tea first, then lie back in my bed while you do... your business." She shuffled slowly to the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"

"Oh no, thank you very much," he replied, "but I can only stay for so long."

"I understand." She placed her warm drink on the bedside table. Rubbing her thighs with her hands, she turned away from him. "It's a very cold night tonight."

"Yes, I know. I brought the car along instead of the horse."

"Is that a joke? I didn't know this was so funny," she said, but there was a deep resignation in her eyes, and a glint of humor about the situation.

"Well, life is what we make of it, is it not? Humor can be seen in anything, and in my... line of work, humor is a necessary function- we armor ourselves with it, to prevent despair."

"I suppose it is. I'm just glad this is turning out to be so easy. I was actually quite nervous, but now that you're here, I don't really mind at all. I suppose there's no turning back now either."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, the ticking of the clock matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. Counting down the seconds, like a cruel Fortune, a despairing Fate.

"Do you have any questions before I do what I have to?" He moved from the shadows, took a seat in the chair opposite the bed, looking at her with his hands clasped.

"I... I do have one question..." She looked up at him with her eyes suddenly full of glistening tears.

"Yes?"

"Was it the drugs? Or just age? Or perhaps something else?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not the right person to tell you that. I'm here to do my business, and I'm passing through, just like everyone else."

She sat for a long while, without words, or movement. He sat equally as still and silent, waiting for an answer, a response, something.

Finally, she spoke.

"Are you going to kill me?" she said, her hands trembling as she reached for the cup.

He paused.

"You're already dead," He replied, touching her shoulder, and she was.

Taking the silk blankets, he tucked her in gently, closed her open eyes with tender love, and took the empty cup from her limp hands.

He pulled his hood over his head, picked up his scythe, and walked back into the streets.

The air outside was chilly. It matched the ice surrounding his heart, and the tingle of frost running down his spine.

He looked up at the full moon smiling down on him, and that was when the tears began to fall.

Abandoned: Part 1

"Fuck," Tom muttered to himself. His SUV kicked up a spray of rubble and sand as it rumbled over the dirt road. With one hand on the steering wheel, and the other on the map, he cursed again, periodically glancing up, before turning his gaze back on the map.

Looking behind himself, Tom checked that all his baggage was securely tied down. This road trip was shaping up to be a bad idea, he thought. First the overbooked hotel, the flat tires, and now he was lost, traveling down the backwaters of rural America, wandering around in the damn desert. When he had first set out, he was sure that the trip would be full of adventure - but now, all he wanted to do was go home, sit back and watch some television.

"Aarghhhhh!" Frustrated, Tom pulled over to the side of the road, his car tilting onto the sparse grass. The hot midday sun beat down relentlessly, heating up the leather interior of the SUV. Tom turned up the air conditioning, blowing the scents of suntan lotion and sweat away, and flapped the map open on his lap, sending a fine dust into the air.

With a pen, he marked down his route, trying to figure out where he had gone off course. The map was already criss-crossed with red lines, denoting stops and routes, distances and calculations. After a few minutes of staring at the unreadable mess, Tom slammed the map down on his lap and gave a strangled scream of anger. If there were only some gas station, or an information kiosk...

Suddenly, Tom stared off into the distance. Leaning forward, he wiped at the windshield. Nope, it wasn't a smudge on the glass - there was smoke rising from the horizon. A house? A station? Whatever it was, smoke meant people, and people meant help. Maybe they would have directions back to the main road.

Tom shifted into gear. Pressing his foot on the gas, the car roared and sped off, leaving dust clouds in its wake. For the next few hours, he drove, keeping an eye on the dwindling smoke pillar. Eventually by nightfall the smoke had disappeared, but Tom was certain he was headed in the right direction. His hunch proved to be right when he rolled into a small town at the base of a small hill - and just in time. The sun was going down at a fast pace, almost as if it were falling into the surrounding desert.

Parking his car in front of a lit house, Tom turned off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. As he approached the building, he noticed old-fashioned carts and churns along the side of the wall, and the lights emanating from the window appeared to be flickering alike candles, rather than electric lights. Maybe this was some sort of Amish community, like the brochure back in the car described.

Upon reaching the door and failing to find a doorbell, Tom knocked twice. He could hear muffled conversation from behind the door, and saw shadows moving in the tinted windows. The knob rattled, and Tom stepped backwards as the door swung open.

Simultaneously, Tom screamed and jumped backwards, as the... creature on the other side of the threshold did the same. The door slammed between the two, Tom rushing back to his car, frantically fumbling at the door, yanking it open, throwing himself inside, locking the door after him, and only then did he allow himself to take another breath. Panting, he looked back at the house, where shadows were moving quickly across the window.

What was that? He put a hand to his forehead. All he had seen were two wide circles for eyes, a long muzzle, a bald scalp. As the picture clarified in his head, he almost laughed in relief. It was just a gas mask - the strange nature of it was what had startled him. It was probably just some kids playing around. Tom tossed his head back and closed him eyes. It was the stress getting to him, making him see things that weren't there.

A knock at his window startled him. Opening his eyes, he saw a shadowy figure at the car door. He flicked on the interior light and wound down his window slightly. It was another gas-masked person, holding a candle. "Hello?"

"Who are you?" A muffled voice came through the mask, noisily echoing with the hiss of the filter. "What are you doing here?"

There was a strange lilt to the man's accent, something vaguely sophisticated. Shrugging it off, Tom responded. "My name's Tom, I got lost across the 402. I think I made a wrong turn somewhere. Do you know how I can get back onto the main roads?"

But the man didn't appear to be listening. Looking over his shoulder for a second, he turned back to Tom before asking more questions. "Why aren't you wearing a mask? Aren't you afraid?"

"Afraid?" Tom shook his head, puzzled. "Why are you wearing masks? Is there something I'm missing here?"

The man looked at Tom, his eyes unreadable under the gas mask, his expression hidden. Stepping back, he appeared to be observing the SUV. "What is this? Some sort of mechanized tank? Are you with the Germans? Where is your gas mask?"

"I'm German, yeah - I mean, my parents were born in-"

Before he could continue, the man reared back. Turning around he ran back into his house, shouting something unintelligible. Tom stared, utterly confused, and a little frightened. This place was weird.

Dinner

They noticed the jar when they opened the door.

It was sitting on the coffee table, innocent and plain. The grey, rounded sides gleamed in the light; it hadn't been sitting long enough to collect any dust. The family crowded around it, with their bags dropping to the dusty floor. A round container, with a tightly screwed on lid. There was no indication to who sent it.

"Ooh!" Jane exclaimed. "What's in the jar mommy?"

Julia looked puzzled and frowned. "I don't know dear. Mark?"

Mark picked up the object with both hands. "It's really heavy... must be something inside. But who could have left it? We were on vacation for weeks!"

"Only your mother has the other keys to this house. She must have left it here," Julia said. "Remember last time, when she left us those cookies to welcome us home?"

"Grandma left us a present?! I bet it's candy!"

"Don't be stupid," Cody said. "It's probably old-people raisins or something."

Jane reached for the jar. She set the heavy object down on the table, then twisted the lid off. The family leaned forward in anticipation to see what was inside.

"Huh?" Mark swiped his finger into the substance inside. "What's this stuff?"

A grey powder lay inside the jar, almost to the brim. It was very fine, in grains like pepper. Mark sniffed it. "It smells like some sort of spice."

Julia scooped some into her palm. Dabbing a little on her finger, she gave it a lick. "It's a little salty, with a little bit of a bbq taste. I think it's some sort of salt seasoning."

"I'll try it on dinner tonight, just to test it out." Julia took the jar into the kitchen.

Mark and the kids unpacked the clothing from their suitcases while Julia prepared dinner. Soon enough, the sweet smell of food came drifting into the hallways, a more effective dinner-call than a bell. The entire family was gathered by the table only moments later.

"Wow! This is really good!" Cody took another bite of his chicken wing.

"Is this the spice grandma sent us?" Jane reached for another piece.

Julia nodded. "It's good isn't it? I'm surprised I've never heard of this before, it seems as if something so good would be more popular."

Just then, the doorbell rang. Mark rose from the table and wiped his mouth. "I'll get it."

