 
# Fiction Vortex

A Speculative Fiction Typhoon

February 2014

Volume 2, Issue 1

Edited by Dan Hope & Mike Cluff

Copyright 2014 Fiction Vortex

Cover Image by David Revoy / Blender Foundation

Cover design by Dan Hope

Smashwords Edition

Website: FictionVortex.com

Twitter: @FictionVortex

Facebook: FictionVortex

#  Table of Contents

Letter from the Editor

Short Stories

Fred10 — by Jason X. Bergman

Men Are Not Dragons — by Stephen V. Ramey (Editor's Choice Award)

Take the Standards — by Kallirroe Agelopoulou

One Hour Empire — by Tim West

Article

5 Tips for Better Titles

Book Reviews

Moon Hoax, by Paul Gillebaard — Review by Jon Clapier

The Colony: Genesis, by Michaelbrent Collings — Review by Jon Clapier

About Fiction Vortex

#  Letter from the Editor

And thus begins a new year, and a new batch of great stories. You may be wondering why the new year is starting in February, instead of a more traditional month, like January. That's because we spent the month of January recapping the best stories of 2013, and there were a lot of them.

I strongly suggest that you  check them out because they are awesome.

We're astounded at the great stories that have graced our URL in the last year, and we're even more ecstatic about the stories to come.

This month we have stories that are all about people who never expected to be in the positions they find themselves in. This can mean anything from being trapped inside a dragon, to being trapped on a slab in the morgue. To each their own, and whatnot.

Fortunately, you'll only be captive to the great writing. Unless you want to read these stories in a morgue.

Your choice.

Vortexical Wishes,

Dan Hope

Managing Editor, Voice of Reason

Fiction Vortex

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  Fred10

by Jason X. Bergman; published February 4, 2014

Fred held the control unit in his hand. He was nervous. He wiped a sweaty palm on his jeans. He had devoted ten years to studying the fundamental building blocks of the universe, and at long last he was going to put his theories to the test.

He stood in his kitchen next to the bulky transport machine. It wasn't pretty, a pile of wires and parts cannibalized from appliances. The control unit was a little gray box with a single button, taken from an old television remote, and a dial from an old toaster. The dial would theoretically allow him to fine tune his jump to a specific dimensional frequency, but since he wasn't sure any of this would actually work, he had never hooked it up.

Fred was nervous, but he had resolved to take the plunge tonight. This was it. The validation of his life's work. He looked at the clock on the wall, a cheap piece of white plastic with thin black hands he had purchased at Walmart. It was 2:30 AM.

He took a deep breath and pressed the button.

A short click and then light flooded around him. It seemed to pierce his forehead, a million little daggers stabbing him over and over.

And then, just as suddenly as it attacked, the light receded. He was standing in his kitchen, as before. The clock still read 2:30 AM, but its face had changed. Instead of the cheap clock in his kitchen, this one appeared to be slightly nicer. Not _much_ nicer, but it was a faux mahogany. And where Fred's kitchen had been filled with broken and discarded bits of machinery, this one contained actual, working units.

"It worked!" Fred exclaimed. "It actually worked!" He was overjoyed. "I'm the first person to successfully travel to a parallel universe!"

From down the hall, a light clicked on.

Fred suddenly remembered that any alternate universe would naturally contain a parallel version of himself, and he was about to meet him. This was so exciting!

"Hello?" Fred said, leaning toward the hallway. "Is anyone the—"

"Hey," the Fred from this universe grumbled as he emerged from the bedroom. "Let's get this over with. Some of us have to work tomorrow." His slippers made scratchy noises on the floor as he shuffled down the hallway.

"I don't—"

This universe's Fred held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "Gimme a sec, okay?" He didn't look pleased to see a visitor from another dimension. He was wearing a bathrobe and squinting. He sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. A sniff, then a deep snort and he rubbed his eyes. "The machine works." He let out a yawn. "Good for you." Another snort, this one longer, like he was really working to get something up there. "Bad for me though, because all of you stupid Freds just come _here_. In every universe your machine exists, it only takes you here. And in _this_ universe, I'm not an amateur scientist, or a professional scientist, or a science-anything. I sell cars. And _I_ have to go to work tomorrow, unlike you." As he spoke, he pointed an accusatory finger at Fred. "So please push your big red button and go back to where you came from." He stood up, then reached out and put Fred's hand on the button.

Fred started to protest. "But—"

"Goodbye, Fred. Congratulations. Don't ever come back."

He pushed the button, and Fred disappeared.

~~~~~

A click and then light flooded around him. So much light. It seemed to pierce his forehead, a million little daggers stabbing him over and over again.

The light dissipated and Fred found himself standing in the same kitchen as before, but where his kitchen had been filled with broken and discarded bits of machinery, this one seemed to be filled with actual, working appliances. The clock read 2:45 AM, same as before, but instead of his own blue dial, this one was some kind of faux mahogany.

"It worked!" Fred exclaimed. "It actually worked!" He was overjoyed. "I'm the first person to successfully travel between universes!"

"Read the note!" called a voice from down the hall.

"Excuse me?" Fred replied, a little confused. He craned his neck to try to see the person. Was that the Fred who lived in this universe?

"NOTE!" the voice called back.

Fred looked down at the kitchen table. There was a note, hastily scribbled in blue ink on the back of a junk-mail envelope. He picked it up.

"Dear Fred," the note read, "Congratulations. Your machine worked. Unfortunately you have landed in the home of the only Fred who doesn't care. He has to work tomorrow."

"Is this a joke?" Fred replied, still confused.

"Just. Go. Away," the voice called back.

~~~~~

Fred lay in bed and waited for the flash of light that let him know his intruder had left. _Maybe this is the last one_ , he thought, but he doubted it. He may not be a scientist, but even he knew that there were an infinite number of parallel universes, adding up to an infinite number of invaders in his kitchen. A flash signaled the arrival of yet another traveler. Fred winced.

From down the hall, he could hear, "It worked! It actually worked!"

Another flash. _Great_ , Fred thought. _They're overlapping now_.

