 
FLY ON THE WALL: VOL I

Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe

By

Alfy Dade

Text copyright © 2016 Alfy Dade

All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents

1 – The Silly Rain

2 – A Missed Connection

3 – Let Them Eat Cake

4 – The Park

5 – The Visitor

6 – A Curious Event

7 – Free

8 – Bitch

9 – The Awkward Fumbler

10 – Society

11 – The Third Horn

12 – Goal

13 – Chugga-Chugga

14 – Zodiac

15 – So What?

16 – He Sat

17 – Soulmates

18 – To Care Or Not To Care

19 – The Flower Bringer

20 – The Green Moth

21 – The Light Under The Stairs

22 – Dig Dig Dig

23 – Junkies

24 – Zodiac Pt. 2

25 – Advance Green

26 – One More Try

27 – Forgiveness

28 – Cap'n Crunch

29 – Lawnmower

30 – Happy Days Pt. I

31 – 13

32 – Wailing

33 – Mandala

34 – Rain

35 – Coughing

36 – A Lizard In The Spring

#  1 – The Silly Rain

"Remember baby, I won't be gone long," he said. "It's a short trip, just a week, at most two".

"I'll miss you, daddy, I always worry when you go away," retorted Sarah in high pitched tones.

"It's just a business trip darling, I'll be back before you know it. I promise!"

She looked at him and pondered what would become of him, of her and of everyone she knew, she was particularly worried about Fluffy, an 8-inch tall pink bunny. Fluffy had yellow ears with floral stitching inside. Sarah loved Fluffy dearly, but not quite as dearly as she loved her own father. "Here," she held the small stuffed rabbit out to him, "Fluffy will keep you safe, even if I can't."

He looked at the little bunny being thrust towards him, it's beady eyes challenged his choices. One could see the exact moment in which his heart broke in two. He wondered what would become of him, of Sarah, and of everyone they knew. He cupped his hands around the back of the precious bunny and gave it a small kiss before tucking it into his jacket pocket. Fluffy fit perfectly, and as usual had a good view one almost as good as the view he would have from thirty thousand feet. He boarded the plane with Fluffy the silly rabbit in tow. Sarah stayed and waited for his return.

These days Sarah just watches rain streak down the window - drop, by drop, by sullen drop. She wonders what became of her father and Fluffy. She'd seen neither since that fateful trip. She wonders what had become of the plane too, though she supposes it really doesn't matter.

At least they are with me now, within this silly rain, the one just pouring down my windowpane.

Every year on this day, it rains a silly rain, and every year on this day, the final drops mirror her final tears. The little girl is little no more, now she stands strong against fates' cruel jokes. She swats at a fly which buzzes past her head, annoyed. The sadness she had felt for so long is no longer there, now she can rest. She hopes that next year it won't rain.

#  2 – A Missed Connection

BANG. To the ground he fell.

ZAP. The wires arced. They had shockingly recently claimed another victim.

REW0000WWWWEEEEEEJ000 went the ambulance as it rushed George to the hospital.

1 Month later he awoke. Alone. He rang for the nurse. She rushed in, and with her a gaggle of residents, and behind them behind a doctor – their mentor. The nurse had been sure of his imminent demise so her surprise was palpable. The mass of bodies fretted and fussed over him. Their excitement was almost too much for George to bear, and somehow he almost longed for the peaceful nothing of the past few months, it had been just him, alone, and his thoughts.

2 weeks later he left the hospital. Alone. He rang for the taxi, it rushed up to him at the entrance, as did a gaggle of reporters, with their camera crews nearby behind. His zap had clearly made the news, he had managed to short the grid, and his survival itself was nothing short of electrifying. Cameras clicked and flashed, questions assaulted him from every direction. He almost longed for the silence of the hospital, it had been just him, his thoughts, and his medical team.

1 week later he posted an ad. Alone. It went: "You know me, I brought down the city grid 2 months ago with my literal bare hands. It happened because I was distracted by you, the most beautiful girl in the world. When you walked by with your purple handbag and raspberry beret my mind froze, and my heart rose to stratospheric heights. I didn't believe in love at first sight, not until I saw you. Let's meet, hopefully this time sparks won't fly." Nobody came this time, and he almost longed for the reassurance of the interviews and the company of the press. The ever clicking cameras and their blinding bulbs had kept him from his thoughts.

3.5 days later he got a response. He read it, alone. "This is her friend," the e-mail began, stirring hope within his heart. "She died that fateful day," it continued, shuttering what little optimism had grown, "the grid went down and she was struck by a driver who'd had no light saying whether to stop or to go, I'm sorry". Again, he was alone.

#  3 – Let Them Eat Cake

poP poP poP

Everyone ducked. Well, almost everyone, somebody had to fire the gun after all.

One woman stood alone, in a red sun dress and white cowboy boots. In her hand was a magnificent 1911, inlaid with a mother of pearl grip and plated in tiger—stripe gold. Wisps of smoke as delicate and beautiful as her ginger hair escaped the muzzle.

She would not live long. It was not meant to be, her crime would see her put to death as surely as the sun set in the East. It had not been easy finding the 1911, they were highly sought after antiques. 1911s and all other guns which had been produced since the great leap backward. At least he was dead though, never to institute or instigate any further leaps, be it forwards or as in this case backward. It had been 400 years since scientists had managed to reanimate the dead, and what a tumult it had been. Villainous historical figures no longer lay entombed in dirt but instead stood and greeted children in great enclosed amusement parks. Though they were bad they were not stupid and soon they escaped. From Stonewall Jackson's zombie uprising to Putin's zombie nudist park, good brains, and intellectuals were now few and far between. Especially since zombie Lenin's great leap backward. At least he was dead, 3 to the head to make sure he's dead, right?

'BRRRAAAIIIIINNNSSSS a voice from the floor said 'Bourgeois braiiiiiiins'....

POP! CRUNCH! SPLAT! "Ewwwwww."

Well at least that did it, she thought to herself. Little did she know that according to Zombie Law per the Brains act 3007 s.63b(rains), she who kills the lead zombie rules all zombies. It was an archaic law after all, until now only used thrice. And so Jen became the head zombie, setting a new record for the highest position ever held by a living one.

#  4 – The Park

It was a day unlike any other. John the perfumier had just finished work and entered the nearby park. It was 28 degrees and John had his typical lunch with him. It didn't seem like all that unusual of a day, to John at least. Cars drove past, dogs barked, cyclists ran stop signs, and vengeful pigeons shat on passers-by. Even the garbage flies buzzed joyfully around the typical piles of city trash. What was unusual was that John had not eaten his lunch. John always ate his lunch. John religiously observed routines. Every moment of every second of his life was planned out a few weeks in advance. "How you can plan love," you might be thinking. If there was anyone that could, it was John. His obsession was his love, it was worship, he sought no everlasting life, but rather ordered contentment instead.

It bothered him that his lunch remained uneaten. He didn't understand what had come over him. He hadn't eaten it. Why what was wrong? Was he not hungry? No, it couldn't be that. That wouldn't explain his current craving, a strong one too it was for something he himself could not explain. Need overrode any explanation. His body yearned for it – whatever 'it' was. Shivers slithered down his spine, and John smacked his lips. But for what though? He did not know. He needed it bad, he needed it so.

Jack walked into the park. Today was the day, and no more time could pass. It had to be – now or never, and never was any option at all. Out came the pipe. Out came the sickly sweet resin which brought sense to life. Out came the lighter which illuminated his mind and ideas. Out came the smoke, billowing, beckoning, calling him forth into evanescent ecstasy.

John smelled something, he did not know what it was but knew it was what he needed. He walked to it aroused. This was surely what he sought. John's perfumery needed it, this true, liquid, love. He came across a scruffy bum holding what looked to be a pipe, thence emanated the honeyed phantoms. It was what he wanted, what he needed. He ran at the bum and snatched his pipe, he threw his lunch (now quite pleased he hadn't eaten it before) at the man, and ran faster still clutching his purloined loot. John sniffed the pipe. His heart beat fluttered at the thought of putting it in his mouth and sucking with delight, the wrongness of his actions had yielded delectable forbidden fruit. John yearned to partake but decided to leave it for the evening time.

Later that day John was arrested for possession of opium. He didn't even get to try it before that, in some ways it was a day like any other.

#  5 – The Visitor

"Hello," say the hat, trench coat, and aviators.

"Hello" responds a redhead from the corner of the room in saccharine, melodious notes."Who are you?" Her lilac dress swirls in the gentle draft like a jellyfish's mane in ocean currents.

"Who am I?! Who are you?" incredulous trench coat barks back, almost as though it were his home. It could, of course not be, for it had no furniture.

"You know me." With each passing moment, she seems more and more like an apparition.

"I really don't." Sullen silence falls on all. The trench coat seems to shake, its bearer trembles, furious. The only thing which keeps him civil are the endless rays which stream onto her perfect skin. "I know my furniture is gone; I know that you are in my house. I... I know that I love you." the aviators rise an inch, revealing a contorted face behind them, one shocked by its the admission to the ginger stranger.

She nodded, knowingly, "I am the one who has always been near. I am the floater in your eye, the peripheral sparkle. I am the sunrise, the sunset, the dusk, and the dawn. I am good, I am evil. I am. I will always love you, but we can never be, for I am me."

The trench coat awakes in a gin-cloud and slumped over a vomit soaked couch, not knowing what had happened. All that is left now is an ephemeral memory. He looks at the corner of his room, where his fuchsia stands. Its perfect curved form resembles that of an illustrious ballerina. He puts it down to the weird cheese he'd eaten last night and continues with his life. Each time his eyes came upon the fuschia, he knows something happened and each time he wonders what. His fates bade him live, and so he does, his furniture he will keep, but knowledge he will not.

#  6 – A Curious Event

It was time, again. She had waited a whole year.

It was time, again. He had waited, saved, and stolen so that he might be able to attend. His anticipation was literally palpable, a forehead vein pulsed beneath his skin. Like a creepy grandfather clock, it ticked the time away. Was it moral to do that which they did? He didn't know, and he didn't care. Especially not given this year's chump.

He covered himself head to toe in dark blue paint so he would not stand out against the night sky, she would do the same, so it made sense for him to too, even if it made no sense to him. The tortuous, slow, teasing, winding, tick-tock of the nearby wall clock drove him mad. He stared at the second hand, willing it on. His forehead vein pulsed harder and harder until finally each hand pointed in the right direction. It was time. He just had to pick her up on the way. She was, after all, the reason he was going. The event did excite him, of course, he was a curious guy, and it had been how he'd met her. She'd changed his life that day. To think...how silly he had been, sniveling and begging her to forgive him when she had caught him with his hand in her bag...how little he'd known.

She'd let him snivel. She enjoyed watching him squirm, only then did she tell him that he was good, but not good enough. She could remember his quizzical expression perfectly. She remembered the stunned look when she had pulled out the blank white card and handed it over to him. On it had been a number, her's. They'd met a few times since then and she'd arranged this year's event. It would be the most incredible one yet, even if she herself was a belieber. She rolled up her little pouch with its many sections, shoved it in her navy bra. She jammed her feet into a pair of simple, but stylish, navy pumps, then donned a dark mask and set off.

There was the signal! One flash, two 'coo's, five drips and six moo's. The way was clear. He edged closer to the door, his heart beat out of his chest when he caught a glimpse of her, the too real danger of his acts struck him and made the sweat bead up on his forehead. He walked up to her keenly, she reached between her breasts and pulled out her pouch, the same one he'd tried to grab so many years ago. The picks came out in a flash, and within two more the door was unlocked. Sleepy rottweiler snores echoed off the grandiose marble foyer. He steeled himself against the terrifying roar and removed a blowgun from its pant-leg hiding place. Thwp. Thwp. As quickly as it had reached their ears so quickly did the racket subside once more. The coast was finally clear, the shady twosome sneaked on through the house.

Soon they arrived at the white bedroom door. Even sooner they found the bed and even sooner than that they were upon one another. Her screams reached the heavens and his grunts found the deepest hells. The pigs came the quickest and blew their load even quicker. They riddled him full of lead, and he just died there on the bed. She escaped without a wound though, just a hurt ego and bloodied lips. His lifeless pulp lay there, unmoving and pointless. The officers stopped and looked into the light, a weird brooding green which had grown behind them, just out of sight. From it, he came, as cheerful as always. Not he who was dead, for he was far gone, but he who was blond – her favorite #1. The bacon deferred, and let them all be, they backed out of the room with not a word to exchange. The Biebs held his arm out and pointed behind her, and she turned to see her own pockmark silhouette.

The Biebs just said, "I saved you" in a faux high pitched voice. She turned to look at him again and smiled, he was her savior, and she knew he'd let her stay for a while. The biebs reached up to his head, when his fingertips touched his gold locks the air shone with the fire of moistened magnesium flowers. When his hand came down it held out a set of gold lockpicks, just for her. She ran to him naked and grabbed with glee. She hugged her Bieloved and bade him farewell, then gathered her clothes and went on her way. Bieber then walked over to the hole ridden corpse, he reached down and grabbed a necklace of sorts. He shook off the blood and was reunited with it once more.

Miles below, in a hot fire filled cave the soul of the dead man was yoked, like a slave. Behind him, he pulled ten thousand beliebers on a small wheeled parade float. Over red hot cobbles he stepped as demoniac clones laughed at his plight. A million jeering Biebers filled the cavern about him, some laughed and some sang. So the man who was now not more than a corpse kept pulling the cart, at quite a slow speed, of course, all while four eternal words haunted him in damnation: 'Baby, baby, baby, oooohhh!'

#  7 – Free

"I cannot, will not live without you."

"You can, you must, you will, for 'tis to be. I do not care. I do not want to. I am free. Am I not? Let me be! Alone! Away foul witch!"You are not and I must not. We are not free, you know 'tis not to be. You cannot flee this wretched temple so end your too pathetic plea."

"But I need to go, I must live, must see! How dare you try and break what little hope I have of glee? You, who've shown me truth, justice, and merciful peace. You who've shown me cruelty, darkness and endless mourning wreaths? How dare you try and make me stay, let go banshee, harken to my just decree. I am not your devotee, and I am not your detainee. But soon, I will be the escapee."

"Maybe just one more try?" cried out a pleading yearning voice, in sultry seductive tones, it meant to lure, to hold, to trap. "I have had enough of danger, and people on the streets. I can't be happy, but you can be, go, try and flee - you'll see. You know what I foresee? You, crawling, coming back to me."

"See what you will, but your will is not law. And law is not will but for when will is but law. And love is the law, love under will."

"You manatee!"

"Manatee? How dare you! I told you I don't pree. Soon I will be alone, and carefree, having a black tea, atop a fig tree, by the sparkly, warm, and wavy, blue lake. Let me go. Let me be. Let me run to the quay," jerking forwards, Sonia made Sarah drop like a brick. Her nose burst and dyed the rocks bright red.

Blood warms Max's upper lip, and trickles down from the corners of his mouth. He lies on the floor in pain, smelling iron, reaching for dear Haldol. Inside, Sarah and Sonia bicker still. Max just lies there, waiting it out.

A fly meanders by, it pauses on Max's head and considers sucking up a bite, but decides not to on balance. This one seemed wrought with problems. The fly flies on and Max just waits.

#  8 – Bitch

The baby cried out with a piercing shriek. Its mother's eyes welled up with tears. She set her newborn life down on the dusty step. He looked up at his mother, he could not speak, he could not even control his bowel movements, but he knew; he would be alone. As she stepped away tears left luminous lines on her face, and suddenly the baby was all alone.

"COME INSIDE THIS INSTANT YOUNG MAN." shrieked sister Mary, brandishing her favorite yardstick. He made his way, fearing sister Mary's inflexible rule. Back to the house, back to the school, back to the cruel, fly-ridden, orphanage. He vowed he would get himself out. He vowed he would leave the trap and make it. He vowed he'd go away.

THUD. Joey fell to the ground, a violet lump started to grow and fill the shallow depression left by the orphan's fist. Nobody and that meant NOBODY, would disrespect him. He may have been unwanted, but would not be disrespected. Haters would pay most dearly, this much he knew already. The orphan pushed his sleeves up high, as he had seen so many tough men do in so many movies and approached Joey, ready for round 2.

"Yo, she'll suck yo dick like a fucking elephant sucking on a peanut," said the orphan, now a man. He continued his sick pitch "she's my bottom bitch for a reason, tennis ball through a garden hose yo." The suit looked thrilled, and soon would be.

"FUCK YOU FUCKING WHORE ILL FUCKING KILL YOU." screamed the orphan at his bottom bitch. So she left. She ran while she still could. She did not know what she should do. She realized then that she meant nothing to him, that she was just another hooker that the lucky could forget. She knew nobody would care, it happened every day. She was afraid, but at least she was not alone anymore. Some months later a piercing shriek filled the air as she set her progeny down on that same dusty step.

And life went on.

#  9 – The Awkward Fumbler

He was born, awkwardly he fumbled from his mother into the doctors latex covered claws.

He was home, awkwardly he fumbled to place his lips around too tender teats.

He was sitting, awkwardly he fumbled so much that the airplane could not land, but crashed instead, causing massive broccoli fatalities.

He was walking, awkwardly he fumbled his way across the room, exploring the world for the first time.

He was careful, awkwardly he fumbled with graphite filled wood to emulate the gentle slopes and sharp cliffs of the alphabet.

He liked her, awkwardly he fumbled under thick coats on snowy hills to steal her innocent youthful kisses.

He was mad, awkwardly he fumbled trying to hit, throwing fists and kicks with reckless abandon.

He was in trouble; awkwardly he fumbled with his explanation.

He failed, awkwardly he fumbled his way to summer school where he would fumble even more awkwardly, trying to catch up.

He woke up, head pounding, eyes watering, awkwardly he fumbled to the bottle for a favored hirsute canine remedy.

He was with her, awkwardly he fumbled with her body and his own.

He was with him, awkwardly he fumbled with his body and his own.

He graduated, awkwardly he fumbled to the job market, wanting nothing more than to be wanted.

He was married, awkwardly he fumbled to juggle lust and responsibility.

He had kids, awkwardly he fumbled every day between 9 and 5, trying to make sense of it all.

His parents died, awkwardly he fumbled trying to hold back his tears while making sure their departure would be worthy of their existence.

He was alone, awkwardly he fumbled with the pen as he tried to sign the papers, turning to his favorite remedy.

He lay there, awkwardly fumbling with his memories. Alone and in agony. Human contact was a button's push away, awkwardly he fumbled, his crooked fingers could now not do what he willed them to. He tried to recollect the happiness & pride which had long left. He tried hard to remember, but the memories were gone, so instead he fumbled awkwardly with his own mind, his own thoughts, finding no string to guide him in his labyrinthine quest.

He closed his eyes one last time. As awkwardly as he had fumbled through life, so too did he in death. His existence snuffed out, his cadaver rolled, egged on by his fumbles for the red button, it fell.

THUD.

As he; so we.

#  10 – Society

Who was she? Perhaps it didn't matter anymore. She was too old, too tired, and too beaten down to care anymore. She had known what she wanted when she was a child, not that it had mattered. As she'd grown, so had the expectations, it was not enough to be a good person, to be polite, nice, funny, or smart. She had to be pretty. She had to be skinny, and girly. So each time she saw a bug she screamed and she often shunned her food.

And so, she grew. She knew then what she wanted, she was a teen; no-one listened. As she grew, so did the expectations, it was no longer enough to by polite, nice, funny, smart, skinny, girly or pretty. She had to be chaste, flirty, and submissive.

And so, she grew. She knew what she wanted when she was in college; no-one listened, for she was too young. As she grew, so did the expectations, it was no longer enough, none of it was, a whole new world awaited her.

And so, she grew. She now truly does know what she wants. But now there is nobody there to listen. Alone, she ventures through the days and nights, slaving at one thing or another, fighting for her bare survival. The dreams she holds close to her heart glow dimmer today as they have done each day before. She lives, days pass, and she survives. In most ways it is enough that she has become society's dream, she embraces each stereotype to quiet her detractors and so embraces them, in each approval finding more comfort. She likes it, she cherishes the fun. The tropes which play out in front of her are better than any show. She knows what she wants to be, and she can well do it too, indeed she can pour a great gas can upon that flick'ring flame and turn the world alight. But the fire scares her. It makes her...hesitate. Society quietly confirms her fears and cradles her, it keeps her in a safe space where no flame is allowed, where none dared make an unsanctioned sound.

And in that there is comfort. And so she survives, as she's done each day before.