Peeking into the peephole, Mark spotted a grave-looking man standing on the porch. Opening the door, he greeted him. "Hello. Can I help you?"

The man handed over a letter in a tan envelope. "This came for you. I'm sorry."

Before Mark could ask any questions, the man had already turned and gotten into his car. With a shake of the head, he drove down the road an out of sight.

Closing the door against the cold air, Mark walked back to his family seated around the dinner table. "Some weird guy in a suit. He said he was sorry, and gave me this letter."

"Open it!"

He tore open the letter and laid it down so everyone could see. The letter was printed on a very official looking paper and read:

Dear Mister and Madam,

I hope this news reaches you before the accompanying package. I regret to inform you that on June 13th, social workers discovered Mrs. Belkin's
deceased body in her room. Upon further investigation, it was discovered she had perished almost immediately after suffering a fatal heart attack. Upon the reading of her will, it was deemed that was to be cremated, and according to her last wishes, spread among the garden of her family home.

The accompanying jar contains her remains.

Again, deepest condolences for your loss.

Sincerely,
Arkham City Morgue


**Author's note: Sorry. This wasn't as descriptive as most of my stories. I did this in a rush - the next one will be better, hopefully.

A Conversation

A Conversation
October 17, 2006

He closed the door behind him, with a soft click.

He knelt down, genuflecting himself as if before an altar. He looked up at her.

She looked down at him. She looked, but did not see. Or she saw, but did not look. Her eyes were always open, with that blank, milky stare.

He touched the hard wood of the chair, placed his head on her lap, closed his eyes and sighed. He reached blindly for her hand, but like some elusive phantom, it evaded his grasp.

Perfection.

Raising his head, he searched her face for meaning, but he found none. He searching for solace, but found despair. He searched for peace, but found agony. Such irony to the damned.

He took both her hands between his own. They were as cold as the dead moon, as icy as his heart, as still as the night air. But in them, he found meaning alike his own, reason that matched his mind, feeling that strummed the heartstrings of his soul.

With hesitation, he stood, slowly, as if unsure whether she would take offense.

He leaned in, looking into her gaze, letting himself be drawn in by that unblinking stare. He touched her face with his warm hands, and felt a chill run down his spine at the coldness of her beauty.

He touched her lips with his own.

Her mouth was dead, her lips unresponsive, her tongue as still as a sliver of ice... and yet, it still invoked some passion within him, some deep primal urge.

He separated his mouth from hers. He could taste her essence, he could feel her spirit, he could hear her voice on his trembling lips and tongue.

He looked up at her face, that perfect face. As perfect in death as it was in life.

Standing, he looked away with remorse, regret, and a longing that would only be satisfied the next time they spoke.

He opened the door, letting light stream into the room. He took one last look at her beauty, then turned away.

He closed the door behind him, with a soft click.

He touched his tattered gloves to his face, and turned his head towards the falling stars.

As he felt the wind pass through his hair, and the setting of another day.



Note: No I do not have dead bodies that I make out with in my basement. That's why it's called fiction. Hope you enjoyed this. Or, er, you know. It creeped you out. As Halloween approaches, I'll try to scare you and myself a little more each day XD.

The Ninth Master

The Ninth Master
August 14, 2007

"He doesn't get out much, does he?"

"I don't know if he has any friends."

"I've never seen him even talk."

Jonas heard all their comments. The school hallways smelled the same as usual: cigarette smoke hazed the air, while the sharp scent of sweaty bodies clung to him like a living being. The comments would sound harsh, even if they did bother to keep their voices down, but Jonas continued to trudge through the littered corridors. There wasn't much interesting about the outside world nowadays. Not since he had found her.

Just this morning, he had whispered a quiet goodbye as she lay huddled under the sheets. Of course, she couldn't respond, but he felt her response in his heart. From the first day, he knew that everything else was a waste of time, and the only real thing was what she brought to him. And even as he passed under the doorway of his first class, he had her in his thoughts.

"Jonas, you're late again," the professor muttered. Jonas stared back blankly, until the older man looked away; it was their daily ritual, and neither of them really cared much anymore anyways. The teacher had become an annoyance, the student had become an oddity. Jonas' relationship with school could be compared to a fish's relationship to water. The fish lives in water because it has to, and even if it desired to, it could never leave without much struggle.

The teacher's voice drained like a unplugged sink as the day dragged on. Jonas found himself ever restless, fidgety and anxious. It was the same ritual every day, how he longed for the clock to tick by faster, for the sun to set sooner, and that every moment would bring him closer to her. Yes, it was true what his schoolmates had said. He had no friends, no human ones, at least. But as long as he had her, he would never be alone, never be unhappy, and the sharp words would bounce of his love for her.

And finally, the sharp twang of a school bell rang, signaling the end of another long, tedious day. The air filled with the sound of clashing desks, the rustle of schoolbags, and the muttered 'Goodbye sir," and "See you tomorrow, sir". Jonas packed up, and without a glance at his teacher or classmates, he walked out the door.

He went straight home. While others went to the mall, or hung out behind the school with drugs and cigarettes, Jonas pelted straight for his house, running all the way, even though his lungs crackled in protest and his brain pounded in response. Throwing open the door, he climbed the stairs on all fours, three at a time, ignoring his mother's calls, and slammed his bedroom door shut, locking it in once swift motion.

She was already there, waiting for him.

***

The next day, when Jonas woke up, he hopped out of bed and went straight to her, without bothering to turn on the lights. For five minutes, he basked in her warmth, taking her in like a seamless vision. He only stopped when he heard his mother calling, and then he knew it was time to go.

"Goodbye, love. I'll be back," Jonas whispered. He only spoke to her nowadays, so his voice had degraded into a harsh croak from lack of use. But he knew she didn't care, she didn't mind what his voice sounded like, only caring that he was there, and when he was away.

The ritual began again. Brushing his teeth, taking a shower, getting changed and eating breakfast. He did all this mechanically, because when he was away from her, his spark of life was gone, his soul was taken away, and nothing could compare to the emotions she aroused in him. He headed towards the school, once again a zombie, and arrived to the whispers and jeers of his ignorant schoolmates.

"You're late again, Jonas," the professor muttered, once again falling into the same, repetative routine. Jonas barely muttered a response, taking his usual seat at the middle of the class.

Balls of paper flew, whispers rebounded from student to student, and the teacher droned on and on, and all throughout, Jonas just kept an eye on his watch, every tick a crash in his heart, every moment bringing him closer. Then, as the last tick of the day snapped past the 60 minute mark, the bell clashed again, and the students jumped up in unison, grabbing bags and wayward pencils, and all heading out as one herd.

Jonas, again, dashed for home, his jacket trailing. He could see his house now, and in his house, his room, and in his room, he knew she waited. So he kept his eyes on the prize, and almost didn't notice as he bolted into the busy intersection, at least until the SUV came out of nowhere and broke both his legs at the knees.

***

Jonas awoke, in a brightly lit room. At first he couldn't figure out where he was. His mother was there, and one of his old friends from school, from far back when he actually had friends. He could feel a sharp pain in his lower body, and when he tried to stand, the pain came with such intesity as to make him gasp.

"No dear! Don't move!" his mother shouted, holding both his bandaged legs still. The sharp tang of anaesthetic hit his senses as he realized what had happened. Immediately, he knew, and struggled ever the more fiercely, until his mother called a doctor, and he felt the needle pierce his arm. Then, the world faded as he fell into darkness, his thoughts focused on only her.

It was a while later when he awoke. He knew, because the lights outside his window were darker, and the staff seemed a lot quieter. He turned over, and spotted his friend sitting in the dark. Dredging through his memory, he pulled up a name.

"John," Jonas croaked, his throat dry.

Instantly, John stood up and leaned over the hospital bed. "Hey Jonas. It's- It's been a while."

Unsure of what to do, Jonas tried to smile, but his face had forgotten how to, outside of her presence. Instead, he coughed uneasily, and John sat back down.

"You know, we missed you," John began, staring out the window as he tried to find words. "After you stopped hanging out with us, and just stayed at home all the time. I don't know what happened... we all assumed something bad, you know."