"Holy crap," he could hear the second traveler say, "it worked! It actually worked! I'm the first—"

"Second, actually," the other traveler interrupted.

"You mean you—"

"Amazing!"

Fred couldn't take it anymore. He pulled himself out of bed and threw on his robe. He shuffled down the hallway for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"Hello," one of the travelers called out to him as he approached. The traveler held out his hand, but Fred brushed it aside, slumping down at the table.

"Hey," he replied. Did they have to all be so damned happy to see him? "I'll make this quick. Your stupid machine works. As you can see, I am you." He looked from one traveler to the other. "Both of you, I suppose." Fred stood up again and started to walk out of the kitchen. "Do what you want here, but then please, go home. Just let me sleep."

Another flash. Fred groaned. His head hurt. He turned back to the other two travelers, who were staring as another visitor slowly materialized before their eyes. "Do me a favor. Fill the new guy in, will you?"

Fred dropped down on the bed just in time to hear, "It worked! It actually worked!"

He looked over at the clock. It was 3:00 AM. He had to be up in four hours. Did these guys even _work_ for a living?

Twenty minutes and three visits later, Fred had an idea. A silly idea. Giggling to himself, he lurched out of bed and put his robe and slippers back on. He shuffled down the hall to the kitchen and opened the door to his garage, shuddering as the cold air wafted in. He stepped inside and grabbed a steel lawn rake off its hook. Then he stepped back into the kitchen and closed the door.

He looked down at his kitchen floor. A few hours ago it had been spotless, but now there was a black circle — a mark created from the constant flashes of interdimensional travel. He carefully placed the rake on the edges of the circle. He then taped a note to the opposite wall, just below the clock, that simply read, "GO HOME."

Laughing to himself, he walked back to his bedroom. Now he just had to wait for his next visitor to arrive.

It didn't take long.

A flash and then, "It worked! It actually w—"

SMACK!

"Ow! My node! I tink I broke my node!"

From the bedroom, Fred could hear the visitor stumbling about, confused. Finally it seemed, he read the note.

"Go. Home. Whud? Id dis a jogue?"

After a few more minutes of audible confusion, there was a flash and his invader was gone.

Lying there in bed, Fred smiled. He might not be able to get any sleep tonight, but maybe he could have some fun with his other-dimensional counterparts.

~~~~~

The first death was an accident.

Fred had been cleaning up. It was almost 4 AM, and he hadn't had a visitor in over ten minutes. He had some fun with the last few visitors, but was happy to be done with them. He was standing in the kitchen with the rake under his arm when a flash went off behind him.

Fred turned around in surprise, just as the visitor materialized in front of him. It hadn't occurred to him that someone might materialize _around_ the rake he was holding, but that's exactly what happened.

When the visitor finally solidified, he did so with the rake's handle buried in his chest. Fred looked at the invader, who could only stare at the thing protruding from his chest. Their eyes met for a moment. Then a look of horror slowly crept up the face of the visitor, as he realized what was happening. He tried to raise a hand up to pull out the handle, but it was too late. His heart had stopped beating, and life was draining out of him. All the poor traveler could do was gasp and stare in confusion.

The visitor gulped for air a few times, then slumped down. Fred was still holding the rake under his arm, connecting him to the doomed traveler. He let go and the visitor crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

Fred stepped back, unsure of what to do. It had been an accident. But now there was a dead body — _his_ body, technically — lying on the kitchen floor.

His hands were shaking as he crouched down to examine the traveler, who was still holding the control box in his right hand. Fred grabbed a spatula from a kitchen drawer, stepped back, and used it to depress the big red button on the control unit. A flash of light and the body disappeared. The rake, which had been supported by the traveler's body, fell to the floor with a metallic clang.

_Interesting_ , Fred thought. He wasn't a scientist like these invaders had been, but in his youth, before he had been distracted by cars and girls, he had possessed an inquisitive mind. That part of him was most intrigued by this turn of events.

He walked over to his refrigerator and grabbed it on both sides. He started to drag it out away from the wall. He pulled the heavy refrigerator left and right, inching it along the floor until it was directly over the black circle.

Then he stepped back and waited.

~~~~~

At 4:23 AM, there was a flash of light, followed by a bump from inside his refrigerator.

Fred walked in a circle, inspecting it from the outside. He could see a finger — no, four fingers — on one side. On the other he could see an entire arm, and at the end of that arm, a hand still holding the control unit tightly. That was a relief — the last thing he wanted was to have the body get stuck in this dimension. This was all fun and games until he was stuck with a dead guy in his kitchen.

He opened the door. Inside, the traveler had materialized around the clutter. The fridge had been mostly empty — Fred hadn't gone shopping for the week yet — but it contained the usual assortment of condiments and liquids. A bottle of aging milk, a jar of peanut butter, some ketchup and so on. Several items were gone entirely, presumably they were lodged inside the person who now occupied the bulk of the space inside the unit. But certain things like the shelves appeared to have won the tug-of-war for space, segmenting the traveler's torso into three pieces. Upon closer inspection, the shelves had a number of gaps within them and the traveler's flesh filled in these spaces.

Fred hadn't defrosted the freezer in some time, and when he opened it, he couldn't even see the head, just two large blocks of ice. Blowing off some frost revealed that the head had materialized in there. Closing the freezer, he checked down below and found the feet in the vegetable trays, shoes and all.

Fred didn't learn much from this little experiment, but it was certainly interesting. It was doubtful this traveler had ever regained consciousness in this universe. As deaths go, this one was probably pretty humane.