#  11 – The Third Horn

Her babe screams as the train passed. Its horn blankets all other sounds with a lion's roar. The clickety-clack of the wheels beats out a metallic rhythm. She caresses her baby's wispy blond hair. She cradles him upon her hip and looks at him tenderly. She leans in and whispers, "Hush little baby, it's just the choo choo". Each step she takes seems better than the last. She walks through the shallow waters of the local wading fountain. She likes feeling waters wet embrace about her feet. Her flowery green dress stretches out upon her high bones, they betray a history of labor. Her tanned skin glistens with droplets of spray, it pulls the eye, it was as though one watched a gazelle and her young. She swats at a fly which buzzes by her baby's head.

She looks at her baby and hopes that this will last forever. She can not picture him growing. Yet deep down she knows he will.

Her slender form paces back and forth through the water, the second train flies past with her babe on it, she listens to its blue and green cars roll by with frightening thunder, and she remembers, "Hush little baby, it's just the choo choo". But her baby is not there, her baby has grown up. Now he drives the very lion whose roar had frightened him so long ago. Her green dress is now loose and wrinkled, no longer does it caress her curves, now instead it hangs formlessly. What little skin peeks through shows many agèd spots. Tanned though it is, it no longer glistens, it no longer glows as it once had. She had known her babe would have to leave, but at least he came by each day.

Her legs make their way through the shallow water once more. They moved slower than they had before. Like a wild herd's elder members she seems to trail a little behind, a queer protective prey. Finally, the third horn heralds its parent train. She is tired. She looks at the metal monster as it passes and knows it is all over. She can not imagine his voice. It's been years since last they'd spoken, an eternity will pass until they could again. Deep down she knows that he will call eventually, she hopes, she wishes, she yearns once more. Her emerald green dress is ratty now, it hangs off her gaunt form revealing her age. Her once beautiful skin resembles a well-tanned piece of leather, it no longer glows. As the third horn ends, her babe races past in a blur, she too then ends.

As the aneurysm bursts, the train conductor wonders why he never calls.

#  12 – Goal

He scored. He was sure of it. Seeing her in that hotel lobby had set his loins alight. She'd sat there in full view of all, twiddling away. Twas true she faced towards the wall but he still knew, and if he had so would the others. He walked up to her and saw even more clearly how her waistband pulsed up and down on top of her wrist. He could make out her knuckles oscillating beneath her skirt. She tried not to squirm in that too comfortable lobby chair, but it felt a little too good, so she did. He said "Hi" to her, she just kept going, she kept grinding. Warmth spread throughout her body as more tension built within with each passing second. He could tell she was a sex fiend.

"How'd you like to waste some time?" She asked, he just couldn't resist. Off they went to her great stone abode. "Won't you come up?" she'd queried on the step, in front of her carved mahogany gate. As if that question warranted an answer.

"Of course".

Hand in hand, they went up to the door to her habitat. They walked through her castle, to her room. He couldn't believe his eyes. Devices dotted the walls, she had so many, everything that money could buy. They went to her bed, about to embrace each other in purely carnal passion. Pleasure would soon abound just as it had before. Just as they were about to jump onto each other she reached under her bed and brought out a great tome. She fluttered through tissue thin pages making quite the commotion. Finally, she stopped, right on a page whose only feature was a thinly dotted line. She signed first with tall & slender cursive letters. "Nikki". Then it was John's turn to put his Hancock on her paper. Once he had Nikki clapped her hands, and it disappeared in a puff of mauve smoke. The lights went out, engulfing poor John in pitch black. She didn't matter, and he didn't care. He would be out of there by morning, she was just another notch, another hoe, another bitch which he'd not call. She would not even see him leave, even if she would most surely watch him come.

The sun rose. He looked around, first calmly, then frantically. He was all alone in her immense room with her countless devices. Each fiber of his being ached. Her machines and machinations had drained him, he lay limply upon her bed, willing himself up. He gathered up his pile of clothes from the floor and sheepishly slipped into them. He stepped over to the room's door and made his way out. Was he alone? How could this be? How long had he slept? Why did he feel so hazy? All he found was a small note on the stairs, it said 'Thank you for a funky time, call me up whenever you want to grind, xxx' and a number – Nikki's. What exactly had she done to him? "COME BACK NIKKI" he cried and whined.

#  13 – Chugga-Chugga

It was on small child's 'train' that she had discovered her passion for conducting. It had not even been a real train but rather a golf cart plastered with thick grained false panels. Its wooden facade concealed the rubber wheels beneath quite well. Each car was open and no bigger than a cow. It wasn't very fast, but it determined the direction of her life journey. Nearby a cargo train rushed its load onwards to new horizons. She looked at it as it zoomed by, its size and power were magnificent. She had never seen such a raucous, monstrous, thing. Sure, a T-Rex could eat you, but put a T-Rex in front of a train,(and give the train a big enough cow catcher) and you would soon be having a T-Rex t-bone. Unlike most kids she kept her dream alive, unlike most kids she became a train conductor.

A week ago there happened to be a particularly fateful day. Bird strikes were not altogether unusual, neither was the occasional deer. She had trouble dealing with those but she managed somehow. If there had existed a diet which did not harm plants she would have been on it, so it saddened her to the core when her metal dinosaur snuffed out the lives of gentle woodland creatures. It saddened her more still when she hit other people. Every languishing body which no longer found value in a life. Every splattered fool who jumped but a moment too late in a too fatal game of chicken. Every wrecked unmoving lemon. All demolished by her mighty beast. Perhaps it was her pondering, perhaps it was her crying or her nearby empty bottle; whatever it was that day she did not see. She did not have time, not by when she'd realized. She couldn't stop quickly enough to avoid the stationary station wagon. Perhaps its owners assumed the track to be abandoned, or perhaps they'd simply not given it any thought, whatever the case they sat in the car waiting to be towed, with their young kids in tow. With a crash, a great cloud of red mist, and a heavy metal rain, her dinosaur was through.

Once her beast had come to a halt she called "Mayday!" thrice. She stepped out of the locomotive whose face was now dyed red and black with tar, and blood, and engine oil, to survey the damage. The main compartment of the car was to the left, the other parts of the were miscellaneously strewn about on the ground, deposited violently in non-final resting places. She peered in through the window of the sole intact piece, against her better judgment. She had never done so before, she knew better than that. Maybe it was her wondering, maybe her horror widened eyes or maybe even the whiskey which did her vision mottle. She knew it could not be good, but she was compelled to see by some mysterious endogenous force.

Therein she saw what had once been a little girl – her body bent by the impact into an impossible right angle, pieces of a man – a pulverized red and white mass of bone and flesh, a bloody bra next to a shattered window through which his bride had flown, and what could only be described as mincemeat in a baby seat. A fly was already busy depositing her eggs therein. She knew then what she had to do.

Today all she hears are the birds chirping and singing, communicating their cheerful well wishes to all. All she can see is the wind tugging gently at tree branches like enamored children tug at one others' hair. And yet the horn fills the air around her, though it doth sound from afar. And yet, and yet that raucous monstrous beast approaches. As she waits for her true love to chug along just one last time, she whips out a silver flask so she herself can chug, chug, chug, along.

#  14 – Zodiac

Stormy days were his favorite, they were perfect. Just him, the rain, and the wind; nobody bothered him, nobody molested or got in his way. She lay unmoving on his table. It was cold and she was unable to speak; paralyzed by drugs and fear. She could not feel, but she was quite aware. He smiled at her then reached for his blade. On a day like this, even the police would be staying in. It was a perfect day and he was happy, a matter which in itself was no mean feat. As his blade began to slice through her perfect goosebumped skin his mind wandered elsewhere, it went to his favorite killer; Zodiac.

How had he managed to elude capture? What did his code say? What could it possibly mean? How did he have the balls to taunt the police like he had? He supposed it didn't really matter. He tried to sneer his mask up his nose, the slippery devil had dropped, and he didn't want any blood getting into his mouth or nostrils. Slowly but surely it migrated back up his creased face. Grasping his fine handled blade, he cupped her naked breast and made his first incision, it was the cut which always excited him the most. Between the scratchy-tearing sound of skin and the nascent trickle of red, nothing was quite as pleasurable, nothing was as exquisite. He stared down upon her nudity with contempt. Such vanity. Such wasted resource, such stupidity! At least it would all be over soon. He cut deeper, past the fat which clung to his fingers like disgusting yellow jelly. He cut, and cut, and cut again, becoming more excited the closer he got to completing his masterpiece. He was almost panting as he painted with her blood. His adrenaline surged, helping him power through the last few stages. With scratchy paper towels, he wiped away the thin red film which covered her body like glaze covers pork chops. He could almost smell success, or maybe that was her blood? She wasn't his first and by this point, it was clear to all, she wouldn't be his last. It was all the same though, was it not? When they were on his table he was their God, he held their lives in his hands, and did with them that which he pleased. He loved nothing more. He lusted for the sound of human skin being sliced open by his fine blade, he loved the smell and color of her life force, he loved his helpless sleeping subjects. But sadly he was nearly done. And then he was, and so was she.

"Hello Mrs. Marlborough, how are you feeling?" asked the doctor.

"Oh. My. God. I have never felt better!" she responded. She noticed a button on the doctor's coat emblazoned with a design of sorts. A circle with a cross through it. She supposed it represented some charitable organization or other. "I love them," she continued, looking down at her new DDs, "Thank you".

On the windowsill, a solitary fly watched all.

#  15 – So What?

They met on a cold, miserable, winter's eve. Obscuring snow marred all beauty, all but hers. She was a curious creature, almost unfathomably attractive. She was more beautiful than the Kraken was mighty. Most would not be have been complemented by such a statement, but she would have been, for that was her nature. With feverish ambition he pursued her, stopping at nothing, so that he might catch a glimpse of her once more, on a more intimate, more personal level, of course. Perhaps his intent had not been entirely benign.

That evening had been unlike any other, he liked winter but that night made the rest of the frigid season pale into a warm springtime insignificance by comparison. It wasn't as though they'd done anything particularly special, just the standard fare: pub grub, and a Guinness. Perhaps his dating skills were not those of noted lothario Adam Mohiruto, but he had some game still. It would help him, but it wouldn't be sufficient. Sadly he didn't know this, not then anyway.

They walked and they talked. Through the night, they held each other, not in body but in mind. He could little look away from her. Her long hair bounced with every step, imprisoning his attention. He watched the solitary strands play with each other, they intertwined and jumped gently to and fro. Her beauty was truly great, but it was the least attractive thing about her. Her smile made a novel warmth spread through his body. Like a severe and unwelcome episode of heartburn, it made his insides churn. He needed her.

He could tell just by looking at her that she wanted him, her glancing touches, her shy smiles, and purposefully pointed feet, it all sent shivers down his spine. Their chemistry was something he'd neither felt nor seen before, with as much intensity as the stars his passion burned brightly. He was determined to have her. He was determined to be hers, he was determined that it was right.

"Ugh, another one of these idiots," she thought to herself on a cold winter's eve. She feigned interest, at least that way he wouldn't go crazy and scream-y. She would not kiss him though, and she certainly would not sleep with him. Maybe she'd hug him, but more likely just shake hands. Perhaps she would turn this into a short story about unrequited love. Yes, that would be quite ironic, but under her pen name, A. Mohiruto, only then would jackasses like the one in front of her part with precious dollars in hopes of finding their very own predestined love scuppered somewhere between prolix lines. Meanwhile, she would feign interest in his tales, which seemed to vacillate uncertainly between Kakure Kirishitans or some fool called Larry's latest televised mishaps.

All the while a fly fought for its survival in a nearby soup.

#  16 – He Sat

He sat on a bench. What now? He eyed the brown case which he'd put down on the ground next to him. He didn't know what the next step would be, all he knew was anxiety and fear, unsure of who he was, and unsure of what he was doing. He picked up the case and placed it on his lap, all the while maintaining a shifty gaze.

He nervously placed his index finger on one side of the clasp release, and his thumb on the other. He applied even pressure and lifted up the wider, top part of the case. It revealed a crowd of emerald green keys inscribed with ivory letters. On the right, above them, the maker's mark announced he was using a genuine Smith-Corona. The carriage return said 'Super', and boy it sure was. The only problem now was what to write? He decided to write about a universe in which a guy, not unlike him, wrote. He looked around for inspiration but found little in the mundanity of life. Being the clever boy he was, he pondered life instead, its meaning, its purpose, and goals. Thoroughly uninspired, as usual, he realized there was very little worth writing about anyway. Very little would remain, all would die and be forgotten. Inevitably and invariably crushed by the universe's unknown mass. It didn't matter, anything would alleviate his wretched thoughts. He fed in his paper, half a sheet, aligned with the carriage, and he began to type:

"He sat on the bench, 'What now?' He thought to himself. He eyed the brown case he'd laid upon the bench, right next to him. He didn't know what the next step would be, all he knew was anxiety and fear, unsure of who he was, and of what he was doing. He picked up the case and placed it on his knees, his eyes shifted back and forth.

Anxious, he placed his fingers either side of the clasp release. He applied even pressure and lifted the top, wider part of the case. It revealed a mob of grass green keys, on them cream colored letters. In the corner, branding shouted loudly that he was using a Smith-Corona. The return said 'Super'. Right...super fake maybe. He raised a suspicious eyebrow at the lifeless machine. Now what? He decided to write about a world in which a guy, not unlike him, had a brown case, not unlike his. He turned his head right and left, hoping to find an inkling of inspiration. He found none in the plain boringness of his surroundings. Being a smartass, he pondered life instead. The big why. Now ironically inspired, as usual, he realized very few things needed to end, but his story did:

"The man with the brown case sighed as he opened it. Inside gray padding hugged the exotic curves of a shining pistol. He wrapped his hand around it, enjoying the sensuality of the textured metal. He closed his eyes and brought it to his skull. The frigid firearm grazed his ear, sending a chill down his spine, and making his clammy hands wetter still. Little would remain, all would die and be forgotten. It didn't matter, anything could alleviate his wretched thoughts. Click. He brought it back down, all the while trembling with fear, now knowing the strength that he'd had. He pulled out the clip,fed lead past the lips, and brought it back up to his head. He trembled now harder, his lip quaked inconsolably. Sadness welled up in his throat. He couldn't cry, that was too much, too melodramatic too melancholy, the frog lodged firmly in his gullet wouldn't let him. It yearned to jump into the rivers pouring forth from his eyes So instead he breathed harder, and harder, and harder still. Weakness slowly started creeping in. He wasn't sure anymore. He breathed harder still. He didn't know if what he did was right. Such thoughts were, of course, madness, for most assuredly it was. Now panting like a beast, he straightened his back, remembering imagined lessons which he'd lacked. He clenched his eyes harder as man fought against himself. One's will against his nature."

The writer who wrote finally worked up the courage, emboldened by the length of his story. He held the gun tight, and his index finger came back. With a bang, his life was done & he had gained glory. Now the writer who wrote lay on the ground, next to his typewriter, twitching less and less. Dead in time for the end of the page.

#  17 – Soulmates

Every time he thought of her his chest tightened, his stomach churned, and an idiotic smile overcame his stylish brooding. He couldn't help it. He couldn't. It wasn't a choice – she was almost a curse. But he liked it. He enjoyed thinking about how sweet and kind she was, about how heartily she laughed, about how lovingly she looked at him. She felt the same and had said as much earlier. He experienced a giddiness which he had long not felt. He was beset by ecstasy each time he looked at his phone's screen. He could move mountains for her, she needed only ask.

"Let's run away" she texted, with a happy smiley at the end.

"Let's" he typed back, adding a cheeky wink. Every time they were together others looked on jealously. Powerful envy, from absolute strangers, was made them uncomfortable each time they went out. It was clear to all who saw them that they were meant for one another. Even skeptics, who insisted that soul mates were but societal hallucinations, created out of desperation by those who did not understand statistics and feared being alone, even those people acquiesced and knew.

They had not known each other long, only a few days, but even so their situation was clear to both of them. He lay on his bed, remembering their first embrace, remembering their first kiss, and remembering the first time that their eyes had met. It was too early, that was for sure, but he loved her all the same.

She lay on her bed, pondering and recalling those same moments. With such timing that even the world's foremost percussionist would have been impressed, they reached for their phones. They had to speak. They had to hear each other. They had to feel the unbridled joy provoked by one another. They spoke, for hours and hours they spoke. They talked about music, about politics, about food, and about sex. All the while blissfully unaware.

In a year, they'd gotten married, in two they'd replicated, in three they'd even bought a house. It was in that fateful fourth year that disaster would strike. Their child, a fragile being, would be forthrightly crushed by a pane of poorly installed glass. It will happen as they walk down the street, hand in hand in hand, ever the happy family. As their child skips, the pane will slip and fall. He won't know what to do so he'll hold her bloodied body tight against his and whisper "Be brave". She won't stop crying though, she will be too pained. She will clutch the body of her progeny, and then he'll clutch his chest. His arm will stiffen, and then she'll have to stop crying all alone.

#  18 – To Care Or Not To Care

Why should she care? Everybody always demanded that she care about every damn little thing out there. What did it matter to her if people starved? It didn't concern her in the slightest. She didn't understand why everyone seemed so enthralled by every morbid story they came across, why their attentions were easily captured and yet easily lost too. She simply didn't understand. Even world leaders feigned caring. In some ways, she thought it funny. Despite the faux empathy and real pity, people didn't care. The irony of celebrities speaking about African orphans from cavernous cliffside mansions struck her. Heartless, cold, uncaring, bitch, an imbecile, an ass, a social Darwinist. All things which she had been called. She could not comprehend it. She spent most of her time alone, minding her own business, as did everyone else, the only difference was that she was outwardly honest about her views. Money mattered not to her, so she led a simple life.

All claimed to care, but what is caring without action? Empty words, empty gestures, and empty cash-filled wallets, nothing more. As more tricksters built more houses for their friends, the sick and poor watch another unaffordable neighborhood appeared. Why should she care? Would it not be of more benefit to just to live her own life instead? Surely it would. Then again, wouldn't that make her less human, less kind, less alive? That was what she had always been told...it must then be true. To care or not to care, twas that which so often befuddled her. Would she bow down to the will and demands of society? Would she feign resistance with great insistence only to soon after forget her emotion? It was an outrageous fortune which had seen so many lives belittled, but such was life, and her feigned empathy would neither fix nor even serve as slightest solace. It would merely remind the remainder of a painful memory which they strove to forget. It didn't matter anyway, not in the end.

What drove most to claim they truly care were selfish interests. They desired to fit in, to have friends, to feel good without doing anything of value, all the while basking in mass adulation. For what? For more to come and view the pale cadaver left behind? For more flowers to be lain on the grave for longer? For more tears, for more sadness, that those others might pretend that they too care? She would not go down this path. The best way to show she cared was not to care at all. Her burial would not be well attended indeed she would no longer even be able to afford a richly-grained coffin, not after having given away so much. Rachel didn't care. This was true, but she was at least honest. Her stone was spartan, left simple to preserve what wealth remained for those who lived and struggled still. Her weathered coins were for the worthy, not her own joy, they always had been.

#  19 – The Flower Bringer

Every year on this day the flower bringer carries with him a single pink lily.

Every year on this day he lays it by her resting head.

Every year on this day he sheds tears over an ever smaller mound of dirt.

Every year on this day the flower bringer sits, alone, and remembers the past.

Every year on this day the flower bringer begs to feel again; yearning for respite from an emotionless purgatory.

Every year on this day, the flower bringer contemplates the passing of the years.

Every year on this day the flower bringer sighs at the immutability of everything and everyone.

Every day the flower bringer realizes he has not changed.

As years pass by and the world turns, people predestined to repeat mistakes of yore live and die.

This year on this day, the flower bringer wilts, destined to bring flowers no more. Her resting place is now and will forever more be barren, a sole stone its only marker. That stone too shall crack, shall break, and disappear, as will the flower bringer's too after.

Eventually, they will perish and be forgotten; nothing more thna typos in the play of the universe.

#  20 – The Green Moth

Once upon a time, there was a butterfly. The butterfly was very beautiful, so much so that wherever she would fly, everyone and everything would turn to point & stare, stunned by the sight of her. She was a smart butterfly too, she lived a great many years without being hurt or eaten, no mean feat for such a fragile fluttering speck.

One day she came across a large orchard. She had seen many orchards, but none as big or as beautiful as this one. In it, there were flowers of every size, shape, and color. There were blue flowers; there were red flowers. There were big flowers; there were small flowers. There were flowers that gave off an aroma so soothing, so sweet, and so enchanting, that highways of bees buzzed to them in furious columns; then there were those which did not smell, but instead were among the most beautiful in the orchard. They had thousands upon thousands of gossamer petals. Each petal was a different color, each glowed with the iridescence of fish's scales beneath a scintilla of sun, each beckoning the massing mellifera.

There were some flowers which were neither intoxicating nor beautiful, but they were special in their own way. Some had thick stems which could be woven together so as to build useful things. Others grew pungent healing buds. Others still were plain, and small, they went unnoticed easily; they were the most special of flowers; they could talk, and they could think, indeed they could even feel. The butterfly had never been happier, she knew she would remain in this orchard forever. The magical fruit on the trees were rather good too, supposedly they brought love, though none could fathom how. Some said that this was the garden of Aphrodite, the others...well, not many knew about the garden, so most had nothing to say at all.