He turned to look at Jonas now, who almost felt a twinge of regret. But his mind quickly focused back on her, and he responded, "I- I had something-"

Jonas paused. His situation finally hit him. He couldn't walk back to the house, no matter how hard he wanted to. She was alone now, without him, and the thought was like a dagger in his mind. As he mulled over his options, his panic growing, he could only see one solution.

"John," Jonas rasped. "John- I know I haven't been the best friend. But, I need you to do something for me."

John leaned in, listening carefully. "We go way back. I'll do whatever you need, whatever you-"

"But," Jonas interrupted. "You can't tell anyone. Seriously. I'll give you 500 bucks to keep your mouth shut."

Looking shocked, John tried to protest. "Jonas, man, I'll do it for free, you keep your money, I-"

Jonas silenced him with a wave. "No, because if you do tell... I'll hunt you down, and I'll kill you. So the money is for my peace of mind, so I know you'll keep quiet about this."

He continued. "You need to go to my house. I have the keys here. Just go, when no one is around. Head for my room, and push the bed aside. There's a trapdoor no one else knows about. It leads down to one of the closed-off rooms, boarded up when we moved in. Go down there."

Jonas coughed. The medication was making him drowsy. With a last effort, he gasped, "Bring food. And water. Take care of her until I get back."

And then he fell back, fainted from strain and stress, while John looked on, with a look of astonishment on his face.

***

Jonas felt her shaking him, pushing at his shoulders like she had never done before. Then her face blurred, and she turned into John, who was shaking him, whispering something anxiously.

"Jonas! Jonas!"

"John, did- did you go?" Jonas looked up into John face, but the latter's expression was unreadable.

"Jonas. Who is she?" John's face was cold.

"I- I found her."

"How long has she been down there? How long have you been keeping her?" John's sharp questions were like daggers in Jonas' heart. He had never told anyone before, and if John decided to go to the police, or his mother...

Jonas swallowed hard. "It wasn't me. I... obtained her, a long time ago. I can't tell you where. I just feed her, and keep her down there, and whenever I feel the need to, I-I go down, and I... I play with her."

He burned with shame. He hadn't imagined it would be this way, with his old friend watching with such a harsh expression.

"So," John said with contempt. "She's your sex slave. You're just keeping her alive, like some living sex doll, for your own pleasure, and whenever you feel the urge, you go down there, into that tiny room, and you just fuck the hell out of her?"

"John," Jonas pleaded. "John, please."

"You can keep your 500."

"No! John, please, you- you can't tell anyone!"

A slow smile crossed over John's face. "No, I'm not going to tell anyone. But neither will you."

And with that, John pressed a pillow over Jonas' face, pushing down with all his strength. Jonas screamed, his mind going black from the lack of oxygen, but the sound was muffled by the cloth and feathers. He kicked, but that just sent a sharp sting of unbearable pain up his legs, and he screamed all the louder. But it was no use. His mind faded, his fingertips and legs going numb, and all he could think about was her.

And the last thing he heard was John's voice, deep in his ear. "She's mine now."

***

John pulled the pillow off Jonas' face. Now he looked calm, at rest, like how he used to look before he found her. He spent a moment looking at his old friend's body, and felt a twinge of remorse. None of this should have happened.

Then he opened the room door. "Doctor! come quick! Something's wrong!"

The lights flicked on as the nurses rushed in. The doctor arrived seconds later, and John stepped back to let him in. Within 5 minutes, the diagnosis was complete. Jonas has suffocated, most likely brought on by complications and blood loss. The bruises around his face were from the crash, and his inflamed windpipe was from the weeks and months of silence he had gone through. It was an accident.

John almost felt like crying for his friend, but his excitement was too great, and too fierce. Another few hours, and he would be back in that room, where she lay, trussed and tied, waiting for him.

***

It was dark. She knew that, and only that. She didn't know much anymore.

The creaks came from above, like thunder in her ears, and the light shining through the cracks rarely reached her milky-blind eyes anymore. Her wrists and ankles, rubbed raw and scarred from the thick ropes, moved imperceptibly across the dusty floor. Her mouth moved soundlesly beneath the gag; she had forgotten how to talk a long time ago.

And then, the door opened again, and like an animal, she winced, her legs tightening, preparing for the usual. But no, this time it was someone different. She could feel his hands, his voice in her ear, his tongue moving across her unresponsive body, and then she could feel him press between her legs,deep inside her.

No, she didn't know much anymore, her mind long broken, trained, brainwashed. But still, she let loose a scream of despair deep within the still-sane part of herself, a shriek that would never be heard, as she passed once again, and again, from one master to another.

Gorgos

"I don't think you should go." She tugged at his lapels, trying to pull him back. Tears were running down her face as she considered what could happen, and the life she would live alone.

"The monster has taken far too many of our people," he whispered, cradling her face. "I am to do my duty."

"Why you?!" she shrieked. "Why?! You have a child!"

He grabbed her harshly. "Yes, and that is why I go, and you stay. He will know his father did what he had to do!"

She slumped, the fight gone out of her. "If you do not return... if the gods permit you to live..."

He put his lips to hers, and silenced her with a kiss. He held it as long as he dared, and both pulled back at the same time. With a look of longing, she let him go. He did not look back.

The shield was heavy on his arm, and the sword dragged low on his belt. He could feel the summer heat rolling off his armor, blinding him with the sweat from his brow. The road was long, and as he walked it, he could almost feel the spirits of the fallen before him, cheering him on, encouraging him, hoping he would succeed where they failed.

The hours dragged on like days. The haze threw temptations before his eyes; his wife drifted by, begging him to return, his child at his feet, his home in the distance. They vanished with a shake of the head, but their effect was nearly crippling.

Finally, by nightfall, he reached the hidden valley. There were no trees, or plants, but merely stones and black water, and one dark cave. Carefully, he trod down, until a rock slipped under his foot with an echoing crack!

He froze, and the cave seemed to shift before him. After what seemed like hours, he found his courage again, and inched forward. The cave loomed like a mouth now, stalactites like the teeth of a horrible beast. Helmets and shields and swords lay scattered all over the floor, memoirs and gravestones for fallen heroes. But there were no bones, and he shuddered to think the monster ate them whole.

Even though the night breeze was cool, sweat still ran down his bare chest. His helmet was cold now, almost freezing, but it kept him awake and aware. Each step seemed a physical burden, inexorably bringing him closer to death...

The sound of hissing brought him to a halt. Then there was a sharp rattling from the depths of the cave. He readied his sword and shield.

The monster emerged. Its body was the first thing he saw, and inexplicably, he was intensely attracted to its female figure, nude in the moonlight. As it stepped out of the shadows, however, his eyes moved to its face and he screamed in horror.

A grotesque, twisted mockery of the female face, with oversized lips and a skeletal nose. Cheekbones protruded wildly underneath sunken red eyes, and a broad, wrinkled forehead was decorated with countless writhing serpents. It made a keening noise at him, and he felt his blood slowly freeze in his veins.

His quest forgotten, he tried to run, only to find his feet frozen to the spot. Literally. He glanced down, and to his horror, his feet seemed to be made of roughly hewn stone. And as the monster cried again, he felt his arms drop heavy to his sides, then his chest seemed to heave and stop.

Slowly, piece by piece, he was turned to stone. His mind was still aware though, and as his eyesight vanished, he almost thought he saw his wife and child before his eyes. Then he was gone, joining the countless heroes who had paved the way before him.

And the monster cried to the night, rubbing furiously against the rocks, trying to satiate itself, but failing, with only the snakes and stones for company.

The Mary Celeste: Part 1

"Bring her broadside men! Steady now!"

Sheldon pulled the rope with earnest, sweat running in rivulets down his brow. The heavy lifeboat inched closer to the frigate, a wall of wood that stretched almost endlessly upwards. The thick fog of the ocean's morning enshrouded them like a burial cloth. The mood was dank and damp, and the stench of rotting wood and salt filled the air like a haze.

Bit by bit, the sailors tugged and forced their way aboard the eerily silent ship. Sheldon reached a hand out into the side of the ship, running his fingers along the treated wood, marred and furrowed by long service at sea. A cold object touched his palm, cool and wet against the soggy wood. Sheldon stared at the brass lettering.