Once he had examined the remains, he pushed the red button and disposed of the body. Remarkably, following the flash of light, his refrigerator and its contents remained intact. Not that he planned to keep any of that stuff. He wasn't completely sure, but he guessed that being inside a corpse wasn't very good for peanut butter.

~~~~~

Fred couldn't help but be curious about the way bodies were materializing around objects. Not to mention the way they all disappeared when the button was pressed. He had never felt this way before. He felt so _scientific_.

For his next experiment, he decided to take a more direct action. He pushed the refrigerator back to its normal resting place, noting with some sadness the scuff marks left on the kitchen tiles. Then he went into the garage and grabbed a hammer.

He crouched down behind the kitchen table and waited. After a few minutes, another visitor appeared.

"It w—"

There was a sickening crunch as Fred slammed the hammer down on the back of the visitor's head. The blow wasn't enough to crack his skull, but it did knock him down. Fred crouched over the traveler, who was looking up at him, confused, and probably in a fair amount of pain. No doubt as final visions go, seeing a version of himself was very strange. Fred brought the hammer down again and again, turning the visitor's head to a bloody pulp.

This caused an enormous mess in his kitchen, not to mention Fred's bathrobe. But that was all part of the plan.

When he fell, the traveler had dropped his control unit, and it now lay several feet away on the floor. The blood which was seeping out of the many wounds in the traveler's head was pooling around it, making the box a sticky mess.

Fred looked down at the disgusting state of his kitchen. If his theory was correct, pressing the button would yield very interesting results. He was anxious to see what would happen next.

Fred took a deep breath and pressed the button.

The resulting flash of light was much larger than it had been previously, owing, Fred suspected, to the increased surface area of the traveler. Fred's own bloodstained robe flared up as well, little dots of light exploding from his chest. But when it was all over, his kitchen and clothes were exactly as they had been before.

It was like the traveler had never been there. Even the control unit had disappeared from his hands, returning with the body.

~~~~~

When the next traveler arrived Fred brought his hammer down, knocking his victim unconscious. He then took a knife and sliced open the visitor's wrist, causing blood to spray across the floor with surprising force. He was in the process of covering various parts of his kitchen with arterial blood when another flash went off.

Fred quickly dropped his unconscious victim and stepped away from the black circle on his floor. But something curious happened. Rather than create some kind of monstrosity with the two bodies fused together, the light started to move away from the kitchen, and before he knew it, a new visitor appeared down the hall. It was as if the process was smart enough to avoid materializing two Freds on top of one another.

Fred was amazed at this turn of events. So much so that he forgot that he was covered in blood, holding a knife, and standing over the unconscious body of his own other-dimensional self.

"It worked!" this new visitor said, after materializing in the hallway. "It—"

The traveler stopped mid-sentence as he looked into the kitchen. He stood there, utterly dumbstruck at the grisly scene before him.

Fred began walking toward the new visitor.

"What th—"

Fred growled and leaped on the traveler, swinging his knife wildly. The visitor instinctively raised a hand up to cover his face, dropping the control unit in the process. Fred slashed down at him repeatedly, making small cuts across his arms as the visitor helplessly clawed back, trying to deflect the knife.

"Please, stop!"

Fred dropped the knife and looked down on the visitor. He had a pretty nasty scratch down his left arm, but that was the only real wound Fred had managed to inflict, and it wasn't very deep.

Fred was suddenly sickened by what he was doing. What had he become? He fell backwards, his robe spilling open. He moved back across the floor, his hands growing sticky from the pools of blood in his path.

The latest visitor was confused, taking labored breaths and sobbing as he desperately tried to make sense of things. "Please ... just ... stop. Are you ... me?"

Fred continued to scuttle backward across the floor. His hand slid in a pool of blood, coming into contact with his hammer. His fist closed around it.

The visitor picked his control unit up, clutching it to his chest. He was inhaling deeply, trying to calm himself. "I'm sorry. I'll leave. I just need to press this button. Please don't hurt me."

Fred stood up, hammer in hand, slick with blood. He couldn't just let this visitor leave. He had come too far.

"I'm sorry."

Fred walked toward the visitor. He swung the hammer just as the visitor pressed the button, disappearing from this universe.

_Hm_ , Fred thought, _that can't be good_.

~~~~~

The light receded, and Fred could tell from the gray dial on the clock that he had returned to his own universe. He dropped to the hallway floor. His arms, his hand and his face were all covered in cuts from where that maniac had attacked him. None of them were too deep, but they stung.

_What just happened?_ He was totally unprepared for this. He walked back into his kitchen and stared at the floor. _His_ floor was fine, but he couldn't get the image of the body he had just seen out of his mind. _Was that another version of myself already dead? Am I some kind of crazed killer in that universe?_

Suddenly, a bright light materialized in the center of the kitchen.

Oh no, he's found me!

Fred ran into the bedroom and slammed the door, throwing the control unit on the bed. There wasn't any lock on the door, but he wedged a chair behind it. He got down on the floor and curled into a ball.

"Fred?" from the kitchen a voice called out to him, "Hello?"

"GO AWAY!" he yelled, almost sobbing. "I didn't see anything. I swear!"

"It's okay! I won't hurt you. Please come out. It's okay."

The voice came closer. Fred suddenly realized this person was ... female? Fred was confused. "What do you want?"

"I just want to talk."

Fred moved the chair away from the door and opened it a crack. Standing there in the hallway was himself. But not the same. It was — _she_ was — a woman. She had long brown curly hair and wore glasses, but he could see his own basic features in her face.

"Hi," she said. She held up her hands. "I'm unarmed, I swear. I won't hurt you."

Fred opened the door. "Are you ... me?"

"Kinda, yeah. My name is Frederica, but most people just call me Fred." She smiled. A nice smile.

"That's ... confusing." Fred took a good look at his female counterpart. She was wearing jeans much like his own, but they looked better on her. He found himself filled with thoughts that were weird and unsettling.

She touched his arm, snapping him out of his daze. "Are you okay? Did Fred10hurt you?"

"A little ... it hurts." Fred looked at his bloody arms. "But I'll live. Wait, what did you call him?"

"Let's sit down and I'll explain." She led him into the kitchen and gestured to the empty chair. "Would you like some—"

"Green tea? Yes, that would be great."

She smiled at him. "I figured as much. We are the same person, you know." Realizing the obvious flaw in her argument, she pointed to her notably different body. "Just one chromosome apart."

She knew her way around his kitchen, that much was clear. And she hadn't attacked him with a knife, so that was also a plus.

"So," she said, as she filled the electric kettle, one of his few unmolested appliances, "let's start at the beginning. As you already figured out, your theories about the multiverse are correct. There are an infinite number of us out there, most of whom are, like yourself, either professional or amateur scientists."

"I teach 10th grade math," Fred said, a little embarrassed. "I couldn't afford the tuition at MIT."

She nodded. "That's common. In most universes, we either got that scholarship to MIT or had to fend for ourselves. I guess I was one of the lucky ones."

"So you mean you're—"

"A full-time engineer, yeah. I scored some pretty lucrative patents right out of college, so I had access to more resources than most of us. I completed my machine almost six months ago."

Fred was impressed. And more than a little bit jealous. Not that he minded his life all that much. He had gone to a state school and things hadn't worked out so badly for him. But MIT! It had been hard to give up on those dreams.

She poured his hot water into a mug and placed a tea bag in it.

"I was the first to jump between dimensions. I jumped in and took notes quietly, waiting for the rest of you to catch up to me. You can refer to me as Fred2 if you like."

"I take it there's no Fred Prime because—"

"Because we're all the same. I didn't want anyone to think I considered myself the progenitor." She handed him the mug.

He smiled and fiddled with the tea bag. He would have done the same thing.

Fred cocked an eyebrow. "Wait, so what number am I?"

She smiled. "You're Fred94."

Fred whistled. "Wow."

"Fred10's world is a nexus. I've seen others, but his has turned out to be the biggest one by far. Freds are just drawn to that world, for some reason I've yet to discover. Last night about thirty of you turned on your machines and jumped into his kitchen. Unfortunately this Fred turned out to be ... unstable. And he's no scientist. He's a car salesman, if you can imagine."

"I can believe that," he said. Fred had been interested in cars as a kid. Big, bright sports cars. He loved to build models of them and would stare at them for hours. "If I hadn't decided I was more interested in the engine than the car, I might have done the same thing."

"I was the same way. We _are_ all the same person," she reminded him again.

She stood up. "Well, Fred, I'm sorry, but I have to leave. While we've been chatting here, 10 has been on the loose."

"Wait," Fred said. "What are you going to do? Can I help?"

"We're going to stop him," she said. "You can come with me, if you like. You have as much right as any of us — more, even," she gestured to his wounds, which weren't bleeding anymore, but still looked nasty. "Do you still have your control unit?"

"It's in the bedroom," he said. "But it only goes to one place, and that's _his_ dimension."

"That's where we're going," she said. "Let's hurry. The others are waiting."