The butterfly spent many happy years in the orchard, learning what each flower was. Learning how each bug behaved, ever curious, ever thirsting for knowledge and wisdom. One day a great brown, moth the size of a fist, found the orchard. Curiously, it flew mainly in the day, something most unusual. Moths, the butterfly knew, only flew through daylight if they were depressed. And indeed, so it was.

The moth always worried for he was nothing more than a moth. He hated that people hated him because of that, it made him mad. Why could the wretched others just not let him be? He had no harm in mind for them. Yet each time they swatted, each time they yelled; they hated him. He surveyed the great orchard from above, he saw its beauty and flew a few inches lower, for he knew he could not belong among such elysian bowers.

The emerald butterfly floated up to the moth breezily, she told him about the special, and sacred, nature of everything in the orchard, and that sadness was the sole thing prohibited therein. A nearby flower, one with a fly upon its stem, swung lightly in the wind. Bizarrely the moth was no longer sad, he did not know how such things were possible but his burden was lightened, and he flew accordingly higher, many feet so. The moth was entranced by the flying green shard, he could not bear to be burdened so, not around such a perfect creature. A pang of jealousy shot through the moth's wing veins.

The moth and the butterfly spent many wonderful days together, slowly realizing that they were, if not birds of a feather, at least insects of a shape. The butterfly cared a lot about the moth and often tried to cheer it up. She tried to keep it from being sad about its dull brown nature Normally it worked flawlessly, and the moth fluttered about, happy enough on his own at night. He needed only momentary cheering from the butterfly every now and then. The moth was joyful, for it too had a special purpose there, without it the night flowers, of which there were many, would be all alone, and eventually be no more at all. The moth did not sleep, he felt no need to in that mystic orchard; he thought too much about the butterfly. When time to sleep came he would find the tall wakeful plant, and rub his wings against its powdery stem. At night the moth was the garden's king; the best, brightest, biggest, most beautiful of the all nocturnal insects. It was his kingdom, yet he was uninterested in its governance.

During the day, the moth plotted and schemed, though he was joyful he could not bear the butterfly's beauty much longer. She was green and stunning, a floating gem, and what was he? A discarded cloth, jerkily blown by wind's cold currents, that's what. He hid beneath well skirted plants conspiring, he would sort it all out, soon enough. He too wanted to be emerald green, beloved and beholden by all.

He was particularly upset when the butterfly spoke to the beautiful flowers. He feared that whatever he might do the butterfly would find someone or something better and more beautiful than he. The butterfly saw these tinges and joked with the moth that perhaps he should be green instead of her. Normally that sufficed to raise his spirits. She cared for the month, deeply so, but those comments terrorized his soul. He never told her, but they haunted him, with waking dreams of his own transformation into a green jewel. He despaired at being unable to be himself. At least, the moth thought, at least he would have her. But this too was frustrated, for the butterfly knew that she was destined to be free. She knew that separate species could never mate, and so that they could never be.

One day the moth could take no more. He remembered the butterfly's taunt — that he be green instead of her. He would. He would show her, he would be the green one, he would be one everyone loved. Finally, he would be the one everyone looked at. He knew how too. He would take her green, then she would see the torment he endured, let her try to be happy then. No other green would suffice, no other green was as beautiful or as heartrendingly intense as hers. Sadly, the moth was more cruel than he was dumb. The moth found a rose, the most beautiful of all which bore the sharpest of thorns. He carefully snapped them off, giving the rose a thick coat instead, one spun from caterpillar thread so that it might finally hug its friends without hurting them, a fair trade for both.

As the butterfly slept, the moth flew to her. He ignored the night plants and went to start his wretched misdeed instead. He took a thorn, and slowly cut a green section from the butterfly's wings with it. He winced as he cut a similar section from his own. He momentarily realised the panels above him, like pieces of stained church glass, then carefully swapped them in. Impatient, he flew to a drop and to check his reflection in its aqueous aether. Oh wow. Oh heavens. Finally, he began to be beautiful. The moth took one more look to make sure it was real, then flew back quick to continue his villainy. The green panel felt strange in his wings, it was much lighter than his heavy brown scales. The moth worked to control his flight, he found the imbalance troubling. He wondered if it was right to do this, but he didn't wonder long, for soon he was back by the butterfly and beautylust which drove him mad set in once more.

And so he cut, and cut, and cut again. When half her wings became half his, half the night had passed and it was time for him to pause once more. He flew to the drop again and looked. He was magnificent, unlike anything ever seen before. Mottled, mixed, contrasting bright green and brown cream filled in his wings. The moth realized he could stop now and that all would think him beautiful, heck even the butterfly would likely have accepted such a result even if she would have been mad at first. But no, it was insufficient. He needed the rush of pure unbridled power, he needed that great green, that beautiful beloved green. He flew back to end his work.

When the butterfly awoke she did not know what had happened, all she knew was that flight then felt quite hard. Her wings seemed strangely heavy. She hobbled over to a glistening dew drop, and immediately she knew. She was sad, not because of the green, for though she loved it she knew it was but pigment, but because of the moth and his cruel misdeeds. She would not have given him her green, twas true, but why ought she have to at all. From that day on the butterfly never saw the moth again. The moth then flew in the nighttimes only, having returned to his predestined task. He hid from her, and from his own shame, and so they did not meet. The moth was happy though, he now ruled the night not only with criminal finesse but with arresting beauty too.

The butterfly took betrayal badly, she could not find joy again, nor trust either. No plant, no flower, no bewildered bug could make her smile or fly as she once had. To make things that much worse, the garden's rules were strict on the matter, so she left. Forever. The magical orchard did not permit sadness, and she knew that she could not overcome it, not this time, and certainly not with the moth about. She was only a butterfly, she could not change, not forever. So long as the moth was alive in that place she could not be.

At least the moth had indeed become the most beautiful moth ever to have been seen. He stayed awake for days and days, showing off his green color, always doting upon what was now his, as publicly as he could. By all accounts, he was stunning; a flying fragment of jade. He would never be the joyful sparkling emerald that the butterfly had resembled, but that had never mattered. His new found bright color, sadly, made him a most visible moth. As chance would have it, one late evening, just as he set out to pollinate the night plants an owl flew by, and at that same moment, thinking to itself how hungry it was, and how it envied the parrot's beauty, the fat owl spotted the moth, and within moments had gained a nutritious crunchy snack.

The butterfly fluttered about, gaining more happiness each day, meeting many in her travels. It was a shame she could never learn of the moth's inglorious demise. Some years on, butterfly years, of course, the butterfly was quite happy, she was quite content but dared not go back, for she knew she'd lose what joy she'd gained were she to see that awful moth again. Even so she remained loved by all, not because of her color but rather her personality and friendly nature. It was a shame that on a balmy afternoon, on her way to meet a newfound friend, one whom she planned to tell about the magic garden, the dull, but happy, brown butterfly learned, rather violently, of the existence of a 2005 CTS, bright sky blue, owned by a Ms. Apphrodite, a local horticulturist.

#  21 – The Light Under The Stairs

The air felt eerie even though they'd lived there for three months. Maybe it was the intense silence, of the sort that makes one whisper, just to make sure one still hears. It was to be expected in a dwelling of this age - the walls were very thick indeed.

She hadn't been quite as accepting. She knew there had to be some paranormal explanation, but then that was typical. "How could a house this old NOT have some proverbial or even literal skeletons in‽" She knew that such thoughts were silly, so she deferred to him, and they got on with their lives, ignoring the strange feeling.

That night after an exciting session, post-coital hunger hit them both hard. She wanted him pressed up against her, but she needed the leftover slices from the fridge more. He was happy to oblige, on both counts. He rose and walked off, pretending to be a ghost. On the way, he contemplated how much she meant to him, how she had made him a better person, and how perfect they were together. He made his way farther and farther down the unlit stone corridor to his kitchen. He felt the warm afterglow of sex spread through his body, his extremities tingled. He wondered why they fucked nocturnally, and why most did the same. It didn't make much sense to him, but such was life. He paused. What was that‽ A slight glow slowly grew greater. It shone in a triangle from the riser of one of the stone steps. A frightening color, an impossible one at that for no light resided there. It was a strange sky blue, which pearlesced yellow from time to time. The man craned his neck to look at the triangle, trying to decipher its origin. He wasn't sure what to do. It was a reflection surely, or perhaps his mind playing a nasty trick. But what if it wasn't just a shape cast by the moon or some streetlight? What if it wasn't just some solemn bulb's whose rays had been sent streaming through a scantily dressed vaulted window? What if it was more? He was just being silly. Right? The only way to dispel his fear was to touch that stone step. That would prove nothing was there. Once and for all. He reached down, extending his index finger and thought "here goes nothing". As he touched it he seemed to vanish in a flash. What a pity none were there to see that bright man stealing light.

On waking he saw the most beautiful creature to have ever graced creation. She occupied the whole of his vision with her alluring aura. It resembled a woman, but it clearly could not be. Every flick of each ginger strand of hair licked the air with errant violet flames. She, or rather it, was really quite unreal. He looked at her face and realized immediately that what would follow would hurt. The cream colored walls behind her were really quite plain, but for some suspicious brown splatter. A dastardly look beset her deep purple eyes; in their violet darkness was an endless pit which pulled one in, ever closer. She grinned and walked away, leaving a trail of mauve will-o-wisps in her wake.

He just sat there, staring at the stainèd walls. Many moments seemed to pass before she came back, but when she returned she did so with his lover in tow, shackled. The old ball and chain seemed to have developed a rather more literal ball and chain. He'd been scared before, but how he was terrified. He didn't know how they had gotten there. It must have been that dread isosceles, but still; how? More importantly, how had his beloved been brought into that awful dungeon. He did not know what the redhead planned to do to them, and he did not know why his lover was in shackles. All he knew was fear. He trembled in trepidation.

Her eyes pleaded for mercy. She couldn't understand why he hadn't just agreed to move elsewhere like she'd asked. She told him, not just once, no, but rather a great many times. She told him she hated their home, she told him that she felt something, she'd begged him to move. But did he ever listen? No, of course not. She always knew there was something funny about that house, and now it really wasn't very funny at all. She didn't know how she knew what she knew, but one thing was sure, she was being marched to see her lover by a creature, one the likes of which she'd never been before. It resembled a man in shape, but could clearly not be. Shadows of flame traced his movements, his limbs left trails of scorching heat and shimmering disfigured air. His, or rather its, perfect black hair glowed with an iridescent yellow fire. He was chiseled beyond what any human could be and wore a chalk stripe lilac suit. He towered above her, a giant of a man. His branch like arms yanked her forwards, and his handsomeness arrested her. She did not know what this creature was, but she was scared. Thick shackles appeared around her legs and arms as if by magick. She hadn't even realized that she could move, now she could do so no more but by its will. Her slender body followed the monstrous creature's rough exhortations. The man-creature beckoned her, and so she went, forced on by her legs and his arms. Her lover's eyes pleaded with the creature for clemency, for her, if not for him. Her lover was not small, so his visible terror frightened her even more. The creature looked at them, each in turn and smiled.

The creature did not speak, yet they somehow understood its meaning, a screaming growl resonated in their minds and cried words with the lament of a thousand thousand lost souls. They had, the creature let it be known, entered its realm. This, it clarified, was unwise, and they would face some minor torment at the very least. They would face a choice, and the option they did not pick would be forced upon the other.

Communicating only with the man, the creature revealed a choice; two types of torture, either physical or mental. Either for eternity or until the creature got bored; whichever came first. The stunning creature showed him a vision of its last guest. He had chosen the mental torment. He'd stayed for a mere 8 years before his release, a pittance in cosmic terms. That guest had been a boring, sour man, so the creature had almost been glad to see him go.

The man pondered his choice for a while. The decision was a difficult one to make. Soon he knew what he would do though, he was the man, so he would bear the physical pain. She could deal with the mental part, he on the other hand, did not think he could bear to see such maddening sights. No, that was not possible. He looked at the creature and worldlessly made his choice. His sultry gaolor gave him a grin and turned again to face his lover.

The creature then secretly revealed the same choice to her. It showed to her mind the same images it had shown him – those of its last pained guest. She too decided to bear the physical torment, she was neither big nor strong, but she knew that women could endure much greater pain than men. Besides, she couldn't bear to see such maddening sights. It was his fault. She had been minding her business in bed, and then just woken up here. She'd told him about the damnèd house. She had. All she had done was wait for pizza. She made her choice, just as he had made his.

In that moment, the creature cackled with a devilish grin. In a manner suggestive of a great invisible orchestra the creature swung its arms through the air with vigor. The two prisoners stared horrified at the air which shimmered ever faster. The pair felt the creature's inner inferno grow, warming their surroundings. The woman's shackles disappeared, and she tried to run to her beloved. No luck. With a flick of the wrist, the creature made her sit. A seat appeared to catch her rear just before it hit the ground. With another flick of the wrist, the creature materialized another chair for the man too and also made him sit. Carved out channels ran the length of the seats. With a third, final, flick of the wrist, the creature made spikes pop up from each chair's falsely flat face. The spikes first pressed into their skin. The blunt tips did not penetrate, they just pressed uncomfortably. The creature smiled, and the pressure grew, creating thousands of pain points all over their bodies. The pair were too pained even to scream. The creature laughed hatefully at their contorted faces.

The beast raised its arms, the spikes rose, and this time sharpened, finally penetrating them. The spikes punctured their tensed skin, and so their blood began to flow. Deep red juices trickled through the canals, and down into bowls at their feet. Neither one of them welcomed this warm foot bath. Both of them tried to yell at the top of their lungs, hoping, more than they had ever hoped for anything, that they'd be heard, that they'd be saved, but only a pitiful, minute, stifled yelp escaped. A grave mistake. Each sound made the little lances rise further, resulting only in more agony and blood, so they stopped trying to shout. Their hearts beat rapidly, so rapidly that like a hummingbird hearts they buzzed.

Confusion set in and their clothes began to darken with sweat. The creature winked at the man, and then at the woman. Two transparent tubes rose from the ground, from betwixt the blood filled bowls. The pair were now lightheaded, as a result of having lost much life force. The tubes hovered above their heads. They dared not look up, but even so they sensed the conduits' presence. The creature laughed and walked over briskly, it put a hand on each of their heads and closed its eyes. One pointed claw upon each hand glowed, red hot. Bald circles formed where the hairs were singed away. The air filled with the putrid scent of burnt keratin. With one of its claws, the creature traced circles upon each scalp, the extreme heat of cut through the bone with ease, simultaneously carving and cauterizing. The creature removed the bone plugs from each trepanned lover. It grabbed the hovering tubes and shoved them into the pulsing exposed pink matter. The tubes squelched into place. The two had begun to fade from life, they both panted rapidly, as though unable to gain enough air; their hearts fluttered even faster than before. Neither one was sufficiently awake to do much, but the violent cerebral intrusions brought them both back to life with haste. They sat more upright than they ever had before, hopeless eyes telegraphed horror. Blood began to mystically be pumped from the ever fuller bowls back into their wretched bodies. The creature giggled, elated at its vile creation. Though stuck to spiked seats the lovers exchanged glances, now that they had sufficient sentience to move once more. Great anger showed on their faces as they realized the creature's cruel trick, and the choice the other'd made. The gleeful monster snapped its fingers, and great silver screens materialized before their eyes. They played each fight, each lie, each regretted action and inaction endlessly. From harmless white lies to sordid affairs, like Vine loops the images played out for them again, and again, and again. Endless past deceits droned upon the screen, dispensing pure despair. Each replayed flirtatious thought sent pangs of pain through each lover. The creature was elated, everything had worked out marvelously well.

Unbeknownst to the pair, the creature's bowls collected chemicals too, storing them in perfect crystal towers. CB1 & 2, GABA, Dopamine, Oxytocin, and Endorphins; all formed colorful and crooked spikes within the deep red liquid. Even serotonin and adrenaline collected, slowly but surely. The two could not feel it, not at the speed at which their blood was depleted. But they would as time went on, joy literally leeched from their life-force. They would little be able to resist the creatures cruel contraption. The attractive antediluvian monster bade its time, waiting, that it might sample, might smoke and partake of their bodily delights once more, as it had with so many vulgar guests before.

#  22 – Dig Dig Dig

I need it out. It has to go. I can't live like this anymore. It needs to be gone, now and forevermore. I cannot be alone nor can I be with others. My very thoughts are a danger, at least that's what they say.

I want to kill. I want to maim. I want torture; I want fame.

There's nothing quite like the destruction of innocence. My fun hobby and my most favored friend. I long to watch souls shatter by my will alone. I long for it now, just as I longed for it then. I long for that pained cry, the cracking of bone, the youthful, bright, red drops of blood! Oh, how I need it. How I lust! I crave to curate their curiosity. I want to see their stupid writhing, when through their skin I slice. I want to feel the sheer wrongness of my most righteous acts once more. But I can't. I have to dig deep within myself to stop, that's what they said, so that's what I'll do. I can bear this cell no more.

The sharp steel edge caressing my temple is cold. At least this is happening on my terms, not those of yet another quack. I can't even bear the very thought of more medics interfering with me. The cut is painless, I sharpened the blade well; you can still see where I stropped it on the well polished concrete floor. I guess the lack of pain is no surprise, not after five Percs anyway. Even though I write this painlessly, I can still feel hot liquid stream down my face. It splatters below me, on the floor, an abstract expressionist mess, it drips & drops. Good. I feel dizzy, but this will fix me. I don't want it, but I need it, so I must. My teeth grind like millstones against my will, exemplars of my disheartened disposition, as I peel back the flap of skin on my temple. I feel the tugging of skin trying to grip the bone beneath, trying not to leave, it's quite disconcerting. At least I'll be better, not that I'm not good, oh I am, I am perfect, but then I will be like the others. They tell me if I am they'll let me go, they'll even let me take my kids to a show.

In front of me, I've laid out misshapen makeshift chisels and small hammers. This is the part I dread the most. This is the part which makes me write this letter, made just for you, for your delight, it is here in case something goes amiss, in case my head dares, in case it resists. I wish my bones popped gladly like other people's, instead, they just snap like stale bread.

The man relinquished his pen and cast his gaze upon his chisels and hammers. He grabbed a punch and placed its sharp tip against his temple. He began tapping it with his small plastic hammer. Tap. Tap. Tap. With each tap he hit harder, his skull was one tough motherfucker.

I write this not but think it still. I feel each tap reverberate through my head. I feel the vibrations rattle my grill, I feel my eyes swim in their sockets. I have to hit harder.

TAP. TAP. TAP.

TAP. TAP. TAP.

TAP. TAP. TAP.

CRACK.

Thank goodness, I'm through. No more of this wretched life. I cannot help but sway a little. Though I have not lost life, dizziness pervades me still. The hot stream on my face trickles faster now, I feel the bottom, there where a brown crust had briefly formed, now new fluid flows, refilling dried red riverbed. The custodian won't be happy, but fuck him he's a cunt. I pry the bones off my temple with the sharp corner of a chisel. I can feel a chill pass between my ears. My brain finally sees the light, after so long so lonely, just hidden away in the dark, finally, it gets out to play. I can feel it now; my finger's going in.

The folds are soft, they're moist, they're warm. There it is. Now I know where it must go. The cold air makes my finger feel as though I've just pulled it from a glass of water, and yet the gelatinous brain goo dares not evaporate off it, instead it oozes onto the concrete table and the floor. My practice is paying off. My procedures on others were mere perfected preparations for this final crucial operation. Now it is time, time for the chisel, now it is time for the fix. It's cold. Colder than my finger. I can feel the steel traverse each fold, each micrometer of my monstrous thinking machine.

Chisel brain hurt. What‽ No! Missed! Demon there. Inside. MUST STOP! CHISEL brain. BREAK demon soul. NO NO NO.

His ability to speak became more and more impaired, as he lobotomized himself further and further. The steel chisel blended the contents of his head into a lukewarm strawberry smoothie colored pulp. Soon enough his whole face began to droop. Within minutes, he died.

#  23 – Junkies

He was a good boy, he never got involved in fights, he never did drink, he didn't even do drugs. That's why it was so unusual that he had fallen for her. She wasn't 'a good girl', her tattoos told tales of proscribed memberships, and pinpoint pupils disclosed her pastimes, her slurred speech told tales of many a good day and night.

Perhaps it would've been better if they'd never met. She was bad to the bone, but she had much good in her heart. She spent a lot of her time helping others. She had a strong personality, addiction never stuck no matter how many binges she went on. Her memberships were used foster peace, not war. Ganglands had enough of the latter already; she was that good which existed to balance the bad.