"Mary Celeste." he muttered to himself. Robin shouted out, much louder, right behind his ear, and he winced.

"Hoi Captain! Mary Celeste! Wasn't that one of the Queen's brigantine's?"

Captain Shelvocke nodded from his perch at the lifeboat's stern. "Aye, sailor. Tis the one they call the cursed ship."

Under his voice, he whispered in stage voice. "They say that her first captain died in her maiden voyage, under the name Amazon, and the brig was driven ashore in an icy storm off'r the coast o' Nova Scotia."

"What's it doing out here then, Cap'n, sir?" Robin lowered his spyglass from the horizon. "And where's the crew?"

"Well, that's what we boarded her for, to find out." The captain raised his gaze to the rails of the ship, far above the tiny lifeboat. He continued, almost to himself, "But I reckon it can't be anything good."

Sheldon turned his head to look at their own ship, the Abel. The fog wrapped around it, and it seemed to drift, anchored though it was. As he looked back up at the Mary Celeste, his heart seemed to stop, and he wished he was back on his bunk, reading a novel, and not on board a lifeboat, about to investigate a ghost ship.

With a creak and a groan, the grapple hooked onto the rails of the Celeste. Ten sailors, including the captain, Robin and Sheldon, all hoisted themselves over the wood and onto the deck. All was eerily quiet, other than the echoing footsteps of the crew. The captain headed for the head of the ship, while the sailors set out to various places on the deck. Sheldon decided to take a look closer to the stern, away from the dark cabin door.

And then, Robin shouted. "Cap'n! Sir! I've found something amiss, here by the rigging! Looks like it was cut'n run."

The crew huddled around, a small group in the midst of the empty deck. The rigging was cut and slashed, as if the crew had foregone proper procedure to lower the sails. All in all, Sheldon noted, it looked as if the Mary Celeste was under some sort of siege, and that the crew, in panic, had tried to escape as fast as possible.

The captain's brow was furrowed, and his eyes narrowed. "No captain would give this order unless under grave circumstances."

Suddenly, a shout came from the bow. "Captain!"

The Abel's crew rushed to the railings in a thunder of feet. Three long scratches adorned the wood, as if some horrid monster had slashed at the ship. The sailors shivered in the cool fog, but it wasn't from the cold.

Carefully now, the crew proceeded to the stern of the ship, and Sheldon saw some of the sailors with knives out, or fingers on triggers. As they reached the head of the ship, a small object struck Sheldon in the foot, causing him to shout. The other sailors, startled, jumped and gave him a dirty look. He picked the round object off the deck.

It was the ship's compass. The needle was missing, the lens was cracked, and the entire thing was sodden with water. He tossed it to the ground, shaking his hand of the wet slime.

Meanwhile, Captain Shelvocke was scanning through the ship's logs. Water-sodden and torn, he puzzled over them for a long time. The crew watched as he flipped the wrinkled papers over.

"Says here," he whispered, "that the ship is carrying over a thousand barrels of the Queen's alcohol, 6 months worth of food, and that the last place it landed was Santa Maria, in Azores. Captain Briggs commanded the vessel... but the last pages are blank. And all the other papers, maps and articles, are missing."

"Wha'happened to the crew?"

"Doesn't say. Although I knew Captain Briggs, and he wouldn't be one to invite mutiny, or lose his head in a situation." His words seemed to invite evil, because all the men suddenly shivered as if hit by a cold wind.

The cabin door creaked as the men hacked it open. Instantly, water poured out. Robin took a look in and said, "Cap'n. The hull is breached, and the bottom's full o'water!"

Shelvocke pushed past. "We can still get in, although it'd be cold. Come on men! Hike up those trousers!"

Sheldon stepped into the soggy cabin. The air was warm and humid, with the unmistakable stench of alcohol. They didn't find anything of interest in the cabin; in fact, everything seemed spookily normal, down to the hanging laundry and the scraps of food still on the table. Odd, creepy, and a total mystery. Wind echoed through the crack nosily, whistling a haunting tune that chilled the crew to their bones.

The men surfaced, unnaturally silent. Working hard, they boarded the lifeboat, with thick ropes tied to the mast of the Mary Celeste. In utter silence they rowed back to the Abel, only broken by the lapping of water against oars, and the occasional murmur.

Once aboard their own ship, the crew relaxed visibly. The shadow of fear still hung about their necks, but Sheldon felt much more relieved than he was on the Celeste. The sailors hoisted the ropes in a knot around the Abel's mast, linking the two ships together as one.

"All done Captain! Take her out!"

The sails were hoisted and the yards trimmed. The ropes snapped taut as the Abel towed the Celeste, dragged backwards by the weight of the brig. But the Abel was a larger ship, and bit by bit, both boats cruised towards the horizon.

It was only in the middle of the night that Sheldon heard the harsh snap and screams of men. Sitting bolt up in bed, he swung out of his bunk, narrowly avoiding Robin as he dashed round the corner.

"Hurry men!" The Captain was already on deck, along with most of the crew. Sheldon struggled to pull his jacket on, and as he burst through the cabin door a spray of mist hit him in the face. All the sailors were clinging to the mooring rope, the thin line connecting the Celeste to the Abel. The cable was swaying dangerously, almost as if something were pulling the other end.

"Steady!" Shelvocke shouted, as the sailors groaned and heaved. The line slowly settled down, and the men relaxed. But the next second, it had whipped into the air, tossing unsuspecting and unwary bodies everywhere. The captain himself stumbled back into Sheldon, knocking him down. With barely a second glance both were up, pulling at the rope once more.

In the distance, in the light of the moon, Sheldon could see the ghostly brig flotaing in the dark. Although the rope twisted and turned like the devil was fighting them, the ship itself was calm in the waters. A eerie feeling struck Sheldon as he paused to look. Almost as if a spell was cast, all the men stood stock-still, staring at the distant ship.

Omelas

It was the day of my thirteenth birthday when they took me.

I remember the weather of that day: Every little detail registered in my mind. The warm sun beating down upon our small village, the clouds in the sky like marshmallows, and the cool wind whipping at our faces. Birds soared, music filled the air, and all was well in the town of Omelas.

Do not let me mislead you, honest reader: We are a peaceful people. Happy, simple, taking joy in the easy pleasure of life. But that day, I did learn the reason why our fair city was indeed so easily pleased.

I was at the docks, with my friends, sailing small paper ships in the clear blue waters of the bay. I was the oldest out of all, so it was not without a small amount of curiousity that my friends looked at me when my father arrived. The thirteenth birthday of a child of Omelas is what some call the ritual of manhood, the passage into adulthood. It is said, in whispers and gossip, that there is a test of faith, a trial of courage. It is also said that the trial is what keeps our village pure: Indeed, many of my friends never returned from their trial. At the time, it was the only worry in my life.

A group of them had come. My father, and a number of the village people. Each looked somber and grey as my father held my hand tightly and led me away from the docks and the ships. I had never seen my father so scared. Sweat was puring down his brow, although the weather was cool and breezy. The villagers followed in a grim procession.

There was always a small shed in the corner of the city; a shack, forbidden to children, 'dangerous to play in,' as they said. It was vine-covered, run down, a curiousity and nothing more. If only had I know what lay within, I would have tugged my little hand out of my father's grip, and run the many miles back to the waters of the bay, and my innocence saved.

The door was opened by the Mayor, with a wide black key he obviously guarded dearly. On oily hinges, a creak, and then a pitch blackness that seemed to suck the light from my day. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, a flight of stairs materialized from the shadows.

My father was silent as he led me down. The others stayed above, with faces set in stone. I could hear weeping, from the women in the town, as if I would not return and they were already mourning me. A candle appeared in my father's hand and he lit it, casting silhouettes on the walls like crouching monsters.

The stairs went down for a long distance. It seemed to me like hours, but I had lost track of time the moment I had stepped into this purgatory. We spoke no word, my father and I. Just the endless taps of feet on stone, and the whistling of wind down the deep tunnels. The candle went out a number of times, which sent my heart into my throat until my father relit it.