~~~~~

Fred10 paced around his bedroom. He was worried. At around 7 AM the visitors stopped appearing, and he knew something was up.

It was possible, he supposed, that the rest of the Freds out there were going to a different dimension, or even that there _were_ no more Freds jumping between universes. But coming so soon after he had let one slip away? He didn't buy it. Something was clearly wrong.

He had already discovered that blood was key. It had taken a lot of work, but he had figured out that by creating ever-increasing circles of blood, he could direct the visitors to different locations. All he had to do was smear a little blood on each wall, and they would materialize in a different room. It all felt so ... _biblical_. He embraced the reference, painting doors with a bloody X.

Doing this had invigorated him. By painting his whole house, he could get them to materialize in his backyard. Which really confused the travelers, who left from their kitchen and appeared behind the house. They appeared in a daze, stumbling about. It made knocking them out almost too easy.

When he had made full use of the bodies, he piled them in the garage. They would probably start to smell in a couple of hours, but he had other problems right now. He knew — he _knew_ — that they were going to come for him. It was, after all, what _he_ would do, and weren't they all the same person?

He didn't have much to fight back with. His chef's knife, a hammer, a baseball bat. But more than anything he needed a plan. A way to get out of this universe, this life.

What was keeping him here, after all? He was an okay salesman, but it's not like he was ever going to run his own shop. He just didn't have the head for it. He liked driving cars, not selling them. And the truth was that he probably cared more about the engines than the cars themselves. He just hadn't admitted it to himself before.

But these visitors ... _these_ guys had the life! They had enough disposable income to build machines capable of interdimensional travel! They _had_ to be loaded.

All he had to do was figure out how to take someone's place. He wasn't totally sure how just yet, but he already knew that the blood was the key. He just needed more of it.

~~~~~

"So uh, now what?" asked Fred94. He was standing across the street from his house. Only it wasn't really _his_ house he was looking at, it was Fred10's house. It was all very confusing. Not helping matters was the fact that he was standing next to three copies of himself, each from different dimensions. The four of them had just arrived, and he was very anxious to get on with it.

They made quite a scene, standing there. As the only woman of the group, Fred2 was the most different from the others. Fred94 was doing his best to ignore her physical distinctions, but he found his eyes constantly wandering back to the way her shirt hung on her body. Fred16 looked almost the same as Fred94, but with about thirty more pounds of muscle mass, and a skin tone that suggested he had recently spent time at a tanning salon. He was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt to show off his muscular arms and holding an aluminum baseball bat. He generally looked like someone Fred94 wouldn't want to mess with, but his presence here was somewhat comforting. Fred22, on the other hand, was Fred16's polar opposite. This guy must have taken the extreme academic route, as he looked even more weak and intellectual than Fred94. His glasses were thicker than Fred2's, and his posture was hunched, like he hadn't gotten up from his desk in a decade. He was the only one of them not wearing jeans. Instead he had on some well-worn slacks. This guy didn't look like the jeans type.

"It's quite simple, really. We talk to Fred10 and get him to stop with all this foolishness." And with that, Fred22 started to walk toward the house.

"Hold up," said Fred2. "I'll go."

Fred22 turned and looked at her. "I don't think that's a good idea. No offense my dear, but your ... _feminine_ aspects may make an already bad situation significantly worse."

"That's ridiculous," she shot back. "Of all of us, I'm the one with the most experience talking to alternate versions of ourselves." She stood there for a moment, thinking. "Why don't we vote on it?"

Almost immediately, Fred16 spoke up. "I'm with the professor," he gestured with his thumb toward Fred22. "If there's any trouble, I'll come busting in." He held up his baseball bat with pride. "But I think we should give him a shot first."

"Thank you, 16," replied Fred22 with a nod towards his burly counterpart. "That's two against one. What say you, 94?"

They all turned to look at Fred94.

"I, uh," he stammered.

Fred16 poked him in the chest. "Spit it _out_ , dude. There's a psycho on the loose."

"I think it should probably be 22," Fred94 said.

"Hmf!" Fred2 clearly wasn't pleased.

"I just think he has a point. What if this guy is a crazy rapist or something?"

"Indeed," Fred22 said. "We have no way of knowing how he'll react to seeing a woman. He's shown every sign thus far of extreme psychopathy when it comes to his interdimensional counterparts. He may project onto you feelings of sexual aggression, and we've already seen he has no boundaries."

"Fine," Fred2 conceded. "Let's just get it over with."