He was the bad. According to society's mores, he was very good indeed. Well bred, well read, well educated, and well fed. He was very good at what he did, but his heart was not. He was bitter, he was jealous, and he was angry. He would not be, and he could not be 'bad', but by 'zounds he wanted to. He, unlike she, did not know himself well. He often found himself obsessing, addicted even to thoughts. Perhaps it would have been better if they'd never met, but they had.

She kept him from her awful trap, from the all-encompassing game, she knew the strength it called for, and she knew he didn't have it. She could not explain why they'd come together as they had, she just knew they had.

He didn't want this, he wanted the glamorous needles, the precious pale powders, and pressed pills, he wanted it all. One day he stole her horse and rode it into the wild blue yonder. He loved it, and so needed more. He quivered in anticipation. He needed her contacts, but they would deal with him only if she was gone. A call, and a scaly-tailed tip later, and soon she was. Hustled away by well-armed tax collecting swine. He wanted it, and now, finally, he had it.

She'd wanted nothing but to help. Now, and for the next 10-15 years, all she would be able to do was help caged birds imagine they could fly. He made his dreams come true and finally became bad, no longer good even by the surrounding sociocultural standards. He had that which he sought, and as an extra boon he was rid of the whore. He was happy to start, but the horse was very tall, so he had trouble getting off. Within months, he would be found slain in a ditch, with a needle in arm, thrown violently from his horse.

"Junkies...all the same" the EMTs will remark. As they shoo scavenging flies away from his splayed cadaver.

#  24 – Zodiac Pt. 2

Sunny days were his favorite, they were perfect. Just him and bright beautiful rays which shone down upon all. People were out and about, frolicking children and pets sheltered smiles from thoughts of the long winter months which lay ahead. It was a shame he had to be cooped up on a day as wonderful as this. It was a perfect day, that made him happy. To be fair he was, generally, quite happy. Indeed, he often walked with an all too literal spring in his step.

He had to focus though, for he couldn't make mistakes. It was, quite literally, a matter of life and death. On came the scrubs, he wondered why they were backless, and what possible advantage it could give to hospitals. He didn't know, but then he supposed it was not his place to. There were many things about hospitals which he didn't understand. He snapped the latex gloves on his wrists, making sure they were tight, he relished the latex's sharp immediate sting. He looked down at the body which lay on his table. She was a beautiful girl, early 30's. Blonde lengths of hair covered her scalp the way a sea of golden grain covers a once tilled field. He was happy that he had the privilege of working on her, he'd spent many years honing his practice so that he might be known as the best, and now he surely would be. He thought about how much he'd learned getting to this point, and how many he had helped, and indeed how many he'd hurt. He had to focus, and so shook the thoughts free from his head. Gently, with one eye on the pulse monitor, he cut into her. Delicate skin gave way as easily wet tissue when it met the edge of his well ground metal instrument. He was careful with his cuts, and precise too. The blade went only where he wanted it to. The slim steel sliced through her soft skin with grace. He made sure of it, he didn't much like the sound of skin being cut, and he didn't much like the dreadful metal smell of blood, or the glaze it left behind, that horrible glaze, almost as if the slab of meat in front of him was no human at all, but instead a black mass' main course. At least he was nearly done. He neared nausea, sickened by the sight and smell of her claret-stained body. He had a/c, but on a day as hot as this it was no more effective than an exhausted frond waving slave. Salty sweat dripped from his brow straight into her splayed ribcage. It had been a hard job, but he was done, and so was she.

He looked down at the chopped up cadaver and listened to the bleating sine wave alarm. He smiled. He tried to keep her alive for as long as he could, he'd tried the same with all of them, but this one hadn't been that lively to begin with; no screaming, no pleading, nor even slight begging. Just dead resignation. It didn't matter, soon she would be left as all the others had been; soon she would be nothing more than a collection of black garbage bags on the I95, or, maybe, just this once, she would be interred. He just hoped the vultures would stay away. Last time he had nearly been caught when they'd torn into the bags mere minutes after he dumped them. As he pinned her picture on the wall, next to the rest, he wondered who #25 would be.

Just then a fly landed upon her red glazed bosom, enthralled by the unmoving feast.

#  25 – Advance Green

He missed it. Damn, damn, damn. DAMN it all to hell! He would have to wait until the light turned green again, but he couldn't be bothered. He had somewhere to go. He had somewhere to be. He wasn't just driving around aimlessly, he wasn't just another schmoe.

It didn't matter, the light didn't listen.

"Tick, tock. Tick, tock," went his turn signal. Patiently he sat and waited, wondering when it would be his turn. He was tired of it, he was too important for this. He'd already waited at other lights already, this was unacceptable.

It didn't matter, the light didn't listen.

"Tick, tock. Tick, tock," went his turn signal. He felt his blood race ever faster through his veins. He tried to be patient, but this was just too much. What the fuck was the soccer mom in front of him even fucking doing‽ She could have gone, what a dumb cunt!

It didn't matter, the light didn't listen.

He got angrier and angrier. Tick tock went the turn signal. Tick tock went his heart. Suddenly he could not feel it anymore, as the signals ticked the time away his heart was still. He tried to breathe but no air came out. He tried to shout but no sound came out. He could only liberate an anguished moan from deep within. He clutched at his chest as pain shot through his left arm. Like a crazed gorilla, he beat there where he thought his heart might be with his fist, hoping to rouse it from its peaceless slumber.

It didn't matter, his heart wouldn't listen.

#  26 – One More Try

Finally, it happened for them. They'd been at it for so long and tried so hard. They had almost given up all hope. Not even the doctors with their mellifluous but useless news could help. Thankfully they never stopped. Now they were pregnant. They'd tried for 6 long years. They'd tried everything, yet nothing had worked. They'd been at it like rabbits, to no avail. Not even turkey basters or Petri dishes worked, but this time, it was certain. They had never been happier, now they would be parents, they would leave a legacy. They would not die alone, no matter what they'd at least have a child to call their own. He caressed her noticeable belly and whispered to his new daughter as she floated still-ly inside.

Warmth upon her thigh.

What‽

No!

Please no...

she

knew,

her eyes shut. She knew what was happening, but could not bear to realize it. Her eyes welled up with tears. Her lips contorted into polygons of agony. He looked at her. "What? Baby, what's wrong?". Flourishes of anxiety weighed upon each worried tone. She kept her eyes, her ears, and her heart shut. She could neither bear to hear, nor see, nor feel. She gently grasped his palm and placed it on her warm, wet inner-thigh. Now he too knew. As the blood trickled down, they held each other and cried. So much time, so much love, so much effort. All they had to show for it now was a pool of blood and bits on their kitchen floor.

The couple tried until the day they died. Day in and out, they worried and wondered. All the while they cleaned one mess after the other, yet never those they prayed to have.

#  27 – Forgiveness

Forgive me" he cried.

"No," she said.

=== === ===

"Forgive me" he cried.

"Go," she said.

=== === ===

So he did, quite far and wide. He sought that which would make her forgive if not forget. He flew, he drove, he sailed, rowed, and sat in various trains. The whole world over he searched. It was his fault, he had been her necessary evil. So he would find a needless fix.

He yearned for the animal touch of another, for passion, and for lust. He searched high and low, he searched wherever he could go. He searched until his legs were tired, his feet calloused, and his face a swathe of sunburnt skin. He searched until he was an empty wrinkled sack. Only when his skin truly resembled rough burlap did he finally find it: a beautiful fossil, unlike any other. Life frozen in time, cradled in stone by death's cold, unforgiving embrace.

He'd dug so much that in those 2 short years that he gained 30 times as many, or at least looked it. The whole 6 later he seemed an altogether alien being. He named the unknown stone for her, and with it in hand (or rather, truck) he went to find her one last time.

"Here. Tis named for you; forgive me," he said.

"Oh!" she cried. "I do forgive you. Please stay" she sighed.

"No," he said. "All I wanted was forgiveness. I do not love you now like I did not love you then. I obtained what I sought, now I take my leave."

She was wordless, she was breathless. He would just disappear once more. She'd thought him dead, yet the only death was that which he had brought with him, that death which made her want to bring them back to life again. There he stood before her, about to leave again. She was left with relics only, just a skeleton and memories.

"Go then," she begged.

Go he did.

#  28 – Cap'n Crunch

He twitches as if he is possessed. He can barely stop moving for his human is nearly home. He prepares lovingly for her arrival; she comes and goes the same time each day. What a strange thing...to live your life like that...as though forced to abide those ticking black and white tableaux. So artificial, so bizarrely unnatural. Even so, it matters little, he loves his human. His human values life; she only eats the insentient ones. Not perhaps to his own tastes, but even so she surpassed the vile humans who survived off carcasses of their friends, mutilated and embalmed in Styrofoam, then sold in disgusting packages. The blood meant to keep them in life instead stains white plastic foam. The humans even rob them of their names, objectifying companions to make them easier to eat. No baby cows but veal, no small sheep but lambs. No death, but steaks, and chops, and breasts instead. Slabs of muscle ooze on their plates daily, but not on hers. She loves our friends.

He slinks across the sunlit room in stealthy shadows. His stomach rumbles, he can not survive on air, but no trap has sprung yet. The sun's warm rays glow through the glass and glint off his eyes with diamond fire. Outside the window, he spies a quick black streak. Oh man, that looked delicious. What had it been? The dark flash disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. He cannot fathom what it might have been, but deems it tasty still. It shot above the jade-like grass and out of view. How he wants to sink his fangs into it, to pierce its flesh, just slightly mind. He doesn't like to kill too quick, no hunt in that, no chase, no fun. No, he much prefers to plant a kiss and then watch as their flesh turns black, he likes to watch as it all goes amiss. That thing outside; it looked juicy and crunchy sweet. His appetite is well whetted. He shakes his mind free of extraneous thoughts and then creeps on faster still. He has to hurry; she's nearly home.

As time rushes by he becomes more and more excited. He had seen her mercy bestowed unto many, even some that deserved little. He barely made a distinction between outlander, threat, and lover, anymore. He scurries on to his favorite corner. The one in which he hides and waits for her each day. He loves her dearly of course, he truly does. Perhaps he is just a stupid animal, but he is her stupid animal. He had been since birth, and would be till death. One of his traps springs, its silken the rope tugs at his leg. He rushes over to it, his beady eyes scan the vicinity. There in the midst of his fractal silken rete, an invader is trapped. It wriggles trying to free itself, its wings beat furiously, but the strands stay strong. Just as he rears up to pounce, the invader breaks free in a daring escape and buzzes away before it can be eaten. He falls upon the smooth strands, annoyed. The shock of his slight weight makes the silk vibrate indignantly. The invader had escaped, but would not for long, his traps are everywhere. He is hungry, his incisors mash together in famished anticipation. He missed that one, but he would dine soon enough. Each time invaders try to infect her home he eats them, sooner or later he eats them, each and every one.

He touches her often, he even walks over her during the dark hours. Once he even slept in her lap, and another time by her feet. He loves her, and he knows he will perish first. Even so, he pledged many days ago to protect and serve her until he stiffens and is dined upon in turn. To his people he is a captain, to her an annoyance; but he knows he can protect her.

He watches the invader taunt him from the middle of the room with loop-de-loops, barrel rolls, and other aerial taunts, his many eyes sparkle with hunger. He lusts to taste its crunchy skin, to feel it writhe for life once more, but this time, fail. He's titillated by the thought that it will find only death, he shakes in anticipation of that moment. The juicy sourness of a plump fly is unlike anything else. He yearns for it, he yearns for the familiar pop, the burst of fluid, above all he yearns for its slightly sour flavor.

A click makes him turn his attention from the fly towards the door. He sees her through the growing crack, his master. Her face is sunken, saddened and stressed by long days. He sinks, upset by this view, to him her happiness is paramount. All preparations are in place. He crawls up the wall behind her, he knows how to hide, and so he knows how to be seen too. He can't wait to kiss her.

#  29 – Lawnmower

It's happening, again!

Oh god! Oh no! Please no, not again!

The last time it had hurt so. She'd shrieked demonically during of the massacre; none had heard, or none had cared. Tears welling up in her eyes betrayed a long and tortured past. It's clear she knows nothing but violence. On the verge of sobs, her disdainful expression evidences a strong character. One born of necessity. She is no follower, no mere turf to be tread upon. The scars on her face, neck, and scalp stand testament to unknowable agony, the sort that induces sickness by mere sight. Each frail inch is covered by scars, vertical striations – smooth lines of expressionless tissue.

She healed well, many months had passed since that last awful attack. Oh and those months, how quiet too they'd been. True, they were cold, but the snow kept her warm. More importantly, it kept him far. She knew it was better to be ugly in tranquil death than relegated to an excruciating exquisite existence. Even though few friendships flourished in those months she favored them still. She yearned for cold solitude and its safety. Maybe it was because she had fewer friends, maybe that was why – why it, why he, left her alone those long winter nights and short days. That was what she suspected anyway, not that it mattered. Her peace would end, it was warm; it was time. She would soon be mutilated, cut, and smashed. She would be desecrated, hurt, and mashed. She would be lacerated, chopped, and even bashed. All that and more, truly quite frightful gore. It was coming. She was always at her prime, her most beautiful, most welcoming when he came, and unfailingly, he came. The world's toughest terrorist.

First the tired sputter of the motor. She heard it in the distance, a wheezing dread-alarm. The doleful machine got ever closer, driven by the wicked man. His face was always obscured by the raucous mower. He was now near, the ear-splitting motor's flailing rotor blades made that much quite clear. She couldn't live through it again. Why could god not just take her, and so through death save her? She just wanted to be happy. Why – why her?

She stands defiant, dew streams off her lush face. She can take it and she will, there is no choice. If only he would kill her when he was done, that was all a gal could dream of. He never does, instead he ignores her pleas, every time. Instead, he comes back, again and again, always repeating his rank ritual. A buffeting wind precedes the pain, this time as it had all others. She struggles to stay standing; the wind makes her sway from side to side. The cruel man then holds the vile blades to those she loved the most. He makes her watch him rip their scabs off revealing moist flesh. Then comes her turn. It always feels a little different. Sometimes the blades pull with the force of a tank, tearing flesh from her asunder. Other times they cut like mythically sharp blades, leaving clean lines with edges quite fine. She never knows how it would be, not until it happens.

This time, it is a blunt razor, half cutting, half tearing. Her scalp comes off first and lands in the mower's huge bag. The blades batter her, shredding her face. Her vital fluids drain into the ground below and spray throughout the air as well. She watches pieces of herself flung far. She finds refuge in plain resignation. The scent of her pain fills the air with an arresting freshness. She begs to die, to just turn brown and dry. Alas, there is little she can do. Perhaps invade a flower bed or two. Maybe spring through interlock or somehow attack his tall widow's walk. All the same, she will surely be mangled anew, again and again. Alas, there is little she can do, for she is but a blade of Kentucky blue.

#  30 – Happy Days Pt. I

It's time. She breathes out forcibly. The baby is coming. Contractions get closer. She calls her love on the phone. She'll meet him there. She pants and sighs as she stumbles into the impatient Uber. She hopes he won't mind her ruining his seats. Sod him if he does. She hopes to last until the hospital. She will try her hardest. He doesn't mind, he worries about her health instead and panics.

Fortunately, the driver is an aspiring rally-er who Ubers to finance his base necessities. His eyes grow narrow with ferocious focus. He darts in and out of traffic, narrowly missing other growling metal monsters. His own howls a war-cry, a great gruff howl. Eight pistons at least yell to high heavens. The quick Uber draws jealous eyes and angry honks. His German whip shoots ahead of the rest, he's no 'baller', but at that moment, he sure looks like one.

He finds himself in a strange gap on the highway, of the kind that invariably forms in heavy traffic. He accelerates hard through it, rushing to get his fare to the hospital; rushing for his five stars; rushing to keep his seats clean. He has sympathy for her but he loves his car, and that is no small concern. In the back, she screams as his wild manoeuvres throw her to and fro. Her body hits one door, and then the other, before she even has the chance to grab a seat belt let alone put it on. In that strange gap through which he shoots like a bullet she manages to strap herself in, and say a few hail marys.

She asks him to slow down, restrained by fear, her contractions had done so already. He dodges one vehicle after the other, pulling hard on his steering wheel; first left, then right. His engine screams ever louder inside its metal cage. He closed in on his sought ramp and forces his heaving engine straight onto it with another sharp twist of his wheel. The hospital is not far now, he can see its "H" sign, lit up bright in the sky ahead; he floors his ride once more. The vehicle's wheels chirp as he flings it around corners, screeching his way ever closer to the big "H". His car barely holds on to grip, the rubber slides on the coarse concrete and lets off blue smoke, but the driver is apt so the carriage stays flat.

The hospital looks ever bigger as it gets ever nearer. Thankfully too, for her contractions had decided 'fear be damned' and have returned with a vengeance. Her stomach shrinks to a raisin's size, she screams out, so as to be able to endure the pain. The driver hears her cry, it makes him cringe. He goes as fast as he can; he treats it like a trial; ahead a light turns red, the driver speeds up, thinking he has time.

She wakes again, alone, in a gown, in a room. Her arms shoot straight to her belly – its flat, desolate. She scrambles, finds, and then presses the red button labeled "Nurse". Once, twice, and then over, and over, and over again. Her vigor becomes frantic and she hits the call button madly.

First came the nurse. The nurse tells her she is doing well, and that the head of OB/GYN will be in shortly for her. The nurse refuses to say any more and leaves, leaving her in an opaque state. Storms brew in her eyes, but she waits and stays strong, keeping herself from jumping to conclusions; maintaining what little hope she can.

The doctor joins her shortly, just like she'd been promised. The doctor explains that the crash had nearly killed her, explained the doctor. She knows of no crash and asks of what madness he speaks. He explains, through clipped gulps, that the man who had brought her there with such vitality had run a red light, and had not made it through. She and her driver had been fortunate and lived, unlike their fated counterparts; they had perished.

What of her baby? Well, that tale is a most complicated one indeed, or so the doctor claims. They had stymied her blood flow, they'd sutured her brow, they had even slung her broken limbs. The extrication of the baby had been quite hard, for the crash had hurt it, but hours of surgery, and brow-sweat inducing efforts saw her give birth. Unfortunately, mere ounces of whisky saw the life end there upon the operatory floor, her baby's head cracked open like an egg. Its contents lay spilled on the floor.

The OB/GYN explains how the man 'slipped', and asks her to sign a release in exchange for waived fees – the ones they'd charge for her care and disposal of the carcass. An offer most advantageous to her, he claims. She bawls and beats the bed with furious fists. The OB/GYN leaves the clipboard on an edge. He steps out of the room and lets the police in, their eyes meet in passing.

Two officers enter, with hats held to their chests. Mournfully they tell the woman who'd lost so much that her lover is lost too. She barely hears through yelps and sobs, but the words still make it through. Shock sets in instead and she just stares at the thin blue blurs. He'd rushed to the hospital, to be with her, only to be slain moments away by an impatient Uber driver who ran a red light. The officers give their condolences, and assurances that he'll face trial, and then leave too.

#  31 – 13

Her birthday hadn't been like those of most girls her age. No, it had been very different indeed. The other girls, wouldn't be alone now. They would be having fun; and cake. Maybe they'd even sneak a beer or two; that would be so cool. They would have music, they would dancing, they would have boys. Unless that bitch Trisha spoiled it the way she spoiled everything; Trisha was a spoiled cow.

She hated Trisha, the bitch. She wanted her to die; preferably by her own hands. She wanted to slice Trisha open and spread her entrails upon the floor. Perhaps make an intestinal balloon animal, or two and then seek future guidance in their stains. Maybe then, with vile vengeance in hand, maybe then she would be happy. She hated Trisha. She hoped Trisha would choke on her brother's cum and die. Oh yeah, she knew, and soon everyone else would too, they would know of her incestuous lies, and their countless lustful, sinful ties. Nothing they could do would stop her, not anymore. She knew how she would do it too. Trisha would invite her over for her party. She had to. her mom made her. She would sneak small memory cards into the goodie-bags. At least one would surely see. Oh, and how it would then spread! That would show her. She would make sure Trisha would kill herself, that Trisha would suffer as she had. She crushed the air between her teeth furiously. She'd mentioned the video; it was all her fault. She felt ashamed and degraded. She hated herself. Her lip twitched in utter self- disgust; her shame was visible from far away. She hadn't expected her so-called 'friend' to send her brother and his goons to rape her, on her birthday of all days.

Her birthday hadn't been like many girls her age, instead, she was invaded, her integrity was attacked, her security violated, all her being was assaulted, by a group of brutish apes. She fantasized about how she would ruin Trisha's birthday back, how she would exact her revenge, about just how she would attack. They had done everything they could to her when she'd lain there, all pinned and pained. Now she just cried underneath the overpass, all alone. She needed to die. No justice would exist, not for her. She cried. Soon. She stopped. She had no more fluid to lose, no more tears to drop, not even sadness remained; she was just numb. She fell asleep.