I will admit, my friend. I was frightened beyond belief. All throughout my life I had lived without fear. See, Omelas had never heard of rape, of murder, of terror itself. We were a peaceful people in truth. The mayor to the most ridiculed Jester, we were all happy and satisfied with our line of work. Is it odd that I never questioned why? Perhaps it was the livelihood of our Omelas: That no questions be asked, that happiness was all the answer we needed.

Finally, my father halted, and took a deep breath. He was trembling, his grasp weak in my hand. His fear frightened me. A door was set in stone in front of us, a large wood square with no discernable markings, but my father shook as if Hell lay beyond it.

With trepidation, he pushed the door open silently. I could see nothing. There was just darkness. And then, as my father lifted the flame high, I gasped in fear and shock. I thought it was an animal, the way it cowered and screeched.

It was a child, but may just as well have been an animal. The eyes were white, long blind, and the hair was long. It sat on all fours. I couldn't tell whether it was a girl or a boy. I was too scared, too shocked, to even speak. I heard a low, keening moan, until I realized I was making the sound.

Cracks of light shone in from the ceiling, mops and various tools stored in a corner. Some sort of storeroom, it seemed, perhaps underneath one of the mansions in town. A small dish sat in the corner, with the reflection of murky water, and a plate, laden with rats that were polishing off the child's meal.

It looked at me with sudden fascination. "Ehh-haaa... Ehhh..."

It crawled over, and I noticed its legs were covered in sores, and excrement. It reached for my leg, and I pulled back in a terrible fear. "Ehh-haaa... M-M-Moth. Mothherr... mother."

I stared down at it as it grabbed my ankle with a horrible, greasy grip. "Mother! Lett me out. P-please! L-let me out!"

My father, with a look I had never seen on his face before, gave the child a savage kick, which it took with a whimper. It lay there, in the dark shed, surrounded by vermin, covered in feces and sores, an abomination!

What did I feel? I am ashamed to say I felt nothing. Yes, anger came upon me, and pity. Fear, yes, and disgust too. But most of all, I felt despair, hopelessness. Yes, the child was to be pitied, and its condition to be sickened at. But what if the child were to come above ground, to be cleaned and loved and comforted?

That is when I learned the terrible secret of Omelas. All our happiness, our bounty, and our hope, is because of this child-creature's misery. We live in happiness, because to do otherwise is to become this creature. We have bounty, because the child has none. And we love, we love each other, because the child has no one to love it. In other words, we value life, because we have seen death.

Our architecture would not be so lovely. Our songs would not be as joyful. Our tales and jokes and words would not be free, if not for the suffering squallor of the damned child. Our city lives in peace, because we remember the child that suffers beneath it.

And what of me? What of my friends that never returned from their trials? There is one more thing, and this is quite incredible.

Many who return from their trial, I am told, weep, and despair, but come to realize it is for the best. Love cannot be understood without hate, and life can never be lived to the fullest without death. So many do stay in Omelas, to enjoy the peace and prosperity. They are generous, and are gentle, and they are happy. They appreciate life.

But others, like me, do not return home to weep, or rage. Sometimes, we do not go home at all. Silently, we let go of our families, our lives, and slip away, quietly, into the streets of Omelas. Past the mansions, and the beautiful gardens, and the bountiful farmland. We walk alone, until the streetlights are lit, and the roads have been emptied.

We walk, down the alleys of Omelas, between houses where people can be heard enjoying a grand meal. Out the gates of the city, into the mountains. We continue to walk, into the darkness, and we never go back. We enter a world where hatred and death exist, a world where we know we will never enjoy perfect happiness. We may seems as if we do not know where we go; perhaps there is no place for us to go. But each of us holds a purpose, and although we may seem lost, we always know where we are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.



Author's note: This is based on a short story called, 'The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas' by Ursula K. Le Guin. I decided to write the perspective from one of the children... it may be the most poignant story I have written.

7 Sins Saga: Sloth

Sloth
May 2, 2007

She forgot to turn the lights out.

He struggled out with his hand. No way. The switch was a good 2 feet from his grasp. He slumped back down into bed, too lazy to attempt getting up. Warm, snuggly blankets pushed back against his body.

The pillow felt cool under his head, and the springy mattress was worn down to his preferred shape. Leaving the bed was so hard to do, not just during the mornings. Most of the time, sleep was the only escape from his mother's cries for chores, and his 'responsibilities'.

He tucked himself deeper into the quilt. Hopefully, his mom would come in and turn off the light... until then, he pulled the blanket over his head.

Then, suddenly, the lights blew out with a sharp 'snap!'.

He rolled over to check the doorway. No sign of his mother. The broken lightbulb fizzed over his head, then sputtered out. He flipped back, grumbling complaints, unwilling to haul himself out of bed to get a new bulb.

Something sharp poked him in the side. He reached down, feeling something hard and pointed in his side. Pulling it up from under the quilts, he looked at it carefully. Some sort of white bone-like object. Odd.

He reached under the blankets. Something else was there, something cold... really cold! The lights sputtered and blared to life in a shower of sparks, lighting the room in sharp flashes. He shrieked as the sudden, frosty grip of something hidden under the sheets grabbed him. In horror, he looked down. A pair of skeletal hands reached from the tangles of the blankets, wrapping tightly around his armpits.

"Oh, and here I was hoping that you'd pass." A skull-face laid its cold chin on his shoulder. Leaning into his ear, it whispered to him through his screams. "Too bad."

Through the blank sparking of the lights above, he struggled against the apparation. A wayward spark fell gently, almost as if in slow motion, down, down towards his bunched up sheets. As it touched, the bedspread burst into a fiery conflagration.

He screamed as the flames licked his toes. The skeletal figure pressed his cheek to its, crooning softly. "Now, dear. For eternal slumber."

7 Sins Saga: Lust

Lust
April 30, 2007

With a glance to the side, he followed her.

He had spotted her a few hours back, perched on a barstool like a trophy on a pedestal. Her dress had hugged her curves seductively, her eyes were bright and full of life, but she sat alone, as if no one else could see her.

So he had followed her as she left the bar. His eyes were full of longing.

He ducked into an alley as she turned. That was close... He watched as her perfect gaze spanned the streets. Satisified she was alone, she continued with her mincing gait. And behind her, like an ill shadow, he followed.

She turned into an alleyway, slightly off the beaten path. Surprised, he quickly rounded the corner-

To find her staring straight at him with a slight smirk. He began to sweat as her hand moved towards her waist, expecting her to pull a can of pepper spray, or perhaps a cell phone to call the cops.

She looked at him, with the smile dangling off her lips. Her hand strayed unexpectedly, aiming towards her belt clasp rather than her pocket. He drooled as the click of her buckle undid itself. She let her pants fall.

Without a word, she beckoned. He complied willingly. Her body was warm in the night air, but she made not a sound as he took her. Her body was responsive, moving fast and hard, but no one came across them, no one heard a sound.

In his lust, he rolled them both to the ground. Twisting and turning, they were lost in each other. His mind swirled as they spun round and round, into the street, onto the open road. There they lay, linked together, with looks of ecstasy on both their faces.

He looked down at her, her closed eyes and open mouth displaying the pleasure she obviously felt. And as he watched, the skin began to peel from her face, the sweet eyes receding into the sockets, and the lips crackling away like dry leaves.

"That was fun," she said in a hoarse, crackled whisper.

He gibbered, his mouth frozen in horror. He tried to pull away but found, to his sheer terror, he could not.

"And here I was, so hoping you'd pass the test." The skull-face grinned up at him, the long bony fingers wrapping around his arms. "But I do hope you enjoyed your last moments."

He turned as the honk and headlights bore down on him. He screamed.

Nine Lives

Here's Guy that calls me Not Chester's favourite piece. I wrote it a while ago, but thought I'd slam it up here for good measure.

Nine Lives
October 20, 2006

Allen was walking down the street when he first saw him. Just out of the corner of his eye, a liquid shadow darting its way into an alley.

So he took time out of his day for that small part of adventure the human heart seeks, and turned off the weel-worn sidewalk into the graffiti-marked alleyway. From the darkness, two bright green eyes stared up at him.

"Hey kitty. C'mere, I won't hurt you." Allen waved with his hands. A hiss came from the blackness. "I've got some nice snacks, c'mon. C'mon out of there."