~~~~~

It was nearly 8 AM when his doorbell rang.

Fred10 opened the door. Standing there on his front porch was a copy of himself. A particularly nerdy copy of himself, but still distinctly a Fred.

"Greetings, Fred," his doppelganger said. "May I come in?"

Fred10 stepped back and gestured for his visitor to come inside.

"We number ourselves for easy reference," said the visitor as he stepped over the threshold. "You may refer to me as Fred22."

"Which one am I?"

"You're number 10."

"Right."

Fred10 led Fred22 into the kitchen and gestured for him to sit down. They had to step over several pools of blood along the way. Fred10 had gotten used to this, and if it bothered 22, he kept it to himself.

Fred22 sat down and hunched over the table.

"Can I get you a—"

"Tea? No thank you."

"Was gonna say beer, actually," Fred10 said. "You cool if I grab one for myself?"

"By all means," replied Fred22.

"Thanks. It's been a long night."

"I suppose it has," Fred22 deadpanned. "Now 10, as I'm sure you have surmised, we're a little concerned by your recent actions." He gestured to the blood on the walls.

Fred10 nodded in silent agreement. He opened the refrigerator and rifled around. "Crap. I'm all out of cold beer. Should have another six pack in the garage. You mind if I go get it?"

"Not at all," Fred22 replied.

Fred10 walked out into the garage.

Fred22 sat there, looking around. He couldn't see them, but he could definitely smell the bodies in the garage. This whole situation deeply disturbed him, but he was certain he could reason with Fred10. This unseemly business with corpses aside, 10 was the same as himself. Underneath that coarse exterior, he should be a reasonable man, open to civil discussion. And thus far everything was perfectly fine, all very formal and cordial.

He glanced at the clock. It had been five minutes. "Is everything all right out there?"

"Just peachy," Fred10 called back from the garage. "I'm still looking. That beer is around here somewhere." Sounds of Fred10 rifling through boxes came from the garage. "So hey, Mr. 22. Are you well off? In your universe, I mean."

Fred22 smiled with a bit of pride. "I don't like to brag," he said, which was of course, a complete lie. He _loved_ to talk about his accomplishments. "But I've made a fair amount of money, yes. Investments here and there. Interdimensional travel is really just a hobby for me."

"Sounds like you have quite the life."

"I enjoy myself."

"I'm sure you do," said Fred10, suddenly back in the kitchen.

Fred22 turned around to see 10 standing above him, holding a long black cable.

"I think you'll do just fine."

Fred 10 slipped the cable around 22's neck and pulled it taut. 22 raised his hands to grab at the cable, but it was thick and Fred10 was pulling it very, very tight. He kicked his legs out in a vain attempt to hit something, anything. He reached back to try and scratch Fred10, to get him to stop. Nothing worked. Everything went black.

~~~~~

"He's been in there too long," said Fred94. The three of them had moved across the street and were standing, staring at the house. It had been twenty minutes since 22 entered, and they hadn't heard a peep since then.

Fred2 nodded in agreement. "I'm starting to think you're right."

"Let's go get him," said Fred16. He tapped his bat against his leg.

Fred2 nodded again. "I don't think we have any choice. But let me go in first. I don't care what 22 said. I think I can talk him down."

"Fine," said Fred16, swinging his baseball bat through the air. It made an impressive whiff sound as it struck the air. "But I'll be right behind you."

"Me too," added Fred94. He wasn't sure what exactly he could do, but he had agreed to come along, and by God he was going to contribute.

Fred2 approached the door. "You two ready?"

Fred94 and Fred16 were crouched behind a tree. "Let's do it," called out 16.

Fred2 nodded and knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

She knocked again. No answer.

Fred2 leaned in and pushed the door, which swung open with a soft creaking sound. "Hello?" she called out.

There was no answer.

She stepped inside.

~~~~~

Fred94 watched 2 go inside. "Should we go after her?"

"I'm not going to chance it," replied Fred16, standing up.

"Hey, wait for me!" Fred94 got up and followed 16 into the house.

The house was a horror show. There was blood — _Fred blood_ , 94 assumed — everywhere. It was thick and dry and seemed to have been smeared on the walls by hand. The hallway was covered in thick puddles of congealing blood.

From the bathroom down the hall came a shriek that could only have been Fred2.

Fred16 and 94 ran down the hall, avoiding the blood as best they could.

They entered the bathroom.

Fred2 was standing there looking down at Fred10, who was lying in the bathtub, naked and nearly unconscious, his eyes struggling to stay open. Despite his condition, he was smiling. Next to him was the body of Fred22. The corpse had several dark bruises on his neck, but that probably wasn't what killed him. There was a tube running from Fred22's arm into 10's wrist. It looked like Fred10 had attempted some kind of blood transfusion.

Given his inexperience in such things, it had been an inefficient process, to say the least. Most of the blood pooled in the bathtub around his bare legs. In his left hand Fred10 clutched a control unit, probably the one 22 had used to get to this universe.

"Almost ... done," said Fred10, although it was clearly a struggle to speak. "Just a little bit more and I'll be ready to go."

Fred16 dropped his baseball bat. He stumbled backward down the hall. "I ... I need some air."

Fred2 turned to 94. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. "We're too late."