When she awoke she realized the fates had not yet ended her misery, and so she stood. She walked up the embankment. Her tattered clothes revealed a rich world of fantasy within the mind of one most poor. Her bottoms were torn, destroyed by the boys to gain their odious access. She didn't care. She didn't even feel the frozen wind which billowed through. Trisha would pay. The girl in rags had no money for memory cards, but she would find a way. The girl swore this through a cloud of breath which momentarily appeared below her lips. She stepped up to the metal parapet. She was weak, the low-pressure gusts formed by the moving vehicles almost bowled her over. She swayed, but remained standing. First, she put one leg over the parapet, then the other. Despite the fear, she cared little about what would become of her. She closed her eyes and took a step. The poor girl's mangled body had to be cleaned from the road, bit, by bit, by crushed and flattened bit, causing a great tailback.

At her party, Trisha stared at the door impatiently. No matter how much she screamed, no matter how much cried, no matter she blamed one thing or another, nobody came. Her parents just handed her off to the servants. Her servants cared little for her, certainly not enough to check the traffic. Their lips were paid for service, and serve was all they did, crookedly consoling her. She remembered the video and was filled with dread. Her birthday hadn't been like most girls her age. Her premature departure would be.

#  32 – Wailing

She wailed and wailed, but to little avail. She couldn't take much more. She wanted it all to end but knew full well it could not, regardless of desires, it would all continue endlessly. The men that rushed to be inside of her, well, she couldn't say they didn't care, but they had definitely become desensitized, they did not care about her anymore, only about the others like them. They were no longer gentle, as they had been when they'd all first met. Now they used her carelessly; they abused her recklessly. They never asked her if she wanted it. Maybe they cared about her well being, but they certainly never cared about what she wanted. She shed a tear as black as a medieval night.

It always started the same way. First a deafening noise, no siren's song but a shrill bell's screech instead. The frenzied shouts of savage well-clad men, all of whom rushed to be the first in her. One time she had not made them come quite quickly enough, they were furious beyond belief; they'd raged, they'd shouted, and even hit her body with their calloused fists. The day after they sent her away to some depraved monster who tore out her most precious innards and replaced them with cheap Chinese organs instead – ones clearly garnered from unwilling donors. They worked, sure, and she now made them come much quicker, but it just wasn't right; she wanted to be herself. She wanted no part in the misery of others, whose services were abruptly ended by the totalitarian state. The men cared little for her, yet they would not let her leave. They kept her there, downstairs, alone, in the dark. Dust was her only friend. Sometimes she could hear them laughing upstairs. Sometimes they came down in the day, sometimes they mocked her, threatening to ship her off and get a new whore instead. Crying just made it worse, it was then they slapped and hit her hardest. She looked forward to the days when the men all came and hosed her down. It was better than when they made her watch people burn, cremated while conscious. The putrid smell of charred flesh filled the air she breathed too often; she was too used to it. The bubbling, popping, fat of people which furnished the wind with grisly firework-like sounds. She shed another black tear; she could not be used like that again. She made them come so quickly, and yet all she got in return in return was to watch that most horrible of suffering.

The deafeningly shrill noise came, as it had so many times before. She shed another black tear. She knew that soon, all of them would be grasp their long, hard, slippery pole, and pile into her, one by one. What was worse was they took turns. Today it was the chief who would drive. He reached and flipped her switch, and off she went again; her beacons flashed red and white, and her sirens wailed.

#  33 – Mandala

Once upon a time, there was a monk, a very special monk. He knew not where he had been born or what his name had been. It took months of travel to reach his destination those many, many years ago. Guided by an irresistible urge he ventured forth, 60 years to the day he arrived at the monastery. Then he had been youthful, spry, and excited about his future. Yet he was so now too. His life work stretched out before him in the monastery's courtyard. It was the most beautiful, largest, and most detailed sand mandala ever to have been witnessed.

For 60 years, driven by divine urges, he woke faithfully at 4am and worked. For 60 years, day in and day out, he spent every minute by the mandala. For 60 years all those who passed by could hear a faint musical ringing around them, the gentle scraping noise which came from his chak pur. The noise sounded off the courtyard walls with soft echoes. For 60 years the monk studied, for 60 years he meditated; how quick those 60 years had gone. The day this story came to be was unlike any other, for he would be done. Each minute grain of sand would finally find its perfect resting place. The temple courtyard was full of brightly colored grains which the monk had meticulously lain out. It was as though the mandala itself had brought the peaceful calm over the courtyard, not a single errant leaf moved on its own. Wind was the scary unknown. With every misplaced grain, he'd felt trepidation. With every choice of color he'd worried, but through it all he followed the design religiously, and today he finishes. His faith guided him to make the greatest one of all. The monk didn't know how he knew this, but then he didn't even know what made him start in the first place, or what made him continue all those long days. He did not know what had driven to abandon everyone, and everything, all for this single minded purpose. He did not even know how the design came to his head. With the last rub of his chak pur, the final few particles tumbled into place and weakly ringing echo died down.

For a brief moment, all was right in the world. Wars, fights, death, all paused. The monk looked upon his mandala, his mind, and his soul, were then engorged with love, and found peace. For that brief time, understanding ruled supreme.

All it took was a gentle gust, a calm calamity.

#  34 – Rain

The day had been a dark one, gray clouds marred a normally endless blue beauty. Throngs of people gathered and waited, thousands upon thousands of people all exercised deep patience; they sang and danced in anxious jubilation. The hot atmosphere could not, regardless of conditions, seem oppressive. Not on that day.

The colors of the plane peeked through the clouds first, a fiery blood red, precious shining gold, and lush green; raindrops were birthed of the gestating sky. It was not an unwelcome drizzle, a long drought had taken its toll, the crops were brown and burnt. The metal bird burst through the cloud ceiling, parting the gray around it and revealing blue once more.

The storied colors and roaring lion spoke to the resolve of the being inside. A single pair of wings was heard, fluttering above the crowd. A strangely audible sound in the tumult filled air. Propellers chopped the air, drums beat out entrancing homoousian rhythms, horns cried gladly too. But the wingbeats were heard, and so the people watched the single white dove fly above, heralding his arrival. After that, the colorfully painted silver bird landed too, to the roar of the delighted gathering.

When the door opened the crowd grew louder still. The falling drops which had seemed so ominous, so wet, and so strong, were now all but gone; only sand bubbles remained among the parched crowd. A patch of blue opened above the crowds, but all could see the curtain of water which fell around their dry parcel. They rushed forth like an ocean wave, flooding the ground around his plane; hoping to catch a glimpse of HIM. Countless years of insufferable suffering had passed until he came, and many years it would be again until he would come once more. At least it was not all for naught, they knew well they would achieve that for which they'd fought.

Much to the crowd's delight he appears at the silver bird's portal. He holds his hand to the sky to greet, and just then great gestating clouds roll in. The rain begins to fall, the roar grows too. Down he comes, and on pure ground he treads, no noble blood-soaked rag for HIM. To the tricksters he gifted coffins, in them: nails. They cowered before a righteous, unexpected roar. No matter what they try, their tricks can not make HIM stop, all their plans are foiled and flop. All the might and all the dread from that great mountain can barely break the pace, can only make HIM leave a moment to a most holy place.

It does not matter though, for as before when the drought is at its worst, he will come again, and with him comes the rain. The drought which so affected those crops so many years ago, now affects the soul, driving us to anger, to hatred, and to tyranny. That rain too which proceeded HIM will come again, wetting the seeds of love, now so deeply forgotten within us. Water – life's birthplace – is the most powerful thing on this planet's face. From the slow moving, quick carving, glaciers, to those sacred drought ending rains. As before, so too shall it again be.

#  35 – Coughing

It always started the same way, metal. Everything tasted of metal. Iron. Other metals had different flavors, but this was unmistakably iron. He dreaded it. He had been called paranormal, wacky, creepy, scary, disgusting, and even satanic, by those who claimed to love him most. Shunning would have been a too lenient trial for him they had decided, then strangers could still speak to him. It was through his cursed ailment that he came to be, here where tree trunks covered all one's vision, far from all. Now it was just him, the wolves, and bears. He often wondered whether it was any real improvement, they could, after all, smell it.

He retched.

The first time it happened was when he had just come to life. The doctors had pulled him from his mother and held him up high. He coughed in that shrill newborn's tone, and blood bubbles sputtered from his lips. Then he coughed again, and again, and again. Those sputters soon grew, and from them flowed more fluid – but no yellow phlegm this, instead scarlet droplets stained the operatory floor. Blood poured from his tiny mouth onto where so many crimson stains had been before. This time, it held more than mere small stains though. Newborn though he was, he vomited with the force of a great man, his head thrashed, spraying the whole room. The doctors nearly dropped him on witnessing such an awful sight; they panicked and yelled at one another, none had seen such horrors before; they tried to find a way to stem the flow. They failed, and in that failure failed too to notice his ever more sallow and anemic mother. The phenomenon had made them lose their senses, had made them loose attention. She had become paler and paler; her pulse had weakened, and her movements had quietened: the blood had drained from her invisibly. A final extended tone indicated her demise. Her blood, her life force, now pooled on the floor, and stained the walls, as well the doctors' scrubs. The doctors who had seen and helped with many horrors, and brought back many from death's honed edge, were now well and truly traumatized. They performed many a test throughout his life to try and discover his disease, but all faltered. They had carried out many treatments, from electric shocks, to pills, to priests, but none had been successful.

He coughed, a small red fleck stained the wooden floor of his forest hut.

He did not know if he could live through it again. All who got near, all who became dear to him. all their blood was inevitably expelled from his mouth. But none were near now, so whose blood could it be but his own? Those who tried to help all ran eventually too, for they perished one by one. Those who sought to weaponize him ran further than that still, they sustained much bigger casualties still. They even failed to euthanize the wretched man, for each would be executioner just dropped, drained. Even hidden expert marksmen just expired, blown out like candles on a birthday cake. He was happy that this time at least it would be own demise, he could feel it – he knew it was. At least it was over, he would not be forced, time and time again, by some cruel joke of fate, to watch more lives sucked out.

He coughed again, blood rushed up his esophaguS, and welled up in his mouth. The metal taste intensified. That old familiar flavor found his tastebuds all too well. He wished that he'd had strength to end it all himself, but the irony was that despite being surrounded by so much death he could never seek his own, merely await it eagerly. With a great big gulp, he swallowed the dread liquid once more, still fearing it might not be his.

He remembered the last time it happened. He knew not how long it had been for such singular existence has no clock. He thought only a few seasons had passed since then but was not sure. He could remember the event with startling precision. There he'd sat, on an empty park bench, tormented by the loneliness which had always been the order of the day, at least until she'd walked by. He jumped form his seat and rushed to woo her with a cheesy pickup line. Luckily she didn't mind the cheesiness, all she had ever wanted to do was help, not just him either, but everyone. She was kind, and that was all that mattered to one as accursed as he'd been. He thought her love had cured his malady. First, he'd stayed quite far from her, in fear of himself, but when it didn't happen for a few years, he began to doubt. Each time the man descended to the city he saw her, catching glimpses of her reflected off busy window-panes whose lifeless, posed mannequins mocked him with their hollow immortality. He became convinced that they were meant to be. That she was his one, that she was his cure. Those seasons ago he had arranged everything just so, and waited, almost trembling with the anticipation at the thought of her arrival. He barely hid his childlike joy at the thought of surprising her.

It was coming, he could feel the nausea.

She had been shocked indeed, her eyes grew wide and her lips parted. The twinkle within the glassy green seas danced joyously, and she smiled with love and pity in equal measure. Tears welled up in her eyes when he'd proposed. Excessive conflicting emotions got all entangled in her heart. She hoped that he would be ok, that they would be ok. She had watched him kneel down knowing what was to happen, and hadn't said a word, not until he'd finished his, and even then just one: No.

He remembered how she stared at him, how she smiled, like Jesus to a child. He wanted her, he needed her, he prayed to be cured, and so, to convince her he wept too. Dollops of tears he'd forced to gather as one moistened his cold-blooded face, and he bore his many teeth like a Caiman's spiky smile. She swayed and felt lightheaded. As soon as she opened her mouth to say "Yes,", it began. She suddenly lacked energy; she could feel it happen. He had told her what he could, indeed, he had told her it probably would, but she hadn't given his mad ramblings any thought. With terror in her eyes and horror in her heart, she'd looked down to her ever paler arms as he gurgled. Soon she too was as dry as the Mojave, and like the many floors which he had stained before he would stain that asphalt street too. And soon, he would run away again, chased and branded as "witch", each time his life considered forfeit by the tyranny of frightened masses.

He smiled one last smile before it began. This time it was different, he could feel it, this time, he would be free, unencumbered by accursed life, by its horrid pain. Finally, he could be with her.

He began vomiting, covering yet another floor in a thin, red, life-granting glaze. Outside his cabin, a bear began to lose its balance.

#  36 – A Lizard In The Spring

He chortles as they descend, drawing raised eyebrows from Hugo. It's finally happening, they'll soon reach the centre – the hot, molten, core of earth. Moths had passed and many had toiled to make this all happen. The journey they took now has been mocked by all, but they'd persevered, and now they'll soon be there.

From the third grade, he had always wished to find what lay there, such a journey in those days was thought absurd. The pressure and heat were far too great, and it was no wise idea to tempt fate for a number of other explorers had died upon that same route. But he heeded not, and instead he did as his dreams implored, he did as he thought. He pursued what he would to make his dreams come true. He fought long through much ridicule and adversity until bold new materials, invented just for him, awaited his daring use. He did not expect to find anything beyond hot molten rock, but that itself was quite sufficient. Just so long as he was first, and so long as his knowledge could be advanced.

If they were right – if he was right – it meant a new era, one of unlimited geothermal power; one of no hunger. At the very least he will at least have achieved his dreams, one of the few people to ever do so. Like Armstrong, he'll be the first, but like Cernan he will likely also be the last. He will be remembered through all history, his name known instantly. Benjamin sighs, that's all true enough, but it's such a shame that they don't have a view. Of course, no transparent material can yet withstand such stresses (and he dared wait no longer), but even so he wonders what hides on the other side of his protective metal shell.

The exotic minerals used to make it had been shipped from Saturn, the only planet where such strange crystals few. He had waited for most of a decade for the bots to build themselves, mine, and then ship back that precious cargo. 7 of those years were taken up by the billion and a half mine journey alone. But now it was happening, and with the help of the most alien of coursed he dove into his own terra incognita.

A horde of gauges clutter the metal dash in front of him. The face of each one resembles a serene sundown sky; blue backing blends into yellow rays, then alarming carmine dyed horizons. On each gauge a needle points westward, no mater how they scream of pressure Benjamin ignores them, and presses on. At such depths, there is, on each pin-head's worth of space, the weight of a thousand thousand mountains, but the exotic material stays strong and do not give, though it does squeak strangely. The outside shines bright orange from the friction of descent, as well as the extreme pressure and heat. Benjamin can little tell the machine where to go, only monitor its progress, they are locked out of its systems for their own safety. The precision required to descend to such depths is beyond what any human can ever achieve. Perils, in the form of pockets of super-hot gas, or even hard leviathan diamonds, could cause not only failure of their mission but failure in their very act of living too. Thus to use a machine instead of a man had been no choice at all, but a strict edict instead; human error is far too great a risk.

Sod the sensors they have no power over me. Benjamin eyes the twitching needles, they barely keep him from trying to make his way out of their metal shell. There is little to do now but wait. Benjamin can't see out, but that doesn't stop him from being glued to the gauges, trying to decipher his surroundings. Daydreams however, manage to pull his attention away. He can see the headlines now "MAN IN EARTH: Benjamin Richardson, first person to the centre of the earth!" and his picture – of course, and one of their great capsule too. He'll never be a settler of distant planets or moons but he'll be the first to the centre. He'll be the first to the very innards of humanity's first, and still most favored home. He'll set a precedent, one that others will always attempt, but never achieve again.

The capsule keeps its inner temperature fairly constant despite its glowing outer shell. Its occupants, while sweating are by no means uncomfortable. Down it ventures, further and further into the earth. The AI sends out a warning been, it seems to have found some anomalies in the rocks ahead; it shows them on a screen, two dark colored spots that it claims are voids. Hugo supposes they are gas pockets, but the AI seems to think otherwise. Worryingly, their capsule turns towards the voids at an alarming rate, one which stresses their laser drill's mounts generating more warning beeps. It seems to be attracted by some unknown forces. Hugo knows the machine is programmed to seek, stop, and open, should it detect any habitable locations, but that was a pipe dream, more a joke than anything else. Maybe we shouldn't have coded that in. Hugo's thoughts perturb him as the shuttle gets hotter, approaching the pockets. Hugo and Benjamin share a look that makes it clear that they are more and more convinced that their lives were forfeit, and about to end, then and there, at the hands of dumb AI which had been fooled by some warm air.

Perhaps more pressing than the heat though, the atmosphere within their shuttle became ever stuffier. Benjamin knocks on a gauge's glass twice. No answer. The needle inside lies deader than the rock through which they bore. The air scrubber had failed, the robust filter had somehow gotten clogged. Perhaps it was better to attempt to land after all. A conversation of squints later they are both agreed. Hugo pales at the thought, he doesn't believe the machine but he knows that with the scrubber down they have no choice. Benjamin's fanaticism worries him.

Benjamin, on the other hand, begins to grin – this is more than he ever hoped for. The stuffy air suddenly seems a blessing to him, not a curse. What little problems it may cause are of little concern to him, particularly with the landing so near at hand. Hugo had programmed this routine as a joke, but Benjamin knew the machine was infallible, he was sure of it. Hugo shakes his head seeing such excitement. No life can thrive here, they both know that well enough, and Hugo suspects there will soon be none once more. Hugo wonders whether a criticality at that depth would cause even minor tremors on the surface. After a chin scratch or two, he deems it unlikely, as they dive ever deeper, ever closer to the anomalies.

The vehicle bursts through the void wall with an awful clang and topples end over end to the ground, well below its entry point, flinging Hugo and Benjamin to and fro with gusto. Purple bruises will form where the seatbelts acted under Newton's third law to keep them in place. Hugo's eyes were long shut tight and he'd prayed his last payers, but now they edge open. He is stunned by a bleak metal heaven much more familiar than the one he'd expected to see.

Benjamin only cares that they're through, and safe. They exchange glances and begin to verify the vessel's vitals. Much like the air scrubber, the temperature sensor's needle lay flat, pointing due West. Surely an error? Benjamin gives the atmospheric gauge only a cursory glance before taking off his seat belt and rushing to the capsule's door. Hugo looks on horrified, he knows full well that there is still a solid risk their vessel might be wrong. He knows the exterior might kill them before they can even open the door. But Hugo is well strapped in, and Benjamin is too quick. Hugo doesn't get to utter a single objection before Benjamin releases the latch.

HISSSSSSSSS

Benjamin backs away, holding his hands as still as he can in front of him, as though they alone could stop them getting crushed. Hugo's mouth just hangs wide open. The last was the crux of their pressure protection mechanism, so their gauges must be correct; it's survivable. They trade knowledge through yet more puzzled glances. Could it be? Could there truly be a lost world? The suggestion was ludicrous, yet the stuffy air seemed gone and their machines consumed little power now indeed, much less than they ought to need. The gauges had been built to be foolproof, they could surely not all lie, they could not all be broken.

Hugo had devoted his whole life to geology, he knew what he read on that panel to be impossible, and yet it had to be, otherwise they'd be dead already. The others laughed at them when they'd demanded suits for the expedition, it had been worth it though, now both of them could put them to good use, despite any personal trepidations. They shimmy their legs into the silver suit pants, frightened and excited in equal measures. Hugo continues to tremble at the mere thought of an exterior he knows to be impossible, but Benjamin's childlike smile reassures him. Like a fool Hugo goes with it, enchanted by mere brio. Now Hugo stands in a shiny silver suit, dreading his next steps, all while beads of anxious perspiration gather on his forehead. He supposes it's for the best, Benjamin's big puppy dog eyes were the reason he came on this trip in the first place. Hugo dons his helmet, he won't take any unnecessary risks. Benjamin meanwhile gives the dash gauges another lookover. He then takes a deep breath and swings open the heavy metal hatch. It hits the side of their ship with a loud resounding clang, one whose echoes even make it through their suits. Benjamin's bare face is buffeted by a rush of air, like that escaping a freshly opened oven. The air is not, not ot enough to incinerate or burn, but hot enough to make Dubai summers feel like Boston winters. At least he was alive, the gas in which they found themselves was harmless, neither a toxin, nor acid, nor base. Thankfully too their suits are cooled. It doesn't take long for the system to detect the flux and adjust accordingly, keeping their core temperature well within limits. Benjamin reconsiders donning a helmet for a moment, but he figures that the temperature is tolerable, and were the gas noxious he would be dead already. Benjamin lusts to experience all first hand, so he decides against it.