Cautiously, the cat approached, stalking paw by paw. Allen stood as still as a statue, not daring to move lest he frighten the animal away.

And finally, the cat licked his hand. Its tongue was rough and warm, and it coiled up to his leg, its tail swishing. Allen reached down and picked the small black animal up with care.

"C'mon, let's get you inside. It's a cold winter this year."

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"There you go sweetheart!" Allen placed the bowl of milk on the tiled floor of his kitchen, slopping some over the side. The kitten licked it up with relish, then sat back and purred, stretching out on the floor.

"Okay, time for me to sleep, but I'll take you to the shelter in the morning." The cat looked at Allen with a curious, puzzled look. Then it grinned, showing sharp white fangs.

Allen stumbled up the stairs, leaving a light on for the little cat. He made his way into his bathroom, flicking on his lights, grabbing a hold of his toothbrush. He turned on the water.

Soon after, Allen switched off the water, bent over and dried his face with a handcloth. Then he looked up into the mirror, and spotted the cat sitting on the toilet tank. It looked at him with the same curious look.

"Whew! Startled me there, little buddy!" Allen picked the cat up with a miaow and set it on the floor, where it quickly scurried out of the room. Disregarding the animal, Allen slipped into his pajamas, only to find the cat back when he pulled his shirt over his head. This time, the critter was perched on the top of his dresser. It looked over him with brilliant green eyes, then let out a low purr.

Allen looked at the cat as it looked at him. Human eyes met animal eyes as the two regarded each other. Then suddenly, the cat leapt off the drawers and landed on the floor, its long black tail swishing. Then it looked back at him and meowed.

Shaking his head, Allen crawled into his bed, switching off his bedside lamp. And within minutes, he was fast asleep.

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Allen woke up with a start. At first, he didn't know what had disturbed his sleep, but then he spotted the cat. It was on his chest, staring him in the eyes. It tilted its head quizzically at him. The eyes, vibrant in the darkness, seemed like ghostly orbs floating in the air. Hypnotic, rhythmic, piercing...

His breath came quicker, as those eyes searched him. He panted, struggled, rose out of bed sweating, the cat jumping off onto the floor, where it still watched. He stood, his breathing heavy, and stumbled to the bathroom. His face was a mess. He was sweating, panting, his eyes bloodshot and his lip trembling.

He looked at the cat. It seemed to be enjoying his predicament, purring at him and coiling between his legs.

He looked down with dread, and an inscrutable expression in his eyes. The cat returned the look with a mocking gaze. With trepidation, Allen stepped carefully around the cat, giving it a wide berth, and returned to his room. Instead of returning to bed, he instead took a seat in his armchair, and picked up his favourite book. There was no way he could get back to sleep now.

When he put his book down, he noticed the cat on the ottoman watching him. Upon noticing his stare, the cat yawned and stretched out. Then it opened its eyes and continued its unfeeling observation.

And for the rest of the night, the two sat and stared. Cat to human. Soul to soul.

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The sun rose early that day, and the shadows were chased away, revealing the two, Allen and kitty, still locked in an internal battle between man and beast.

With a sudden meow, the cat leapt off the stool, and Allen smashed its head in with the book.

His mind had snapped, his reason had fled, and his sanity had been ruined in that epic contest. He struck again and again, the cat making a horrible yowling, and Allen felt a giggle coming on, and he knew if he gave voice to it he'd lose himself even deeper, and so he did, and the blood sprayed. And finally, Allen dropped the bloodstained novel, loose pages fluttering around the room like strange snowfall.

And then he stared. He just stared. With a shaking hand, he picked the body of the cat up by the scruff of the neck, tossing it out of his room, its broken neck flopping around like a puppet whose strings had snapped.
And then Allen sat back down with a heavy sigh, in the midst of a rain of shredded paper, in a puddle of blood, covered in the red fluid and bits of fur.

Then, he fell asleep, his mind already wandering the plains of peace, the lands of imagination, the world of dreams.

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It was about 4 P.M. when he awoke. He rose, awake and refreshed, ready to go. He stepped out of his room, whistling, made himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, then went to fetch the newspaper.

And then he walked back into his kitchen, and saw the cat.

It looked at him with that same mocking gaze it had given to him the night, and in despair, he screamed.

"WHY! Why are you still alive! You should be dead! DEAD! I killed you!" He raged, he spluttered, he laughed maniacally, he looked at the cat, threw his head back with his eyes closed, looked again, then screamed in agony.

He looked to the counter, to the blades sitting there, to the trash compactor, to the blender, to the microwave.

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He finished within an hour. His hands were covered, slick with blood, matted with fur and bits of organs, and he laughed again, one long laugh, through the blood and fur and guts and small pieces of metacarpals and femour splinters, Then he dragged the small corpse out of the microwave, or what was left of it, tossing the remains down into the food shredder.

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But the cat came back the very next day, the cat came back, he thought he was a goner, but the cat came back, it couldn't stay away.

This time, Allen encountered it in the midst of the workplace. He noticed it from his computer screen reflection, then turned around, screamed a long dark scream, and grasped the animal before it could run away. With the cat struggling, he handed it to his coworker Jen, and ran, ran from it, from hell, from evil personified.

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And the very next day... Allen thought he was rid of it. But there it came, trotting back into his life like it did the first day, and this time, Allen was ready with a shotgun and blew the cat to pieces.

Later that day, Allen read in the news that Jen had committed suicide in her home, drowned in her bathtub. The strange thing was that the water was covered in a thin layer of fur, and was tinged red with blood.

|+| |+| |+| |+|

By then, Allen was paranoid, broken, his house full of blood and fur and pieces of cat.

And still it came back. As cheerful as ever, as mocking as always, grinning at Allen and revelling in his torture.

"Why won't you die?" Allen whispered as he strangled it. "Why won't you stop living?"

The cat scratched at his hands but was silent, although whether or not it meant to be silent or had no windpipe left was up to debate. Allen stared once again into those deep eyes, except now they were symbols of hate, of evil, of his neverending torture.

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The very next day, Allen went out into the street and paid a mercenary to handle the cat.

"You want me to kill a cat?" The gunman had snickered. "For this much?"

"Yes," Allen replied, his face pale. "Just... kill it, but make sure it stays dead."

The same man was found dead later that day, with cat scratches on his face and neck, a bullet through his temple.

|+| |+| |+| |+|

The cat came back the very next day.

Allen threw it in the closet, taped over the door, plastered it up and sat in front of it the entire day with a shotgun in hand. He could hear the hellish scratching and yowling as the cat pawed at the door, but slowly the noises stopped and when Allen summoned up enough courage to look inside, the cat was still as the night air. He took the body by the tail and hurled it into a wall as hard as he could, then threw it down the garbage chute.

By now, his mind was shattered, his body was wasting away as he disregarded his health and safety, obsessed with only the cat. So much blood, so much evil, and still it would not die.

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A week passed and the cat did not return.

Allen was beginning to regain control of his life, to clean up his house, to sort out his affairs, to return to work. His demeanour changed to how it was before. He smiled more often, although flinching every time he saw a black cat.

But he came home one day and it was there, as if it had never left. He stood, frozen, as it purred between his ankles. He slowly looked down as it looked up, and there they were once more, in a battle of wits and a struggle for sanity. With his heavy boot he stepped on it and broke its back, the tiny bones snapping like pretzels. Amazingly, it clawed at his heel until one more stomp crushed its skull like sugar glass.

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And that night, the cat came back, for what Allen would make sure was the last time.

He was sitting facing the doorway, a pet cage in his hand, a shotgun in the other, and all the windows closed. And the cat came back, yes it did, and this time, it came from behind, it leapt like a tiger on his head, tore at Allen's scalp, it slashed his face ruthlessly, plunging its claws into his eyes and throat as effective as any knife, it clung to his face, the warm, slick abominable creature that would not die and in desperation and panic, and in utter and complete insanity, Allen turned the gun on himself and killed them both in one shot.

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The very next day, the police found Allen in his pajamas, lying in a pool of his own blood, his face blown away by a shotgun shell, his brains spread like jam on the tiled floors. There was also a black cat, perched comfortably on his cold body, its soft tongue lapping up the redness like cream.

A Night Out

"Hi Ms. Dewen!" A sharp-looking young woman smiled from the doorstep.