"Not for me, lady," croaked Fred10, still smiling. He tilted his head at the control unit. "I'm out of here." Fred10 raised the control unit. As he lifted his left arm, Fred94 saw for the first time the wound that ran along the vein. Fred10 must have drained most of his own blood before starting the transfusion. It had been patched up hastily with electrical tape, but was still bleeding. What was the point of all of this?

Fred2 leaned in. "Please, don't do this. You don't know what will happen."

"Yeah I do," said Fred10. "It's the blood. The blood is how it all works."

"But—"

She was cut off by the sudden flash of light. Fred10 had pressed the button.

The light was unlike anything any of them had ever seen. It flooded out from Fred22's body, from the walls where his blood had spattered, from the floor where it had dripped. The tube that connected Fred22 to 10 lit up, casting light across the bathroom. The tub became a shimmering sea of light.

Then it turned ugly.

Light started to come from Fred10. But not his whole body, just the _inside_ of his body. "Something's wrong," he managed to say. Light started to pour from his eyes, from under his fingernails.

Fred2 turned her back on 10 and grabbed Fred94's hand. "You don't want to see this. Come on."

She led him down the hallway just as the screaming started.

~~~~~

It took a full five minutes for the light to subside. Even standing outside, the three of them could hear the screams as Fred10's body was torn apart from the inside.

When it was all over, the three of them quietly went through the house, finding control units and pressing buttons, removing bodies and blood from this universe, sending them back to where they belonged.

Fred10's body was a nightmare. It looked as if it had been hollowed out from the inside. His chest was sunken, his limbs limp and drained of blood. His eyes were pure white and his mouth gaped open, a look of pain and horror on his lifeless face.

"I can't look at that," said Fred16, walking out again.

Fred94 just stood there, staring. "What _happened_ to him?"

"I don't know," said Fred2. "When he pressed the button, Fred22's blood went back to its native universe."

"That blood had been in his veins," Fred94 said, finishing her thought. The process had hollowed him out. He shuddered. "Should we clean that up, maybe bury him?"

"I-I can't," Fred2 replied. "I just can't."

Fred94 nodded. He couldn't either, and Fred16 was obviously too squeamish to do it. In a few days, the neighbors would notice the smell and call the police. They would find Fred10 there in the bathtub, and it would be an local mystery for years to come.

~~~~~

Fred opened his eyes.

The process had hurt. Far more than he had expected. So much pain, and then so much light. He never expected it to end, but then ... it did. And he found himself home. Or close enough, anyway.

He stood up and looked around. It was like his own kitchen, but different. Sitting on the floor, next to the refrigerator was an ugly silver box. This, Fred assumed, was the device connected to the control unit he held in his hand.

His body showed no signs of the trauma it had been subjected to. Or any at all, come to think of it. He wasn't sure how this was possible, but a childhood scar on his left shoulder was gone. And he felt ... _great_. Things made sense all of a sudden. He knew how the machine that had brought him here worked. _How was that possible?_

He walked around the house, amazed. He had done it. He had actually done it. All that was left was to explore this new life of his.

~~~~~

Fred94 went back to his universe. The others went with him to say goodbye, but there wasn't much to say. He was happy to be home, and didn't much care for company, even if they _were_ all the same person, more or less.

Fred sat at his kitchen table — his own kitchen table — drinking tea, staring at the ugly machine that had caused so much trouble. He had spent ten years of his life working on that machine, devoting every moment of his spare time to it. And it worked. But he didn't like what he had found.

Fred resolved right then and there to dismantle it. His universe wasn't a nexus — Fred2 had told him as much. He would devote himself to making his life in _this_ dimension better. Maybe he wasn't an engineer, but he had seen what his scientific mind was capable of, and it disturbed him.

Let the other Freds explore the multiverse. This Fred was perfectly happy teaching math.

~~~~~

A click and then the light flooded over him, a million little daggers of light.

When the light dissipated, Fred found himself standing in the same kitchen as before, but where his had been filled with broken and discarded bits of machinery, this one appeared to be filled with actual, working appliances. Nice, high-end appliances, even. The clock read 9:45 PM, same as before, but this one was an antique pendulum clock, not his own wrought-iron model.

"It worked!" Fred exclaimed. "It actually worked!" He was overjoyed. "I'm the first person to travel to a parallel universe!"

"Not quite," said this universe's version of himself, as he walked into the kitchen. He was smiling. "You're far from the first, I'm afraid."

"You mean—"

"Oh yes, there are lots of us. So many that we call each other by numbers. That would make you Fred115."

"Wow," said Fred, excited by the possibilities. "What number are you?"

He held out his hand, smiling. "I'm Fred10. It's a pleasure to meet you."

~~~~~

~~~~~

_Jason X. Bergman has worked in the video game industry for a very long time, acting as producer on games such as Bioshock, the Sid Meier's Civilization series, and Fallout: New Vegas. He is currently at work on The Evil Within, which will be released in 2014. When he's not working on games or spending time with his family, he can be found writing short stories or comic book scripts, the overwhelming majority of which will probably never see the light of day. He can be found on twitter at @jasonxbergman. For more information visit_ <http://about.me/jasonxbergman>_._

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#  Men Are Not Dragons

by Stephen V. Ramey; published February 11, 2014

Winner of the Editor's Choice Award, February 2014

In a cave high above the kingdoms of man, the last dragon awaits a boy's awakening. Smells surround her: sulfur, humid tears, gas from a horse flank decomposing in her belly. Breath rumbles down her throat to return as smoke and a rain of fine ash.

_Where am I?_ The voice is weak and so very young.

Her throat clenches. Overlapping scales rasp the sword wedged into the base of her neck. She feels pain.

Why am I here? Why is it dark?

 "You are inside my mind," she says. "Inside me." She swings her head around. The boy's hair, once long and golden, is a forest of dark stubble against crisped black flesh. Fluids glisten. Teeth show a defiant smile through shredded lips. Near an outstretched arm, embers peer from the charred-wood crevices of a torch. His jerkin is mostly ash.

That's not me!

It feels as if the sword has leapt forward and pierced her heart. More smells, burning flesh, fresh dung, a pool of urine. She never liked to kill.