Shadows rule supreme, for in that long forgotten depth no light does beam. Their flashlights barely make small dents in the thick black. Thin columns support a stone ceiling so great neither man can conceive of its size. Silhouettes of stalagmites and stalactites threaten the pair. A bizarre noise breaks through Hugo's thick layers. Benjamin hears it too: water, a babbling brook of sorts. It comes from a nearby dull stone wall. The men exchange glances once more. How could there be water here? Maybe it's something else. Maybe it's their own pregnant expectation. Whatever it is, they don't hear the squadron of languid steps approach them from behind. Then they hear nothing anymore. Now off his head, Hugo's helmet sways ever more gently from side to side on the cavern floor.

Hugo wakes first, the slate on which he lay sends cold shivers, ones far too strong to be compatible with unconsciousness, down his spine. Hugo is confused but refreshed. He looks around at the décor trying to decipher his location. The walls and floors themselves seem cut from bright gem-colored glass. The light's long rays are scattered, reflected, and refracted across the room by one facet then another. A plethora of minerals cover the walls in a disgustingly colorful stucco. From limestone to tanzanite, to rubies, to diamonds, Hugo's room is wallpapered with a random mosaic composed of every type of stone to have ever been known. Clashing colors vie for his attention. The diamonds, embedded shallowest, shimmer with their typical wild fire in the faintly colored light.

Hugo sits up and looks around. The walls, though colorful, keep secrets well, he can see no way in or out, not even a window. Neither the ceiling nor floor hold any clues of escape either. He can not even make out from whence the light came. Perhaps it shines through the diamonds themselves? Hugo wants terribly to pick some gems off the walls and bring them with him for analysis, but he knows that anyone who could afford such absurd opalescent opulence would not appreciate being deprived of it. He was imprisoned wasn't he? What other explanation could there be for the featureless jewel encrusted room? Hugo doesn't know what to do except wonder which alien species or foreign nation took him hostage. He had heard that the Chinese were conducting a similar mission, be he does not believe that they could have launched it yet. They simply can't have obtained the materials so quickly, could they? Where's Benjamin? That's another thing I need to know. Ugh. At this point, Hugo had more questions than the mosaic walls had jewels. This is bad. A loud, prolonged snore betrays Benjamin's resting place, behind one of the beautiful gem walls. Hugo hops off of his slate, strides to the wall, and presses his eye against one of the larger, clearer jewels. There, beyond the wall, he sees a distorted catatonic lump. Hugo knocks on the gems, a meditative tone suppresses Benjamin's snores momentarily then subsides.

Hugo traces the perimeter of the room with his feet, searching for a way out, any sort of fault. Only when he gets close does Hugo see the thin slot between the walls. So many fragmented gems make such a loathsome mosaic, though it does hide all features quite well. Hugo creeps into the adjacent chamber, it looks much like his own, but with more topaz fragments. His eyes dart from one wall to another, seeking more hidden attributes, and seeking the catatonic lump. Alas, he finds no features, but for Benjamin's broad back. Hugo smirks. He trained Benjamin well, physically at least, that much is clear. He'd made Benjamin what he was now, and even if his puppy dog eyes had lured them down there, it was Benjamin's training which would keep them both alive.

Hugo doesn't get a chance to rouse Benjamin, as he walks over and reaches to prod him a large section of wall falls away with a tinkling crash, revealing an orange corridor behind it. A strange creature emerges from the newly formed gap in the wall. She is no human, but she is more beautiful than any human could ever be. Her eyes are a deep royal purple, they clash with long ginger hair in a manner so enchanting that even Ulysses would not have been able to resist her charms. Looking closer, Hugo sees that she has no pupils, the entirety of her eye is purple. How can she see? He wonders.

I hear them breathe, I smell them live. I feel where they lie asleep, and I feel how they stir and wake. I dread their obsessed glares and endless stares. They make me uncomfortable; they always make me feel as if I've done something quite wrong – despite all we do for them. What a strange visit this is. None of the council alerted me of an inspector, and they know the cost of lies too well. So be it, I'll deal with them later. A strange visit indeed, in an unapproved ship too – to think! I will make quite an entrance, that always impresses the feebleminded. They surely wonder where they are by now. What to do with them should they prove to be intruders, now that's a question. Such is life, I'll figure it out.

Benjamin jerks awake violently as the wall falls away. What a rude awakening, he thinks as the reverberating shatter of the fallen crystal wall assaults his senses. He rubs his eyes, opening them to see Hugo standing next to him nude. Benjamin looks down and notices his own nudity. This doesn't bother him much, it is warm and he is comfortable, yet he still wonders where his suit is. What happened? Where are we? They were supposed to be at the center of the earth, but clearly they could not possibly be. Benjamin remembers the ship malfunctioning, it must have returned them to the surface automatically. Wait, no, the gas pockets, that's it. Are we dead? Benjamin's eyes grow winder, they begin to scan and absorb the absurd around him. He notices the beautiful creature, standing, waiting for their attention in the newly formed doorway. She gains it quick, neither Benjamin nor Hugo can look away, so they stare on, arrested by her beauty. She greets them in a strange drawl.

"Howdy folks."

This is wrong, very wrong. "Hi," Benjamin sheepishly responds. Suddenly more aware of his state of undress, he turns bright red and speeds to cover himself. He noticed a particularly large, flat gem on the floor and lunges for it, certain it would preserve his dignity. Unfortunately, it does not budge and he is left squatting and straining to pry it up, rocking back and forth, groaning, and feeling even more naked than before. It doesn't take long for him to desist, aware he has insufficient strength to shift the stone, he elects to cover himself with his palms instead, knowing full well what spectacle he had just put on.

It takes a moment for her to understand what he is doing. She smirks, and ponders why humans are such shameful creatures. It doesn't matter, but her curiosity remains unsatisfied all the same. Hmm. She waits for him to be convinced that he has covered himself before proceeding, all the while trying to avert her gaze from an errant testicle. Only when smug satisfaction breaks out on his face does she complete her greeting.

"So, I sure as heavens ain't sure what y'all doing down here. We don't usually receive guests, and when we do their visits are rather shorter, and always announced ahead of time. So now, what are y'all doing down here? It's mighty rude to drop by unannounced you know." She almost sings the words. "I guess, since you're the first visitors we've had in a while, I'll take y'all on a lil' tour before I send you on your way, how's that sound?" The creature punctuates her words with a wink.

Hugo opens his mouth to speak and promptly shuts it again, for the only words that came to his mind were still "How can she see?". Benjamin is the first to respond coherently:

"Yes, thank you, ma'am, that would be delightful" Although he wants to know where they are, their host is so kind that he cannot deny her offer, left he offend her. Her words swing back and forth through his mind, like a pendulum entrancing him. His gut tries to make him flee, but he Benjamin has not eaten in a great many hours so its efforts result only in a loud gurgle. The descent had taken them the best part of 48 hours, and they had brought only water and cola, as per their sponsorship agreements. How long had he been asleep for? Had they been drugged? Benjamin's mind remains shrouded in mysteries, but with difficulty and patience, he begins to slowly piece things back together again. The creature shifts her weight impatiently, waiting for them to approach. Hugo is but a few feet from Benjamin and his empty stomach gurgles in agreement with his. "If it would not be too bold, ma'am," began Benjamin respectfully, "can you first tell us where we are, provide is with some food, and return our suits? Oh, and one more thing – how did we get here?" Hope resonates in his voice and bounces off the hard jeweled walls, the creature, however, seems unimpressed.

"My! So many questions! All in due time my dear. I've got some questions for y'all too y'know. We really ain't used to unannounced guests. I'm afraid return of the suits, or of that vile liquid within, just ain't happenin' shug When we found you our scans determined that there were a number of potentially harmful pathogens on 'em, and in 'em. We had to....'dispose'...of the items."

Benjamin's face falls in dismay. She doesn't quite understand his anger, true it had been their property but those pathogens pose a great danger to the very survival of her species. Surely he could understand.

"I know – I'll have my courtiers bring you some robes, we don't have much use for them here, but we keep them for guests – and the occasional ceremony too. I'll call for some food too, you must be famished, do accept my apologies. I'm a shockingly terrible host." The creature remains in two minds about what to do with the trespassing twosome.

"What do you mean have no use for –" begins Benjamin.

The offer of food makes Hugo snap to life, he interrupts, "YES!" he exclaims, half shouting. On hearing himself Hugo realizes he is much hungrier than he first thought, and moderates his tone. "Yes. Yes, sorry, I'm not me when I'm hungry. Yes please, I'm afraid we haven't had anything for a long time ma'am – if you are a ma'am. I'm afraid we've also been terribly rude. I am Dr. Hugo Heiss, this is Mr. Benjamin Richardson," he says, gesturing, "are we where I think we are?" The tone of incredulity in his voice alone reveals his meaning, and her devilish smile is all the response he needs.

She feels his confusion, it's worrisome, confused people do have a tendency to do things without thinking them over thoroughly. Surely, if they were here, they knew? No matter. It isn't as though they can go anywhere immediately. If either one tries she'll have them slaughtered immediately, but they'll cross that bridge if and when they get there. Most cannot resist her wily words.

She beckons for food to be brought, and shortly after, a young couple appear in the doorway. Like most of her people, they have heavily wrinkled and sunken eyes, but they move with speed and youthful vigor. Their height is half her's, and three-quarters that of the one called Hugo's. They slink in from the corridor soon after with laden plates. Each platter bears a thick chunk of flesh, an intoxicating aroma coaxes the men and fills the jeweled room. The meat is a plain gray color, and next to it are two small pink towers of mush. She'd thought of offering them some wine, but then decided against it, it was much too earlier, and a little inappropriate. The creature watches them eat and smirks.

Benjamin's sour expression warms fast when faced with proffered delicacies. Aromas waft through the air with incessant urgency, inviting him to eat, inviting him to turn into a vicious beast and sink his sharp teeth into the flesh, as so many years of evolution had made him capable of. The meat calls him ever closer. He knows not what it is but his rumbling stomach is unconcerned. His saliva flows freely, he swallows it with an audible gulp and sets to work on the place.

Maybe he was wrong to have been upset, after all, they had provided lodging to them, and they were mere strangers. If the creature intended harm to them, then both he and Hugo would already be dead. A bemused Benjamin smiles between bites. Who would ever have thought the center of earth inhabited? His mind spun, the fame they'd gain would be a hundredfold what he'd thought. It didn't matter that they'd got rid of his suit. Not one bit, they were cheap, at least compared to the profits he would reap from his discovery!

With each bite, Benjamin becomes more and more enthralled by the creature in front of him and the shimmering room in which he now shamelessly dined. Everything around him seems foreign, almost alien in nature. He simply has to know what this place is, and how they'd come upon it. He still can not wrap his head around the fact that they are at the centre of it all. It's impossible. It violates the very laws of physics which he'd held in such esteem. His stomach rumbles one final time as his bites slow.

Hugo meanwhile tears into his own chunk like a wolverine. Suddenly he pauses and sighs at the very thought of meat. He can remember the purge to this day. Countless zoos of animals put to death to prevent infection. Their carcasses burned in great piles whose black smoke fogged the air. Now so many strips of brown murdered earth lay bare. He remembered how hard it had been as a child in the putrid scent saturated air. To this day, Hugo still sees and hears the burning, sizzling, and popping of burning carcasses. Grilled meat to him now resembles more a horrid funerary perfume than anything else. Despite vivid and varied mental pictures of mutilated giraffes, chopped up elephants & lifeless chimps, Hugo chews away, famished.

The meat in front of him is unlike anything he has ever tasted. Its flavor is sweet, just sweet enough to cast honeyed phantoms on his tongue. Tender too, so much so that it resembles a petal in its delicate texture and bite. It was cooked to a medium rare perfection, still slightly pink in the center, beneath the gray. He always preferred his meat well done, it helped to shield his mind. But this, this is not meat...this is art. Hugo finds the mush exquisite too, airier than passing Sunday morning clouds, it floats down into his gullet. With each bite, he is more and more enchanted by the beautiful creature and her beautiful world. Aside from the lack of natural lights, and the busy walls, he quite likes it here. So he eats in time with Benjamin. They eat, and eat, and eat, having servants bring more helpings, much to the creature's delight. As their food babies reach maturity they can finally eat no more.

"Wow, y'all were hungry," says the creature. The creature beckons the men with her finger, so they go.

"We haven't been very gracious guests," blurts Benjamin as they walk down the orange corridor, clad in dull gray cloaks. "I'm sorry," he continues, now sheepish, "I must beg your forgiveness I've one more prying question though – how do you see?". There it is. The question which Hugo had been so avoiding, now wielded carelessly. Benjamin immediately realizes his mistake, shrinking into a slumped shell of a man. Hugo shoots crystal daggers at Benjamin for his bold rudeness, despite his own curiosity. The creatures eyes look dead into Benjamin's, chilling him to the marrow.

"In the same way, darlin', that you're blind." Cryptic. They continue down the corridor which seemed to be carved through solid crystal rock. It's composition changes every few hundred fathoms, and with that its color. Each color occupies an entirely distinct portion, yet neither Hugo nor Benjamin can perceive any joins between them. Fortunately, that color tunnel filters the sharp unnatural light, making it more colorful – and more tolerable. Deep tanzanite purple, shining green emerald, and hypnotizing ruby red, the walls switch from one to the other jarring Benjamin's vision.

"Also, how can we possibly be at the center of the earth? This is supposed to be molten rock, or, hell, even dinosaurs, but now...uh...what are you again?" Benjamin's curiosity is unending.

He's inquisitive, perhaps too much for his own good. Even so he's funny, always asking, always wondering. It's a shame, they need more like him up there. He's so naïve, so different. I wonder....no, actually that's silly. He couldn't accept our reality, he wouldn't. They never do, they're always too indoctrinated by the surface leaders. Ugh. The creature twitches her nose, supposing it neither here nor there. They're hers now, to do with as she pleases, which is exactly what the creature plans. "Well, don't you think you should ask a lady her name first?" she asks, coyly.

"Oh goodness me!" Benjamin's jaw hangs aghast at his own rudeness and oversight. The matter had slipped his mind during their exquisite meal. Benjamin feels playful, he shrugs off the daggers shot through Hugo's eyes. "Well then, fair maiden, what is thy name?"

"Maeb _ë," she responds. The creature does not feel as playful, the corner of her mouth twitches with scorn. And so, Hugo, Benjamin, and Maebë walk down to jewel corridor. After several hundred more fathoms they approach a magnificent arch, made of, as Maebë puts it, of "a single big hunk of what y'all call diamond."_

_"_ _WOW!" Exclaims Hugo. Benjamin, however, is too shocked to say anything, he can already see the riches unfurl before him._

_Maebë begins her explanation, but Hugo has trouble following it. He simply can't bring himself to believe her wild words, they are too strange, too foreign too alien. Admittedly though, he never thought anything lived at the very centre of the earth, much less creatures as beautiful as her and much less ones with diamond archways. But that all is true._ _Perhaps her words are true._

_"_ _You see, Verne was paid off. We needed to stay hidden, and misdirection is the easiest. A story here, a movie there, and suddenly all people believe that there is nothing more at the center of earth than dinosaurs, or, even more laughably, molten rock," Maeb_ _ë smiles, "sure it didn't fool people for long, and especially not the adults, but it kept children from poking their noses where they should not. That was our primary aim, for they were the ones who found us first." Maebë pauses & purses her lips briefly. "Halley came close in 1690 with his hollow earth, but it was still quite a bit off, and thankfully nobody paid him any mind. Since then no others have managed to make any progress, not really anyway." The relief in her words is clearly visible, almost as though she herself underwent the harrowing near-discovery. "Since then, your rulers have helped us hide ourselves. Our reality was always deemed too much, too harsh for the regular populace. Your rulers, and I mean pretty much everyone, from Mao, to Reagan, from Tsar Nicola, to H W Bush, from Khan to Cameron. They have all kept our secret strong, and I trust you will too." She serves up no smile with those last words but instead stares them both down. "Oh," she adds, "the Spaniards wished to expose us once, in the 190s. As y'all would say, we made sure to deal with that insurrection promptly." Together they step into an immense cavern, the likes of which neither Hugo nor Benjamin had ever seen before. It is so big that it is a true world unto itself. The roof of the cavern they stand in forms a luminous, but gray rock sky. On it attached by vines of light, glowing cables of sorts, others like Maebë picked away at the roof, enlarging their world further._

_The noise of unknown machines create a constant highway like hum. Around them bizarre structures resembling crystals shards, like the buildings they knew too well reached out to the sky, but here daring truly to scrape it. Each gemstone spire rises from the ground in inspiring beauty, each wall is made of one gem or another, towers of green, pink, blue, and yellow surround them. The gems are quite clear, so Benjamin and Hugo can see well inside the great towers. Purposeful inclusions dot their faces from place to place, hiding certain rooms._

_"_ _Welcome to our capital!" Exclaims Maebë cheerfully, "I'm sure you've noticed," she continues, with pride hurrying her voice," how beautiful it is. Each and every building before you is constructed of what your kind call 'gemstones' To teach you our ways in making them would take many years. Even to show you the manufacturing of the precursor by which we fashion the gems would take many months. I can tell y'all the principle of it if you're interested though, my nana came up with it."_

_Benjamin and Hugo would have been on the edge of their seats had they been sad, but they were not, so instead they stand nodding, battered by the gem dyed light. Their mouths hang in sheer awe at their surroundings._

_"_ _We fuse millions of lil' gems together to form towering crystalline blocks wherever we need a new building built. We force inclusions to form where we want privacy, and otherwise sculpt the monoliths to out needs, and, of course, our tastes." Maebë pauses, noticing Hugo's face which had drifted to the tall ceiling above. "We may not get much sun, but the atmosphere makes our land bright nonetheless, she adds, being sure to end on a majestic if minorly irked, tone. At that point, it dawns on both Hugo and Benjamin that Maebë is no simple guide but rather is likely to be a very important person in her world, one that likely ought not t be trifled with. "This way," she says, in her perpetually perky drawl. She walks down a clear purple cobble road of pure amethyst. It is adorned on either side by wide topaz sidewalks. "We find that the best way to keep our existence a secret is to hide a little bit of truth in every lie, just to make it believable. For example, outside our system there is indeed some considerable heat and pressure. That's why we find so many seed gems, and why we learned to use them in the first place. This, for example," she motions to another teal doorway, "this is very durable and very aesthetic, so it's a perfect material. Besides, as you can imagine, those being which you call trees are not very plentiful here. Historically we have been a much more metal based culture."_

_"_ _Hugo, you're a geologist, what do you make of all this? Queries Benjamin, whose eyebrows nearly graze the cavern's ceiling._

_Hugo tuns to Benjamin and says, "Well...it has been posited that such things could, one day, be possible, but those were fanciful dreams...never anything serious. I must say, I am quite blown away by all of this. The technology to do this is light years ahead of what we have above. His head swivels like a record, trying to take in as much of the gleaming city and its stunning inhabitants as he can. "You must share this with us, it could save many!" The light reflects and refracts off and through the buildings and streets. It is so bright and so colorful that Hugo's very brain feels overwhelmed by the flood of stimulation. He rubs his eyes, hoping vainly it would help. It doesn't._

_"_ _Y'all ain't figured it out yet, huh?" She asks derisively. The two men shake their head in unison. "Well, alright, have y'all heard of so-called 'mole-people'?" Her voice carries a particular intonation of disgust with the last couple of words. The men nod. "Well," she continues, "that's what many others of your kind have called us for many years, quite hurtfully too I might add. It is true, we cannot see as you do, but we do not need to. We see light in a different way, indeed, we feel its pressure, we feel its shape and nature. It is true we will never, any of us, be able to view what you view. We will never perceive some aspects of the beauty of the world we have built. We have been told many times that it is of splendor unknown to man or beast. But y'all should make no mistake, we perceive beauty still. We are not men, we are not women, we are not human; we are who we are and that is all. That visible beauty which we cannot see does not bother us, for the beauty we see is invisible to you. Oh, and y'all should know, we feel, and we know things, things long forgotten by our kind. We see th-"_

_"_ _Wait," interjects Benjamin, rudely, "many others!?" Maebë is visibly annoyed by his interruption. "You have met our kind before?" he queries, wondering whether the answer was something which he truly wished to know._

_"_ _Oh yes. Many. Were you not listening when I explained to you about Jules Verne? Did you not take heed of my very brief summation of our history?" Maebë is unimpressed. Benjamin blushes, his transgression discovered._