"Oh, you must be Kathy! Come in!" Jane smiled. She pulled the door open a little wider as Kathy stepped inside.

"Wow! your house is a lot nicer than any of the others I've seen!"

"Thank you Kathy. Now, I have a few things that need to be taken care of, so there's a list in the kitchen. Keep an eye on the baby, and remember, you need to put the turkey in at exactly 9:00 so it's done when we get back."

"Oh no problem Ms. Dewen! I can do that!" Kathy grinned widely. "After all, it is my job."

"Thanks a lot. We'll be back at 12:00, so you can crash on the couch if you get tired." James entered the room and waved, picking his jacket from the chair back. "Have a good night!"

"You too Ms. and Mr. Dewen! Enjoy yourselves!" Kathy waved, carrying the baby in the crook of her arm. "I'll take care of everything!"

James got behind the wheel. "Everything going to be okay?"

"Oh James," Jane replied. "Can we spend one night for ourselves? I mean, ever since the baby was born, we haven't had time between changing diapers and cleaning up."

"Okay okay!" James grinned. "I'm glad too. I mean, I love Jason too, but I'd enjoy a night out."

Jane looked outside. "Where are we going?"

"Oh, it's a surprise. You'll see."

***

Soon afterwards, they pulled into a parking lot. "Oh James, are you sure we can afford this?"

"Shh, it's our one night of fun. Nothing is too much." He opened the door and let Jane out. "After spending so much on the baby, we deserve a treat."

The tables were clean, the waiters were uniformed, and the food smelt delicious. The constant chatter of dinner guests made comfortable background noise and the clinks of dinner plates and glasses sounded familiar to their ears. They were soon seated, given menus and served drinks while they selected their meal.

"I hear that the steak here is good." James perused the menu. "But seafood has always been my thing..."

"I'm going to go for seafood. Maybe you can get steak, and we can share?" Jane looked at him coyly.

James grinned and called the waiter over. "Yeah, I'll have the steak please."

***

Dinner conversation was pleasant and involving. It had been a while since the two had time to themselves, and they took full advantage of it.

"We should do this every week."

"We should."

"...Do you think everything is okay at home?"

"Oh, come on. Don't think about that; instead, think about what we're going to do after."

The conversation slowly blended into the surrounding noise, became part of the aural wallpaper in the room. The couples at the tables were all enjoying themselves: staring into their partner's eyes, holding hands gently, and whispering thoughts and secrets.

***

It was not until 12:30 that the couple got home. Dinner had been a few hours before, and the twinges of hunger were just starting to settle in.

"Kathy! We're home!" James popped open the door.

"Oh, Mr. Dewen. Did you have a good time?" Kathy slowly got up off the sofa.

"We did! Thank you Kathy, you look really tired. Maybe you better get some sleep at home." Jane picked a number of bills off her purse. "Here's your pay. We'll call you if we need anything else."

Kathy yawned and took the money sleepily. "Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Dewen..." she mumbled as she walked out the door.

"What a nice girl." Jane walked into the kitchen where James was checking on the turkey. "Hey! Don't do that!"

James looked up with a piece of meat in his hand. He popped it into his mouth. "Oh come on, it's good! And you gotta admit, I thought she would have screwed up somehow, you know, undercooked it or something."

He held his fingers to his wife's mouth. She kissed them gently, tasting the oily food on his hands. "Mmm..."

They quickly retreated to the bedroom. Things went down (and up), and in an hour, both were exhausted, sweating and breathing heavily.

"That was great. We should go out more often."

"Whew... yeah. Wanna call it a night?"

"Oh yeah. Just let me check on Jason, I hope we didn't wake him up."

Jane stepped out of the room as James pulled his pajamas on. Then he heard a shriek and a thud. "Jane?"

He hopped out of the room, with his leg halfway in his pants. "Jane? Are you okay?"

He opened the door to the baby room. Jane lay on the floor, fainted in a sprawl, and Jason lay in bed with his blanket covering his body.

"Jason? Are you okay?" James reached for the blanket. "Lil' buddy? Are you okay?" He pulled back the covers.

The final sight James saw before his heart seized was a cold, frozen, stuffed turkey lying in his son's bed, tucked in gently by a pair of loving hands.

Vanish

Vanish
February 28, 2007

Tim saw the vibrant store as he was trudging through the wet snow on his way to school. The colors caught the corner of his eye as he passed by, and he just had to stop to take a look.

MAGIC TRICKS, proclaimed the fanciful letters in the window. Guaranteed to AMAZE or your money back!. The window display showed a black pack of playing cards, and a white stuffed rabbit.

Tim looked at his watch. "I guess I got enough time..." School could wait; it wasn't like he cared. He padded to the glass door and pulled it open, then slipped inside. Small gold bells rung overhead to announce his arrival, prompting the elderly man tinkering at the counter to look up.

"Hello hello! Welcome to my shop!" The old man exclaimed. He flicked his beard with a thoughtful finger. "Young people are so interested in magic these days! Is there something I can help you with? Anything you might fancy?"

"Uhm. Er, no thanks. I'm actually just- just looking." Tim replied, taken aback.

"May I direct you to the card tricks? They're easy to do, and good for performances! No? Perhaps some rope tricks? Or this box- see, it makes things disappear!" The owner darted from one display to another, showing off his trinkets.

Tim shrugged. "I just came in to look around old man. I didn't come to be sold to."

The senior looked stunned. Then he shook his head. "Ah yes, yes. I'm sorry. Please, take a look around." He plodded back to his desk and continued to tinker.

Tim took a look around, as he was invited. He noticed small tricks, like making boxes that made coins disappear, and large tricks, like conjuring hats and ribbons from nowhere. But nothing really caught his attention. Until he noticed the back door that was labelled "Do Not Enter."

With a smirk, Tim glanced at the storekeeper. He was absorbed in his work, his eyes on the small contraption on the table. Quietly, Tim snuck through the door without a whisper.

A musty, attic-like smell hit him hard. The room was dimly lit, with a small window the only source of light. Dust in the air made Tim cough, then check behind himself nervously. But the old man most likely had bad hearing, or was too into his little toys.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Tim first noticed boxes stacked everywhere. With a shock of excitement, he skimmed over the labels on the boxes, the objects on the shelves. They all looked very ancient and valuable.

Walking slowly through the shelving, Tim picked up a jar of what appeared to be human eyeballs. Continuing down, he saw bottles and oil lamps, dried pieces of what appeared to be skin, small vials of a dark red liquid he imagined to be blood...

A dust-covered jar soon caught Tim's eye. Picking it up and turning it around, he read the label aloud to himself. "Vanishing powder. Guaranteed to turn anything, or anyone, invisible." Now here was a real trick!

The next bottle was just as dusty. "Powder of Appearance. Reveals invisible objects or people." Perfect!

Quickly, Tim pocketed both. This may come in handy, he thought to himself gleefully. He continued to walk, more objects catching his eye as he passed them. "Growth juice." "Shrinking potion." "Boots of Speed."

As he passed one tight corner, the edge of his jacket caught a loose stick of wood labelled "Wand of Ovimancy". He swung his arm out to catch it, but it slipped through his fingers, rapping loudly on the floor. Tim winced.

A creak came from the door. "Is anyone in here?" Through the gaps in the jars, Tim saw the store owner coming straight for him. Frantically, he dug in his pockets. The invisibility powder will help me, Tim thought. If it works...

Quickly, Tim uncorked the jar. A thin yellow powder lay inside. He took a glance behind him. The owner was coming more assuredly, with a angry look on his face. In his haste, Tim picked up the whole jar and dumped the contents over his head.

A tingle shook through his body, and then nothing. "Shit," Tim muttered to himself. He didn't look the least bit invisible. He winced, ready to recieve a verbal lashing at the tongue of the irate store owner.

To his surprise, the store owner turned the corner, walked up to Tim, and merely bent over to pick up the wand. Placing it back on the shelf, his face relaxed, and he quickly walked back out the door without closing it. Tim, with his eyes shut tightly, slowly cracked open an eyelid. Then breathed a sigh of relief and amazement.