You want to confuse me so I can't push the sword. You want me to think—

"Go," she whispers, and some hidden part of her mind closes down. He will be terrified, alone, but she cannot bear more. If she were to squeeze harder, the boy would pop out of her like the bones of a digested meal. But she cannot do that. He would do it easily enough had their roles been reversed, but he is man, and men are not dragons. They do not see past themselves.

She searches the sky beyond the ledge for the twinkling departed souls of her kind, but daylight masks even the brightest dragon flame. Men never see the dragon souls. Their world is the sun and moon and trampled earth, a place to conquer. She closes her eyes. Where will her flame fit into that tapestry?

~~~~~

One Day

She crawls to the cave opening. At one edge, water trickles, becoming a gentle spray that evaporates before it hits the ground. When first she inhabited this cave, the stream was more significant, the waterfall real, and she sometimes watched rainbows fringe its sparkling spray. Now, to look down is to see man's domain, the sprawl of his houses and agriculture.

A bird feeds her young in a nest tucked between rocks. The chicks are so scruffy, their eyes and beaks too large for tiny heads, their cries far louder than seems possible.

The dragon opens her mind the tiniest crack. _You're dead, beast_ , the boy screams. _That was no ordinary sword, but a heart-seeker. Each time you bump it, every time you flex muscles, it will dig deeper until you die_.

"It is unfortunate," she says, "that you will die with me." One so young should not have to die.

_Death is nothing to a brave man_.

"Light is nothing to the blind, but it is everything to those who see."

The boy's movements cease. He does not speak. Perhaps she has been cruel. Far below, men march through fields of brown and black. Armor glints. Smoke lifts from a hundred smoldering huts. Does their warfare never end? Do they never give up their anger? In her mind, each hut becomes a dragon's carcass.

~~~~~

One Week

Hunger growls through the dragon's belly and reverberates in her hollow bones. Today, she will feed. With a massive shove from her haunches, she leaps into the sky.

The wound screams through her chest. She plummets dangerously. It is all she can do to catch an updraft. She has tried removing the sword, but her short arms are clumsy and the blade wedged too deep.

Warmth flows from the back of her mind. _What are you doing?_

"I must hunt."

_Why? You'll be dead soon and everyone will know that I have slain you_.

The dragon focuses on a stone spire to the east. Blue and green banners wave above the highest tower.

_That's where I live_. A shudder. _Lived. My father was captain of the guard until Lord Samler had him murdered._

The dragon alters course for the castle. The moat is clotted with green-blue scum. The drawbridge hangs crookedly. Between the moat and the pocked wall, boys play with wooden swords while girls watch.

The dragon feels the boy's longing. If only she had been awake when he came to slay her. Instead, he sneaked in while she slept, rammed the blade into her chest, and she breathed by reflex.

_If you have the power to trap me_ , the boy says, _you must have the power to release. I don't belong to you. My family has been free mercenary for a dozen generations. My name is Alvin Sharpstone._

"Names are man-things," the dragon says. She spies a dust cloud. A solid stream of horseflesh flows toward a canyon. Along its fringe, men on horseback raise whips. Whistles pierce the air.

Men stampede wild horses when they kill too many of their own at war. Many will die in the crush, but plenty will remain. It is a short-sighted outlook that annoys the dragon. She feels the boy watching through her eyes, breathing in her mind.

The dragon descends toward a gray mare that has fallen. Whinnies echo. The men on horseback do not bother with her.

The dragon lands. With a quick thrust, she severs arteries in the mare's neck and tears the head apart from the body. She settles back to feed.

Dismay emanates from the boy. _You're a carrion crow._

"I could land in one of your cities," she says. "I could burn buildings and kill numbers of your people, and feast on the tender meat of your women. Would this quench hunger better than a horse that goes willingly?"

No, but—

"But what? I have fed and I have ended misery. Not every act need be a conquest."

~~~~~

One Month

The dragon's slumber is disrupted by a rustling sound. Her eyes open. The boy in her head is already awake.

Somebody's coming to kill you, and then I'll be free.

"To do what?" the dragon says. "Do you know what exists after this life? Dragons take flight beyond the world, but where will you go? Your death will be as black and blank as your perception of the night sky."

Mother told me I would go to Father. He loved me. You wouldn't know about love.

The dragon remembers her mother stroking her scales, regurgitating meat, teaching her the things she would need to understand. Except man. Man had barely organized his tribes then. Her mother could not have known what waited.

A scuffling echo sounds. The dragon tenses. She stares at an opening where two stones lean together to form a triangle.

The boy laughs coldly. _You're about to die._

"'s me, Lord Dragon," a reedy voice calls. "It's harmless Gred." The man who comes in is nearly bald. He squints constantly, his mouth a pink line between black whiskers. His clothes are finely tailored, but soiled and torn. "I've come to tidy up." He holds a sack in one hand.

What is this? He's one of Samler's men.

The dragon snorts ash. She has no love for this stringy man, but needs him. His greed keeps others from investigating her caves.

Gred extracts kerchiefs from the sack. The dragon flicks a few scales from her side. Their iridescence sends flashes spinning across the ceiling. Gred scurries around, grabbing scales up, shrouding each in a separate cloth. His eyes settle on the sword embedded in the dragon's chest. "I might be able to help you with that, Lord Dragon."

_No!_ the boy shouts. _He means to steal my claim._ A taste worse than soot fills the dragon's mouth. Does the boy think her stupid? She knows better than to trust a man, especially one that would profit greatly from her death.

"Approach me, and you will die," she growls into the cavern. The boy relaxes. The dragon is glad that he does not wish to die despite his bluster, but saddened that her wound makes her less able to protect him. The boy is to blame, she reminds herself. The argument is unconvincing. It was her breath, her reaction that led to this.

Gred slings scales over one shoulder and hurries away. He trips at the entrance and sprawls into the outer corridor. Curses echo.

The dragon laughs softly. She feels the boy laughing too. For a moment they are connected, and her loneliness lifts like rainfall evaporating in a shaft of sunlight.