_For Benjamin the city had been far too mesmerizing, he had not even noticed the stares from the other creatures which walked the bejeweled lanes of the sparkling underworld. Each one turned to glare at him and Hugo as they walked passed. But after Maebë began to notice them she pulls one to the side for a quick word. Their language is strange, as though she speaks in two voices at once, one high pitched and one low. Benjamin knew, of course, having listened somewhat, that the creatures could not see, at least not as he or Hugo did. Benjamin scratches his chin, though they can not see their gazes had seemed to investigate his very soul._

_Maebë snarls when she noticed Benjamin trying to eavesdrop. She rapidly finishes her chat and the stares abate. The otherwise busy lane clears with an astonishing speed. Benjamin can feel something is amiss but Maebë just tells him their history once more. Now more briefly, and more tersely than before. With a tone of exasperation in her voice, she starts explaining the interactions their kind had had with the humans of the surface in more detail. She explains how their species had always been technologically superior. Not due to any inbuilt intelligence but rather from the fact that they had evolved long before the apes, and as a result of their barren environment, they adapted rapidly. Maebë explains that back in the ancient times there was very little down here. The humans could afford to bicker, their resources were plentiful, down in the cramped quarters of earth's center choosing competition over collaboration meant certain death. Maebë explains to them how they had aided the humans many times. The first time she can remember was when she had been a child. That was the first time they had attempted to introduce electricity to man. She recalls the day's events with such clarity as though it had happened only yesterday even though a great many years indeed has passed. She sees and recounts it all perfectly. She and her mother had traveled for weeks, at great personal peril, through the many layers of the earth. At that time they did not have the quick and safe transport options of today, so they found makeshift solutions to protect themselves from the heat and pressures which awaited them just a few miles above. They'd fashioned a crude diamond ship, one shaped like a human cigar. They had given it propulsion and set it on its way. The journey itself had not been too rough, the earth was in a calmer state then, but even so, the sights Maebë beheld on that journey were awe inspiring, even second hand. Great magma flows and rivers of plasma had swirled around their ship in a rabid, crushing dance. They took the trip twice, the first time to obtain a jar of sorts. They'd needed something to put their power into so that it would not be too conspicuous. They'd remained stealthy, fearing what might happen should they reveal themselves to the primitives. The quick to bicker humans were an unpredictable sort. They had no place to run, so to take the utmost care was vital. They'd obtained their receptacle and brought it home. Once back they filled it with the most basic, weakest form of power they still knew how to male: an iron rod, around it a sheath of copper, and over this they poured the juice of a lemon. That had been Maebë's main role, to steal a juicy lemon, a task most fit for a child, one who would likely not be punished if caught. "All this," Maebë says, "my people put within the confines of that fragile jug. It was meant to give your ancestors a weak current, a starting point. That was the most we could do without someone figuring out the outside help. Those many years ago we brought that battery back up to Selik, and we left it there with one of its wise men. All in all our journeys back and forth took us six human months. The materials we left were strange to your primitive ancestors. They were too ignorant to see the true purpose. My mother and I had hoped your wise men would act, for we no longer could. We were by then both too far, too tired, and too frightened to do more. Any further acts would have rendered our external assistance quite obvious. In any case, your kind was not ready, all they gain – all they understood – from our gracious gesture was how to plate small things with gold. As if more shiny trinkets were what the often starving, and always warring glorified apes needed."_

_Benjamin's eyes spring open, his eyebrows bunch together too – frightened recognition. It surely could not be what he thought it was...those were myths...fables from a time long past, fables long since discredited too. Even if it was true, there was no way she could live that long. "You are not speaking of the Baghdad Batteries, surely?" Benjamin stares at Maebë demanding an answer with his eyes and looking as though he might spontaneously combust if it turned out to be the case._

_"_ _Yes, yes, that is what your kind have called them for some time," sighs Maebë, "at least you eventually figured it out. Even if you did give them an ugly, ugly name..."_

_"_ _But that would make you..." Gears whirred in Benjamin's head, working out Maebë's age._

_"_ _Now I'm not sure about how life on the surface is like," she interjects, suspending his words "but down in our neck of the woods you sure as heaven do not ask a lady, MUCH less a queen, her age." Her words stop Benjamin in his tracks before he can finish rattling off more annoying questions._ _Sure, perhaps he is cute for a human. But he is dumber than the rocks we've built on. And rude too. Though I suppose that it can't be helped...he's only human._ _"Come," she beckons, "pick up the pace."_

_They pass many sapphire windows, peering behind the blue shields they see great piles of wares, each more exotic and strange looking than the last. Some resemble overgrown insect eggs while others are great sculpted crystals, others still look like the antique gas driven cars of old. Opalescent holograms float in a window above them. They stare and try to lure the men in. Their smooth motions are hypnotic. Living, moving pictures, representations of her race which lure Benjamin and Hugo in with silent siren songs. Human minds were too weak to resist the beguiling underworld marketing._

_"_ _COME!" Boomed_ _Maebë, snapping the men out of their drooling catatonic state. Hugo & Benjamin will their feet forth with all their might so as to catch up to Maebë. They want to stop, to look around, to admire, but they can't. Her implorations are clear. They run behind her with care, afraid to trip on the jutting purple stones. Each footstep lands with a clack, and they soon catch up to the lightfooted impatient queen._

_"_ _Where are you taking us?" Pants a tired Hugo._

_"_ _To show y'all something."_

_Benjamin rolls his eyes, tired of Maebë's cryptic nature. They soon turn to face a topaz warehouse. Canary walls rise above and change the multicolored light even further. A beam bounces straight into Hugo's eye, making him see, in a single moment, the orange of a thousand autumns. Its sparkle blinds the two men, whose arms now crane out in surreal shading salutes. Maebë leads them on to two large panels, their outlines trace black shadows on the immense topaz face. The men approach the panels which promptly slide into the ground, hidden from sight. At least some things are similar. Benjamin and Hugo share comforted glances in the face of such familiarity. Endless rows stretch out in front of them, a veritable orchard of produce, wherein laden shelves, like the pregnant boughs of autumn apple trees, each bend and bow under the weight of the fruit they bear. Maebë presses on, she leads them through the great tract of trade. The store's customers act much the same as the city's residents had, briefly staring then disappearing after inspecting the men with forceful glares._

_"_ _This is where we buy our food, and pretty much everythin' else we want or need," explains Maebë._

_The men exchange quizzical glances, they feel woozy but know not why. Both suspect their recent meal is to blame. It is clear from their bewildered expressions that neither Hugo nor Benjamin know why Maebë brought them there._

_Food I say, more food! We must gorge ourselves on the delight of this world_ _. The bright topaz mesmerizes Benjamin, and though they have recently eaten Benjamin feels the pangs and thoughts of hunger strike again._

_Maebë smiles mischievously, tilting her head forward, almost as if she is trying to hide a secret beneath her very chin. "Yeah, we can grab some more for y'all to eat, don't you worry."_

_Benjamin jumps, alarmed, he had not vocalized his desire to eat, yet somehow she knew. He does not question it for too long though, Benjamin can not think well while she remains in his view. Her mannerisms enchant him, he can think no ill towards her. He can impute to her no evil, no mischief, nor self-interest._

_Maebë is pleased, The humans they send are so terse normally, strange men in patchy green outfits who inspect her kingdom. These were much nicer. The others are even ruder than these men, and they rarely pay her such piety. These ones do, even if they aren't very bright Maebë can tell that she will bond well with them. Maebë conceals a fledgling smile in her mind, she finds it cute how easily distracted they are by the buildings, by her, by anything other than that which is actually important. The humans always did maintain a list for shiny trinkets. Maebë taps her index against her thumb contemplatively. Maybe just this once she'll let them stay._

_Only a handful had ever made it as far as Hugo & Benjamin, and none of them had been as calm or friendly. A chill crawls down Maebë's spine as she recalls agonized looks of infinite sorrow, which arise with resignation to a death unknown, and unmourned, thousands of miles below the surface. They had tried to end her though and so she'd had no choice. She always tried to greet them gently, yet each time they attacked. Knives, guns, bows, even gasses, all lame attempts to end her rule. She could have none of it, no interference from the surface dwellers. She'd given them choices, yet they'd refused. Their deaths, though tragic, served them right. The leaders learned soon enough._

_Finally, they are in the right aisle. She reaches out and grab a box labeled 'Soylent Green'. A picture of a great strongman, as big as the biggest bodybuilder they'd ever seen jeered at them from the box's face with a fork sticking out of his back. Next to the box's shelf were other Soylent colors: red, yellow, purple. Hugo begins to dry heave, appalled at the thought. Benjamin meanwhile loses control, he grabs Maebë by her sleek shoulders and holds her firmly in front of him._

_"_ _YOU'RE A BARBARIAN, A SAVAGE!" his words come with such force that Maebë's hair flutters slightly._

_Maebë snarls and bares a mouth of spiky sharp teeth. She digs her claws into Benjamin's arms, drawing blood, and moderating his grip. Benjamin lets go of her and yelps. Maebë laughs. "Don't you worry sugar plum," her tone is tense, aggravated, and condescending, "ain't no human in Soylent, we just have a sense of humor."_

_Benjamin recoils horrified and embarrassed by his own actions. Hugo meanwhile regains composure. "How many of you are there?" asks Hugo directly just as his heaves desist._

_"_ _Oh, well I reckon there's about a billion or so. Compared to humans we really ain't spread as much. We can't. Our population levels have to be kept strictly sustainable. While y'all just up and get stuff from elsewhere when you run out, we ain't never had that luxury. We ain't got no fancy mining colonies. No habitats. No buckyballs. But by gosh I'd say we're doing alright. We could have flown away, but we never did, and every foray to the surface world ends poorly; we are content with our situation."_

_Hugo's eyes scan a framed panel, various triangles are inscribed thereupon. They each seem quite different from the others, a form of script no doubt. Some have rounded corners, others are sharp, others still look broken in two, or three, some are half shaded, others are not. "Maebë, is this your peoples' writing? It is beautiful. Please show me how to read it, that I might learn your ways, my Queen." Hugo's voice wobbles on the final words. Maebë grins, satisfied with her effect on the man. Hugo looks taken aback at his own words, and Maebë can tell. She reaches out and brings his hand up in hers, placing it on the triangles. She rests her hand on top of his and softly whispers a single word to him._

_"_ _Soon."_

_Benjamin watches on, worried and weary of the underworld witch which seems to unravel Hugo's senses._

_Maebë gives Benjamin a confused look, she doesn't understand what hi problem is. They knew she always does this to one of them, it isn't like she has many other ways to have fun down here. She could at least have fun with the inspectors. Only then does it dawn on her that these humans might not be inspectors at all. They might be completely unauthorized. It is unlikely, and she isn't sure if the technology to do so is even within reach for any non-governmental actors of their race. But if not inspectors who are these trespassers? All the other visitors had been approved, had been briefed, had been selected. Maebë assumed they'd simply forgot to inform her, but no, this is much worse. The rulers had not vetted these two. That much she could see firsthand. This is bad. She made a mistake bringing them thus far even. They are not meant to see and indeed are not ready to see that which she had been about to show them. Maebë bites her cherry red lip, causing her teeth's sharp points to sink in and release a mauve trickle. She ponders what to do as she wipes the blood away._

_Their supermarket was spectacular, Hugo never saw anything like it before. Benjamin could tell just from his expression. Benjamin looks around, the shelves, much like those on the surface, were made of renewable plastic; a material which had been invented on earth at the turn of the last century. Benjamin furrows his brow and turns to Maebë, "How do you have this materi-"_

_"_ _We invented it. How did you think you have it?" Always on the ball, Maebë was not one to let a question go unanswered, even before its conclusion._

_On the shelves, there are so many goods that the men wonder how they do not sag. Their own renewable plastics were not yet so strong, not yet so sturdy. How too can they obtain so many things this far down? That question troubles the men the most for some shelves even brandish well-known surface brands. The threesome keep walking through the topaz warehouse, stopping only to sample some of Maebë's favorite treats, while she secretly ponders her next moves in the perilous game unfolding around her. Soon they reach the meat section where Benjamin notices only one type of packaged flesh: 'Squal', or so claim red latin letters stenciled on equally bright baby blue cellophane sealed packages. Benjamin finds this strange, and Hugo's twisted brow suggests that he does too. Yet both men shrug off their doubts, they consider that the center-dwellers had indeed had previous contact with humans, perhaps they obtained a loan word and goods licensing too somehow. Benjamin figures the name must come from 'Squab', the only other meat he could imagine their kind being able to keep or grow in their bizarre world below. He wonders if they have any meats other than Squal. If they don't...well then Benjamin sees all too readily an opportunity. Benjamin salivates at the thought of importing low cost, low-quality surface meats and selling them as exotic specialties. Both Hugo and Benjamin rub their eyes, tears clutter their vision. Light though there was, it was through a kaleidoscope, and the manifold colors finally begin to take their toll on the men._

_Hugo looks around as they continue down the street, having left the store behind. The Soylent Green samples had been delicious. He maintains some apprehensions regarding the name while eating it, for the trope had long cemented itself in surface culture, but the crunchy texture, portability, and umami flavor reminded him of a cross between chips, graham wafers, and digestives. He'd munched his way through one wafer, then another, and another, all while. Now though they walk and Hugo's head turns each and every way, trying to take in all sights. Trying to take in the pictured of the towering blocks of agate, of malachite, and tourmaline. They are so beautiful that he almost feels sad for Maebë and her kind being unable to experience it in their manner. Hugo knows they could experience it otherwise, but he also knows his way is best._

_"_ _It's nearly time to cull the Squal," chimes Maebë, "it isn't something we are proud of, but survival comes first, and turning it into a ritual does help to pass the time down here. But that's far too much for y'all at the moment anyway. For now, I want both of you to grab a hand and follow me to my chambers. There I'll show y'all and tell y'all more about my people. Oh, and, I'm sure you'll understand, as queen I have certain duties to attend to. Until I am free you shall wait for me. You are not free to move at will and will be confined, I'm sure you dears understand our need for security though."_

_Each man grabs an outstretched hand, they are strange, her skin is smooth, yet hard like obsidian. Her nails are long, they twinkle a soft periwinkle blue. They both hold on tight, wondering what zany thing would happen next._

_"_ _Don't look down." says Maebë, and sure enough they do. In that moment the purple stones beneath them darken and a triangle of pitch black darkness forms around their feet. Neither man dares flee, Maebë's grasp holds them petrified in place. Neither man dares show weakness, neither dares breach their unspoken contract. The ground turns black, and then is no more. They fall with a whoosh and a yelp, they slide down a well-polished wall, an enormous slide of sorts. Maebë is perfectly calm throughout, she does not move a single muscle, in fact, she barely breathes at all, for her this is no more than a routine commute. "Don't worry she shouts as they hurtle downwards, ever faster through an immense network of tunnels, downwards, deeper into the core. The two men may be strong, they may be big, but the tunnel system is not designed for men at all, and so it exerts a great pressure on their bodies. They take the corners at such immense speed that both Hugo and Benjamin first seebright stars more colorful than even her world, and then see nothing at all, rendered unconscious by the force._ _So fragile, yet so dangerous_ _, muses_ _Maebë, calmly observing the men as they fall through the darkness. She supposes it is fortunate that they lost consciousness, this way they will not be able to wander off while she sees to her functions; while she speaks with their people. Though the tunnels are dark Maebë sees well. Rainbow walls protect them on their descent and countless colors rush by. Maebë wonders if she'll have time for a small meal once back before the meeting is to begin. She feels famished after trotting the two through the city. Maebë always loved the tortuous chutes, they always give her quite a thrill. The chutes suddenly turn up along a long slope, the trio slow as they whizz through it. They crest the hill and slide down a gentler slope on the other side. Just ahead the tunnel ends abruptly in a pile of poufs. Maebë beckons for some servants to remove the slumbering men and take them to they quarters. Four appear to ferry the two unmoving visitors._

_Maebë wanders off towards a purple corridor whose deep color casts a silhouette through a green gem wall. She motions at a part of the green gemstone and down it comes, revealing an entrance to the violet corridor. Maebë makes sure not to look down as the walks through._ _She doesn't fear heights, but the minuscule light which begs for company miles below her feet is a little much, even for her._

_The light means the cull is in full swing. Good. Oh lord! I just can't wait! Going to have some fresh smokes Squal soon! My favorite. It's a shame it's only available right after the culls. I wish we could have it all year, but that would require year round culls, and that's unsustainable, the breeding rates are just too low. Hmm maybe we can do something about that, I'll have the illuminated ones look into it. There is is. Oak. It's always so beautiful, its energy is like nothing else down here._ _Before_ _Maebë is a large solid door, one which had been gifted by a surface leader of old who had met her once._ _I love the feel of its grain._ _Maebë ran her fingers over the old wood._ _It can't be this beautiful above, it might be out light which brings out the beautiful of the fractally massed fibers. Heh, at least there's one advantage to these dreadful meetings._ _To the mole people, it is a strange material, but it is_ _Maebë's favorite, and the only exemplar down there. Maebë presses on through the oak door._

_Figurines and dioramas portray peace and trade between two people on the wall beyond that oak door. One race looks like humans, the other more closely resembles Maebë's race. The humans all seem to be dressed in rags, whereas her race is dressed in robes similar to the one which Maebë now dons. A long fluorescent black cloak from which rose bismuth crystal flowers here and there. The one she always wears for meetings. Her mother's._

_The décor here is always so alien, it feels drab and muted. A décor more familiar to both Benjamin and Hugo than I._ _Decked out in surface style garb the room resembles the ceiling rocks in feel, abundantly dull._ _I've never liked this room. It's tasteless. Then again for some strange reason, the feeble minded surface leaders are more at ease with décor more similar to their own than ours. Such a shame too, I could do such nice things with this room._

_A small glowing hologram hovers over her desk, contained in a prism prison. A metal table, a shiny round behemoth, occupies the center of the room. No seats had ever been situated around that table._ _Maebë approaches the hologram on her desk and reaches out to touch it. Her motion halts, her fingers are a mere sparrow's breath away from the hologram's transparent prison._ _Food. Should I call? Will they mind me eating in front of them? I mean...of course some would, but then equally there isn't much they can do. Fuck them, I'll each anyway, it's too fresh._ _Maebë brushes the prism's facets gently. The outer edges of the hologram are cast across the chamber, in a violent light burst. Ghostly images of seats spring up from thin air and await imagined cargo. They announce that her contraption is on. Now she just has to wait. The leaders never take too long, but even so they'll need some time, they too have obligations. Maebë waltzes back to the oak door and opens it. She lets out a long note, a requisition for her most beloved delicacy. As before when she had been with Benjamin and Hugo, servants rush to fill her every need and want. She thanks her half height helpers as they rush a platter to the table._

_Maebë's sharp teeth dig into the shiny, dark, well smokes fresh Squal. Smoked Squal always makes her nostalgic, her mother and father had shown her its delights many years ago. She misses them dearly. As often is the case when she waits for the surface leaders. Tears for her vision as she remembers when her mother and father had refused the humans their banal demands for knowledge. That was when the uprising had started. She remembers it to this day. She had been a child at the time, but she had still known it was a bad idea to treat the humans as equals, for they were not. She'd been right. She could almost see it all again in front of her eyes. The deluge of armed limbs flung towards her and her kind. True enough her kind were stronger in both mind and body, but there was some power in numbers, and there the apes certainly had them beat. Maebë cringes, the memories are still too vivid, she still sees in her mind the finals breaths taken by those she loved the most as they were buried under a mound of warring, writhing flesh. That was the day that her parents had died, and she had succeeded, it was that day that she decided that her people would stay hidden forevermore, far beneath the hostile and volatile surface. This was there was true diplomacy, and that young race above them could have time to further itself, and cool off, with guidance and supervision of course. Maybe then they could be friends, perhaps even equals, but not now, they still fear her kind. Any surface foray, even the slightest, is still fraught with peril._

_Maebë hears the sound of doors locking, it came from the prism. Her own are now sealed, so it has to be one of the surface leaders. Maebë regains her composure somewhat and slows her ravenous chomping. She shifts around in her seat, making herself comfortable. She eats her Squal slower now, scarfing it down is not too ladylike, and always does perturb the leaders so._

_The Western leader comes first, he always does, unfortunately. He is Maebë's least favorite, a fat, rude man whose abrasive demeanor and fiery hair made it seem as through a failed bird of paradise had decided to roost upon his head and never go._ _Perhaps that explains his rudeness._ _He always expects something for nothing. What a joke of a man._ _Maebë is particularly concerned about his record, he intervenes in every surface conflict he can. He simply enjoys sticking his business deep into other people's dirty laundry, whether hung out to dry or still firmly hid in hampers. Maebë hates him, but she knows that there is little she can do – his manipulative manner meant that she could always rely on him as a voice of support in the culls, all for a few measly diamonds in trade, he always was so easily swayed._ _Pathetic. Now that ain't workin'._ _She thinks to herself as a translucent vision of him opaques and stabilizes._