"It works! It really works!" Tim crept out the door, and waved his hands in the owner's face. Not even a flicker. Screaming in his face did nothing too. It only caused him to stand up, walk to his door brush the snow away from the threshold. Sneaking past the old man, Tim walked into the cold air. Not a person saw him, no matter how much he waved his arms, or however many faces he made. He was really, completely invisible to the world.

For the next few hours, Tim snuck into school. He looked at girls without fear of being labelled, and he walked freely in both bathrooms. He even watched the football game without paying a ticket. He could not believe his luck.

Even after school, he was still enjoying his invisibility. Following the girls home proved to be a huge bonus: Watching them in their private life was something he could never have imagined. He felt a little ashamed, sure, but mainly incredibly lucky.

It was only when he realized how late it was that he realized he should have been home hours ago. Guiltily, he thought of his family, his home. Surprisingly, he didn't feel hungry at all, or tired. Perhaps being invisible meant you didn't have to eat. Or sleep. Or, Tim thought excitedly, maybe it meant he would never come to harm, or even die!

But for today, it was enough. Anyways, he still had a little bit of powder left in the jar. He could always go back and get more, anytime, without fear of being caught. So Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out the Powder of Appearance.

The jar was corked, dusty and ancient. Tim pulled hard, popping the cork out in a burst of dust and pieces of dirt. Turning the bottle upside down, he tapped the bottom lightly. Nothing came out.

Tim peered into the bottleneck. From what he could see... the bottle was empty. Panicking, he rapped the bottle harder against his hand. Nothing.

He dropped the bottle. It fell without making a single sound. It too, was invisible, nonexistant in the real world. Tim stared hatefully at it, then rushed into the street.

Cars passed him without hitting him as he dashed to the shop. In his haste, he passed completely through the wall without even noticing. The shop was closed, but the old man still sat there, working on his toys, stroking his beard in thought. Tim ignored him, running into the back room.

For an hour he searched. Nothing. Not a bottle, tin or vial left of the precious powder. Tim swore, and sat down hopelessly.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts he didn't notice the old man come up behind him and crouch down next to him. Slowly, Tim turned.

The old man grinned. "So you decided to break the rules and enter without permission."

Tim nodded. "You can see me?" He asked, although he wasn't surprised.

"Yes." The old man nodded gravely. "Yes, I can."

"Can you help me?"

"No." The owner looked surprised. "Why would I do that? This is your punishment."

"But... why?" Tim cried. He looked around. "Why me?"

The old man laughed. "You? YOU?!"

Pulling a bottle from his pocket, the old man wiggled it in front of Tim's face. Then, he uncorked it and dashed its powdery contents across the room.

As the powder settled, images began to appear. Soon, the room was full of silent figures, mouths open in insane screams that would never be heard. A crowd of people, boys and girls, young and old, all filled the room, their sorrowful eyes on Tim, the latest victim to curiousity. As the dust touched the ground, the figures disappeared, still there, but doomed to wander alone forever.

Tim screamed, silent to the world. The old man smiled darkly, then walked out. Before he left, however, he turned around to a wailing Tim.

"Goodnight, boy. How long will it be, I wonder, before you lose your mind?"

The Bad Ones

One more goddamn day,
Swimming in this pool of sharks,
Marked with blood,
Stained with sin,
Disturbed beyond all reason.

You will remain behind,
Power unrestrained,
Delivered unto death,
Pain, like crying in the dark,
And shivering in the cold outdoors.

Evil cannot cover its eyes,
Nor deafen its ears, or close its mouth.
Leave the weak, clear your mind,
Walk away from your memories,
And fall down by the forsaken air.

Close your eyes to this devastation,
Hold yourself now, never give in,
Look behind, the mass destruction,
Try to relate to your suffering,
Light your path beside your feet.

Hold me now, replicate love,
Give in to darkness,
Evil will conquer you,
And you will walk alone,
Trying to escape.

Cry, child, and let the bad ones take you away.

The Painting

The Painting
February 5, 2007

Helen first spotted the painting at a yard sale.

The golden frame leapt out from the other mundane objects on the lacy tablecloth, and the swashes of color were vibrant amongst the dull silver trinkets that accompanied it.

"Hey! Hey, how much for this painting?" Helen asked the old woman tending the tables. She waved towards the golden square with a slender finger.

The elderly woman looked over. "Oh? That old thing? I'll give to you for... say, 5 dollars?"

"Done!" As an art collector, and one might say a connoissuer, Helen knew the value of the simple painting was far more than 5 dollars. In fact, the thick oils of the abstract female form were at least a few hundred dollars.

Handing over a bill, Helen hoisted the heavy painting into her back seat. The picture featured a nude woman, her back to the observer, facing off into the horizon. Her thin arms wrapped her body protectively, as if modesty and embarassment were on her mind.

***

The picture matched the wallpaper perfectly, Helen noticed gladly, as she puttered around her kitchen preparing dinner. The steams from the stovetop obscured the picture for a second, bathing it in a thin mist. The haze only made the painting more mysterious and alluring.

"Oops!" Helen bent down to pick up the spoon she had knocked off the maple counter. A stain of tomato sauce splattered across the room. Looking up, Helen saw a drop of the red stuff smeared across the painting, marking the woman's back. "Shit..."

Heading to the sink to get a cloth, Helen's foot met with an overlooked splat of sauce. With a gasp, she fell hard on the tiles. A sharp pain came from her back as the spoon dug into her skin.

Rising painfully to her feet, Helen rubbed her back painfully. Teeth and eyes clenched, she felt a wet, slippery liquid dribbling from her fingers. Taking a glance, she saw blood running like water off her fingers.

***

When she woke up, something had changed.

The painting in the kitchen was different. Very different. Helen only noticed it when turning the radio on, and out of the corner of her eye. She searched her house, but no doors had been unlocked, no prankster had been inside to change the picture. So she was confused to see that the picture today... was not the one she had bought yesterday.

The woman in the painting now was adorned in a beautiful fur coat, with a handbag stuffed with dollar bills.

With a shiver of paranoia creeping up her spine, Helen studied the painting closely. It wasn't painted over. In fact, the golden frame hadn't been removed, and the oils looked ancient, as if the painting had been masterfully drawn and finished with the fur coat included.

Then the radio announcer began blaring out numbers. Helen didn't register the voice until something began to nag at her very hard.

"And 24! Thanks for playing the 649! Jackpot is 25 million ladies and gents, so make sure you check your tickets!"

With a sense of detachment, Helen removed her ticket from the purse on the table. "And again! Those numbers are 2, 4, 28, 46, 42, 32, and 24!"

The ticket read 2, 4, 28, 46, 42, 32 and 24.

Helen glanced at the painting. No, it couldn't be... or could it? The woman's fur coat, the Louis Vutton handbag full of cash...

That day, Helen went out and bought herself a fur coat, and a Louis Vutton handbag. She almost felt like she didn't deserve it.

***

And the next day, the painting was changed again.

This time, the woman in the golden frame was not alone. A tall man stood beside her, with his arm pressed across her shoulders. He too, looked off into the distance, staring at the horizon.

Taking a close, eager look, Helen noticed the clipboard in his hand, the tidy suit he was wearing, and his polished shoes. She stared hungrily at his physique, taking in his appearance.

Ding! The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Sighing, she danced down the hallway and opened the door.

"Hello ma'am, I'm taking a survey on... Ma'am?" The surveyor asked the open-mouthed Helen, as he tapped on his clipboard and brushed lint off his immaculate suit.

***

The next morning, Helen woke up next to Dave and snuck out, making sure not to wake him. Putting her feet into pink slippers, she slid downstairs to take a look at what her day held for her.

The painting was inscrutable in the dark. Helen flicked on the lights.

The image in the golden frame...

There was nothing. Nothing but the endless horizon and the setting sun. The lady had mysteriously vanished, along with the man.

Helen stared confusedly. Was she going to take a trip?

Staring closer, Helen noticed that there was something left in the frame. A small blob of color on the bland ground.

A small spot of red. Whatever could that mean?

***

The next day, the officers took Dave into custody for second-degree murder. Turns out Helen's lottery win didn't go unnoticed.

Strangely, the police did find a very odd painting hanging above the stove. A square of perfect black, in a golden frame.