_Next comes the Eastern leader. A kindly looking woman with a joyous smile, and impeccable dress sense. Each time she appears she does so in striking new outfits, each one more fantastic than the last, though none nearly as fantastic as_ _Maebë's. The Eastern leader's people love her dearly, but Maebë does not. The Eastern leader thrives upon respect, upon honor, but despite all that she could be very bellicose. She was always ready to jump at any new opportunity to conquer, and when there was nothing left to conquer she made new land herself so that there would be. Worst of all was her hostile reputation when it came to matters of the heart. When unions were not to her liking when subjects trespassed against her hill, she sent them all to her lab, to be parted out, their organs distributed to the needy. She was obsessive too – and proud. Maebë recalls when the Eastern leader had been a young woman and had somehow stolen some of their knowledge. Maebë had tried to tell her that the humans were not yet ready, that it was too perilous, but the Eastern leader was headstrong; she didn't listen; millions perished for her arrogance. Maebë sneers. The Eastern leader is despicable, but Maebë stays silent and buries her resentment deep. Continued impartiality is imperative to their peaceful coexistence._

_Soon the Southern leader appears as well. He is the youngest of the all, a strange man with a whimsical haircut that bares his scalp on either side and leaves only a tuft on top. The southern leader's beard always entertains Maebë as none of her people grow hair in that location. Maebë particularly like the small, dark, circular welder's frames that always obscure his eyes. To her, they add a veneer of mystery. Maebë even respects the southern leader. He is wise enough and advanced enough to accept that first there must be full freedom, and only from there can any other advancements be made. He understands life and death, and he wields his power correctly, for the benefit of his people. Maebë rolls her eyes, she likes him but is is a pitiful creature all the same. Though his soul is pure, his cowardice is equally well refined. He values his principles and seeks to right all wrongs, but blinded to pragmatic approaches, the Southern leader makes his will the whole of the law. He is wise, and yet a moron too; no man's will ought to rule all; when light goes into a prism its true nature is revealed, countless saturated shadows, so too is one view but a part. Though he wields the color of right he capitulates to warlords' severe demands too readily. He hides to save his precious thoughts while hundreds perish. If he were truly noble the anfechtung of life would not deter him, he would die alongside them. Instead, he lives and sends more men and women to die in the sun. Such a waste. His principles were never enough._

_The Northern leader comes last, as usual. Her many coats take many minutes to put on, and many more to remove. Maebë respects her and her people for the amount of weight they bear upon their shoulders each day. Her race can, of course, bear more, but the northerners still had impressively broad backs. Broad and well muscled. The Northern leader is a small stout woman. The many layers' great weight bears down on her bones, compressing them, and stunting any growth. She is strong, she never cuts Maebë any slack, and is always the one who opposes her most in negotiations. She does so politely though, and for that Maebë loves her. Maebë has great respect for all those who dare to deny her wants._

_Maebë eyes the nervous leaders as she rises from her seat to greet them. They ensure their privacy and begin their covert talks. Maebë explains to them how two surface dwellers had made their way down. She rages at the already shivering holograms._

_"_ _I know y'all were busy, but frankly I do not care. Did we not have an agreement? Did I not make the consequences clear? I demanded to be briefed of explorers. It is unacceptable at any time for us to receive unofficial visitors, especially so near to the culls. We barely stopped them before they breached the pens. I expect to be briefed far, and I mean FAR," she yells, slamming her fists on the metal table, "in advance of such incursions. I know that ain't too much to ask. So I ain't asking. Not near inspection time. Not near the culls. Not near ever. Do y'all understand me? Now I don't mind handing on to these two fellas, but on my terms, as I'm sure you'll understand. Now, folks – when I say I don't mind, I mean they ain't comin' back. Work out a story. Find the expedition and tell them it was lost. Find a way."_

_The human holograms are livid, not only had one of their own species fallen into the grasp of Maebë and her's, but they aren't coming back either – a woeful fate indeed. The Northern leader stands and roars "HOW? How can you sit there, and let IT say such things?" She punctuates 'it' with a jab of her finger._

_The southern leader looks away sheepishly, he values his principles, so he obeys Maebë's every instruction, he dares not acknowledge his counterpart's chilly response. The well dressed Eastern leader, meanwhile, clutches the table so tightly that her knuckles go whiter than the purest milk._

_"_ _Maybe," says the Eastern leader through gritted teeth._

_The Northern leader steps back, appalled, "What do you mean?! How can you say maybe?"_

_The Western leader sees the look in the Eastern leader's eyes. He nods, acknowledging their silent plot. "Maybe," he chimes". The deflated Northern leader just stands speechless. She knows better than to rely on the Southern leader, but she thought that the others would have some sense, some pride, some solidarity at the very least, but alas they do not. "What do we get???" chorus the Eastern and Western leaders, jockeying for positions like piglets to a sow's teats._

_Maebë smiles at the Northern leader, intentionally irritating her. One eye turns to the Eastern leader, and one to the Western leader. "How about. Shugs. Y'all KEEP getting minerals and technology at the rate that I chose and just do as I say instead?"_

_Suddenly realizing their lack of bargaining power, the two leaders back off, groveling and muttering._

_"_ _YOU BASTARD COWARDS," yells the Northern leader. She bangs her fists on an invisible table, making her hologram flicker off. Maebë always enjoys making them storm off. Her eyes squint and her lips curl upwards into a smirk. The Western leader meanwhile plots malice from beneath his breath, and in one fell swoop, and with surprising speed for such a girthly man, he jumps to his feel. His jowls and chins drop to comment, but Maebë cuts him off before he can make a sound._

_"_ _Sit down fat man. I suggest you do as I say before I introduce you to little boy, and remember he's matured quite a lot."_

_The Southern leader shuts his eyes and brings his knees up to his chest. He rocks back and forth pathetically, imagining himself off in a far away universe. His breath's beat quickens, a snare drum of anxiety. His eyes wander to where Maebë's half eaten smoked Squal lies. Finally, he chimes in too: "We should do as Maebë says, she has taught us, and led us well, and given us so much. Collateral damage must be accepted." The other leaders know he is right, and of course, even if he isn't it isn't as though they have a choice. They share a few more thoughts with Maebë and each informs her then their next inspection team is due. Maebë doesn't like getting involved in planning the details of stories and cover ups, she things it best if she doesn't know until after. It is often said that the sign of a good compromise is when all parties leave unhappy. If that is true then this was an excellent compromise indeed, for only Maebë remains content with the results. Maebë sighs, she still fumes internally, but she figured that if nothing else at least they understood the consequences better now, and hopefully they would monitor their peoples more, as she had suggested all along. Maebë knows now what she will do with the sleeping pair. There can be only two option for Benjamin and Hugo, and neither one of then involve a trip back to the surface._

_Hugo awakes first, next to him Benjamin snored hard on a crystal pillow. Hugo squints, trying to understand how it does not hurt Benjamin's head to lay down on such a hard stone until he looks down and sees his own. Hugo puts it all down to the strange magick of this forgotten place. Maebë's sweet voice echoes through a nearby corridor, it suffices to make Benjamin stir. Soon she appears by an entrance._

_"_ _Wakey wakey sleepy heads. So listen – I've had a quick meeting, and we've all come to an agreement. Y'all have got two choices. Each one makes their own choice. The first is to stay with me – with us – down here. There ain't much light, but I think I'm pretty darn good company. Just one proviso though, a small, personal, edict." Maebë's voice culminates in a dark tone full of gravitas in the words which follow those, "If you remain you will content yourselves with the knowledge I grant you. You will not seek, you will not query, you will live by my word and accept it, for you – your race – is too young to understand our ways._

_The grave words sink into Benjamin and Hugo's minds. Neither man can fathom whence her brooding manner had arisen from, their faces make that clear enough, Maebë notices their reaction and is pleas she'd managed to impart the serious nature of their conversation to the otherwise foolish men. Maebë continues setting out their options. "The other possibility is that you receive a full tour. I will personally guide you through our main facilities and show you how we do things down here. It's quite a lot to take in, so be warned. But if you do follow me you will be granted more knowledge than you can even handle. And after you will be put to work. Until the day you die of course, such are our ways."_

_The men look at each other and exchange silent words. Benjamin races to answer first. "I must learn, You have much to teach me, especially about the gems. How do you fabricate them? Where do you find them? I must go with you on the tour."_

_An open-mouthed Hugo then replies too, "I agree, but I do not wish to see. I have seen enough in my long years. Show Benjamin, I wish only to back in this beautiful light, with a beautiful queen. Look around you Benjamin, you are literally inside a palace made of emerald. What more do you need to know? What answers could you possible seek?"_

_Benjamin smirks with a little contempt, "Precisely," he says, "I seek everything."_

_A part of Maebë's smoke Squal remains sat on the plate she'd brought with her. The full flavor of the meat comes through in abundance when it is smoked. Its chewy texture is delectable, and it seems to melt in the mouth. She offers it to Hugo, and then Benjamin. Servants bring them more as they bicker at Maebë's behest. Hugo becomes more and more convinced that the center is the right place for hi. He hated meat, yet the fecund fleshy aromas alone are enough to make him stay, even without the endless eye candy. Hugo bites into a small chunk he had taken from a newly brought plate. "Squal-Heart" the servants had said. Amazing, spiced just so with creamy Cajun tones, and fried to an outer crispy perfection, with a rare middle which diffuses a delicate flavor over all his taste buds. Hugo knows this is the place for him. He looks to the wall and ponders if he will miss the outside. A furtive smile from Maebë convinces him that he won't. He'd already spent most of his life in various caves seeking rare minerals. He sees no point in stopping now, and the fates had granted him the best opportunity of all, his own personal nirvana._

_Benjamin digs into the tender meat and weighs his options still. He still has time to change his mind and stay, but Benjamin doesn't want to stay, instead he wants fame and glory. It does not escape his notice that if he is the only one to return he will have to share none of it. And if he stays he will never get that deserved recognition. He has to learn, then take it back, for the betterment of all, especially his own accounts. How restless he feels at the thought of his future countless priceless gems._

_Maebë waits patiently for the men to finish their feast. She sits silently and watches the two tear into their various pieces of Squal. As Benjamin finally wipes a final small smear of grease from his face, Maebë stands and beckons him. Hugo's eyebrows bunch , disconcerted. But when he sees Benjamin's springy step he gives only a final farewell to his old friend. He worries no more when he sees Benjamin's excitement, after all, their hosts had been gracious and he has no reason to doubt them._

_Benjamin now walks down the purple corridor which winds around her emerald palace. "You missed the last great cull, it was a few hours ago," Maebë tells him, "it was not the right time anyway though, so I'll just take you to one of our off-cycle farms, and first show you how we grow our resources. Then the crystal tech. All out farming is collective, each being works to ensure the we being and health of all others. It is true, we maintain the barbarism of wage slavery within certain farms, but only very few are willing to work in the farms regardless, so incentivization can be significant. We can usually accommodate people who don't want to work there, not always, but usually. From what I understand of your world you should more than understand why."_

_Benjamin grows visibly excited. This cull, and the farming seem to be the main things on Maebë's mind, they had then to be vitally important in order for her to bring it up this much. Benjamin thinks it strange, but who is he to judge their kind. His fingers start trembling with nervous anticipation. They walk for miles, but Benjamin finds it hard to tell how far without organic points of reference, like the ones he had on the surface. Even so he makes due, counting each clacking step._

_As they walk Maebë reveals her peoples' involvement with him to him more. She rambles through a long list of Earth's most prominent inventions"...the transistor, penicillin, glass, steel, nuclear energy, stable plasma containment. Your kind were too bone idle and dumb to even figure out rubber without our help."_

_Benjamin knows she speaks the truth, for he is at the center of earth, and the buildings he saw and touched were all real. His whole life had been a well-concocted fiction. Finally, they reach a big black building. Unlike the other structures in her realm it is opaque, yet this makes it mirror-like. Benjamin stares at himself briefly, but looks away quickly lest his own good looks distract him._

_"_ _Are you ready?" queries Maebë gravely._

_"_ _Yes, yes of course I am," he snaps back, letting his impatience flare. It is clear that Benjamin desires only to obtain her knowledge and be gone. He is eager to see what lies in the black box. Unlike Maebë and hers, Benjamin does not have a flair for the dramatic, he had no time to waste on pomp. Maebë's eyes roll in their sockets as she reaches out a finger and draws two overlapping triangles directly onto the black surface. A tall rectangle turns dark gray in response. Slowly it becomes lighter, and lighter, until through some strange disintegration it is no more. Two massive being stand on either side of the doorway, guards. They tower above Benjamin and stare straight on, unmoved the sight of Benjamin. The mounds of muscle make it clear that they are not to be trifled with. Benjamin had seen the strength of Maebë's people first hand, he cannot fathom what such hulking creatures might be capable of. Benjamin finds them strange all the same, he had seen no guards elsewhere, not even in her palace. Deep down Benjamin hides disgust. He understands why they had been termed mole people, aside from Maebë they are all remarkably ugly beings._

_Maebë senses his inner gripes and bristles with indignation, but she hides it well, for they are almost at their destination. She explains to Benjamin that the guards will go with them, for safety – of course. Benjamin minds, but he can hardly say no, and the intoxicating promises of riches egg him on. They both walk, with guards in tow, down a long, empty, milky white quartz hallway. At the end, Maebë steps up and turns to face Benjamin. "Benjamin, this is your last chance to rescind your choice and join Hugo."_

_"_ _No." One word suffices._

_Maebë taps her foot rhythmically and the floor darkens, eventually opening, forgiving both her and Benjamin through yet another tube-slide of sorts. This one is gentler, and shorter too. Almost immediately they land in a round chamber, surrounded by a shiny gold wall. Benjamin rises to his feet and touches the wall, feeling for a seam, any junction to indicate openings. He finds the featureless confined spaces disturbing._

_"_ _Darlin', you asked me earlier how old I was, now let me ask you the same."_

_"_ _33" Benjamin is fond of one world answers when he feels uncomfortable, their brevity comforts him._

_"_ _Oh my, just right!" she says. The sharp points of her teeth press into her lip and she bites it softly._

_"_ _For what?" Benjamin feels anxious and paces around the tiny chamber. He hits his palm against the gold wall, hoping to affect it the same way Maebë had with other walls. Benjamin knows something is wrong, and his breathing proves it. He pants, suddenly aware of the danger he faces. It is those actions and thoughts which convince Maebë that is is indeed all for the best._

_"_ _Well...here's the thing sugar plum," she says, "your people and mine have a long standin' agreement," like a teacher does with her students, Maebë pauses to give Benjamin a chance to ask, a chance to learn, but he is too agitated and just paces the perimeter of the small room. It doesn't matter to Maebë, she progresses her speech, she knows that he hears her well. "Every once in a while, people, more specifically the poor – the lost – from your communities go missin'. Noe I guess y'all ain't ever noticed, but mass disappearances always coincide with the best inventions."_

_Benjamin, calming down somewhat, nods cautiously. He summons all his strength to calm himself, to listen to her pitch._

_"_ _Well shug, what happens is that food is mighty scarce down here, but knowledge ain't. Besides your folk had a mighty hard time helpin' 'em. At least we give 'em a roof." Maebë pauses and sighs, "It really is best if I show you." Maebë emulates Benjamin's hand motion upon the wall, demonstrating to him that is is a question of whom and not how._

_The golden walls collapse on themselves, forming a gold ring on the bottom of the round suspended platform on which Maebë and Benjamin stand. For the first time, Benjamin can see. He stares out at a great populated hall, one greater than any ht had ever seen. Benjamin's stomach somersaults. In one corner humans; in another, more; in another, yet more still; in each and every square yard of the gargantuan hall a human stands. They are all cramped together like cattle. Every here and there more massive guards stand watch. Young, old, humans of every race and gender, humans of every height and girth. Benjamin watches the mole people standing guard below gather and begin to rape a young woman in the northeastern corner. Her cries resound through the colossal warehouse, but none are affected, none act. The guards rape er with impunity. Despair shines from each person's eyes, boring holes into Benjamin's soul. They all beg him for salvation, for release._

_Benjamin is dumbfounded. All he can do is stare hopelessly into the warehouse of cruelty, unable to act. He turns and looks on at a group of children in the corner behind him. They are being beaten by the mole guards who hit them again and again until each one of their fragile young bones splits open, spilling savory marrow. Benjamin sees humans in another corner lined up, then they are pushed through stiles, one by one. They press on past what looks to be a bunch of half height workers. The workers bring up pistol like objects to the back of the humans' skulls. Loud pops and subsequent limpness confirm their efficacy._

_The workers hand each body by a hook and split open their necks, ensuring exsanguination. They shake the bodies as they h, be they men, women, or children, all of them, making sure that each drop of blood is freed from its prison. Maebë doesn't particularly care, and neither do the workers, but if the meat was not bled out well then bloody streaks would run through the fat, making the meat less attractive for sale. Benjamin stares in horror as the blood flows down into immense floor drains. Maebë's eyes follow his, and she speaks up._

_"_ _Don't worry, it doesn't get wasted, we drink it up, like your wine."_

_Benjamin is too traumatized to react. A trillion mile stare besets his face. He can not look from the feeding line. He watches on as conveyors shunt mashed soylent around the hall. He stares at the feral humans who grunt and jostle for position. Raised for slaughter, these humans were often inbred, but at least someone bigger, for they bad but one role – to die. His people, the strong and powerful conquerors, are truly no more than prey for a stronger species._

_Maebë smiles and draws a line on this chin with her finger, pulling his face in towards her. "Look," she says and points up. Above them is another hall, one with a transparent floor. In it, Benjamin sees them breed his kind. Beings forces into copulation. Maebë's people had seen no point to teaching the humans, so they kept them like beasts, and so they kept them like bests, and like beasts they behaved, assaulting one another at will. As soon as each young woman birthed, her children were removed, to be raised and trained so their muscles would grow, raised for slaughter. They live short lives and are beaten often to ensure juicy tenderness. Maebë workers assign each newborn child a number at random. When their age matches their number they are slaughtered and butchered. As the sights of humans being mutilated and cut up into convenient take-home packets finally begin to sink into Benjamin's brain, he looks frantically for an exit, realizing all too late there is none._

_"_ _Squal is short for Squalor, one of your leaders actually came up with that one. Sorry shug." Maebë nudges Benjamin. He is too agitated to be kept alongside her further. He plummets from the platform, and the further he falls the better his expression resembles those which had implored him for freedom or death just moments ago. A loud snap stuns Benjamin and he looks down to see shattered shin bones stick through his flesh like primitive spears. He knows it is the end – his end._

_Maebë grins, satisfied, and gestures to a worker who consequently flips a nearby switch labeled with various triangles. Loosely translated it read 'Smoke'. It is a shame, but it is time. Benjamin had been nothing more than a mere animal, a surface dweller. After all, her kind had evolved to feast on his, it was only natural, they needed to survive. Besides, Benjamin had been unwelcome, Maebë always respected the surface dwellers' wishes, but they are a free people, not one bred expressly for good, her humans, on the other hand, are no more than stock._

_Maebë surveys her resource. She always made sure to make it humane. Maebë never liked the leaders, but at least they made obtaining breeding stock much easier, the inspectors simply brought them along, this way they didn't have to undertake dangerous journeys to steal them. It is different now from how it had been in Maebë's youth, then Squal had been a luxury, yet now the offal is thrown out. Ruefully she watches Benjamin gasp for his last moments of air._

_At least he is the right age, and at least he's lived a good life. On the plus side, at least I get another portion of smokes Squal!_

_Maebë leaves the farm and instructs a guard to have it sent to her when it is done._

_Now Maebë sits with Hugo on a bench, in an artificial gem-stone park. Each tree, each leaf, each blade of grass had been fashioned out of the same gems which made up the rest of her world. The craftsmanship of the part was impeccable however, each small nutrient vein was etched on. Rainbow rays shine here and there, forced out from the light's twisty journey through manifold crystals. Hugo is astounded by the sparkle which surrounds him still. Hugo is Happy. Ignorant, but happy. Maebë leans into Hugo and plants a kiss on his cheek. He is a little older than Benjamin, and maybe not quite as cute, but he is kind, and – crucially – he listens, and that's all that matters to Maebë. Maas, one of her servants, approaches them from the ruby path, as quiet as a whisper, startling Hugo who finds himself engrossed in Maebë's eyes. In his hands, Maas holds a platter. Hugo considers how gladly he gives up sunlight in exchange to be with Maebë in her beautiful and brilliant kingdom, with an unending supply of Squal to boot._

_"_ _Here," says Maebë playfully, as she gently picked up a piece of smoked Squal and holds it out for him to bite, "it's fresh smoked."_

### ~fin~