~~~~~

One Year

_Dragon?_ The boy's voice increases in volume. _Dragon._

She opens one eye.

Someone approaches.

"I am weary," the dragon says. Her chest aches constantly. The sword barely protrudes and sometimes there is blood in her mouth. "It must be the man called Gred." She closes her eye.

_No_ , the boy says. _Gred comes in the morning. It's night now. Look at the sky._

And she does gaze through the cavern's maw, not because the boy has asked, but because there are memories there. She recalls a springtime when every dragon within calling joined her in flight. In her mind she soars higher than ever, so high the lack of oxygen brings giddiness, and her fire-breath will not stay ignited beyond her lips. Dragon flame streaks the skies, thousands of fiery emissions, too many to count.

Someone is coming to slay you.

She would rather sleep. Grunting, she settles her chin onto the floor. Moonlight touches the cave opening, but the moon is too high to see and the rest of the sky is a uniform black. She blinks. It must be the boy. She's seeing through his empty perspective. No wonder men cling to life. But why do they kill each other? It is a riddle beyond her ken.

Footsteps echo. Metal clanks, a sword is unsheathed. A new worry percolates deep within the dragon. Perhaps it is not the boy who cannot see, but her kind that sees what is truly not there. Could she have imagined all those souls?

_Rouse yourself_ , the boy says. _They'll kill us._ She forces her eyes to open. She owes something to this boy, however different their perspectives.

A deep breath to get things started. Liquid from the organ beside her liver drips into her air stream. Bone chips and powder from her crop join the mix, and she works the bellows that are her lungs. Flame erupts from mouth and nostrils, a billowing heat that brings a warm orange glow to the cavern. In this moment she imagines her freedom from responsibility, her domination of world and man.

Beyond the archway, shreds of moss flicker. Someone says, "God's Dung!" A pounding, the clatter of armor shifting.

_Why aren't they running?_ the boy says.

"Shall I give them another chance?" The dragon is fully awake now, rising to the task at hand. Of course, she will not let these men kill her.

A keg bounces from one of the tilted rocks, hits the floor, and falls upon its side. Black powder leaks.

The dragon breathes in. Liquid drips.

_Wait!_ Her neck swivels without her will, _against_ her will. _It will explode if you breathe now._

A chill goes through the dragon. The boy has taken control. Her neck stretches to its limit, her jaws open, her teeth clamp around the keg. Powder leeches into her saliva, a very bitter taste. Her body twists and flings the foreign item through the cave opening. The boy releases her. She breathes a concentrated flame.

Explosion fills the cave. Even through ear flaps clamped tight the noise invades with the force of a storm. Heat buffets her. The sky comes alive with streaking lights. For an instant she sees dragons.

_They're beautiful_ , the boy says. A sudden fondness dulls the ache in the dragon's chest. For the first time in a very long time she feels love.

A mustached face appears between the leaning stones. "It's still alive," the man says.

"I told you this wouldn't work." The face pulls away. Echoing footsteps recede.

~~~~~

One Decade

The dragon awakes in the boy's dream. This happens occasionally now that their lives are intertwined. In his dream, he plays at swords with another boy larger than him, but slower in his reflexes. A girl with crinkled brown hair and wide green eyes smiles when she sees him looking. A feeling like dragon flame pushing through his gullet fills him.

"Did you lie with her?" the dragon says. The experience crumbles. She feels a chill. Since she has had to rely on the man called Gred to supply food, her scales have been disappearing at an alarming rate. One flank is gray skin now, the other nearly as barren. What will he do when she has no more scales to pay?

_What?_ the boy says groggily. He is a man now, but she cannot think of him as other than a boy.

"The girl in your dream? Did you lie with her? Did you procreate?"

_I don't wish to speak of it._ The boy's voice is wistful and solemn.

The dragon's thoughts drift to her first mating, the blue-scaled male's neck twining hers, his musky scent filling her with lust. Then later, eggs heavy in her belly. She never knew if they were fertile. As they had agreed, flame consumed them before the first sign of life.

~~~~~

One Lifetime

_So, dragons have kingdoms too?_ The voice has focused over the years. Now it is an itch she wishes she could summon the strength to scratch. More and more often his voice is all that brings her back from her dreams.

_Like men_ , he says. _Kingdoms just like men._

The dragon feels a pinch of irritation. "Not like men," she says. "Territories. We forage an area large enough to sustain us, and that is all." It seems to her they have already had this conversation.

When a kingdom gets too many people, it must expand.

"War," the dragon grates. "We have no use for war." A lancing pain accompanies this exertion, but she is able to ignore it. Pain has succumbed to a constant drowsiness.

But if dragons live forever—

"When we choose to go, or one of us is taken, we allow a fertile egg to develop. It was your kind that ruined the balance, your kind that kills indiscriminately." She lets her eyelids droop. "Each day, the longing to leave this body grows stronger." Some days she is only able to focus on the ebb and flow of blood past her eardrums.

_I do not choose to die_ , the boy says. The dragon winces. Tension blazes between her desire to join the other dragons, and her promise to nurture the boy.

A scraping sound brings him forward. The world comes into focus. It is morning and the sky beyond the cavern is a radiant blue.

"'s me, Lord Dragon." The man called Gred enters with a flourish. His whiskers are white now, his clothing new. He tosses a dead chicken. A second chicken follows. The dragon grunts smoke.

_You should be rid of him_ , the boy says. _His greed grows by the year._

"We require him," the dragon says.

The man called Gred bumps the sword hilt. Agony shoots down the dragon's spine, a pain so intense her senses recoil. Without her willing it, her head swings around. Gred goes flying. He skids into the cavern wall, and staggers to his feet.

"My apologies, Lord Dragon." His eyes belie that notion.

He's testing you.

"I know," the dragon says. It is only a matter of time. She hopes that the man called Gred will not take her head for his trophy room as men are wont to do.

"Go!" The boy yells with her voice. Gred scurries out, forgetting his precious loot.

The dragon's neck quivers. Her head thumps down, bringing a spray of light to the darkness behind her eyes. Are the night flames real? She longs to know.

~~~~~

The man called Gred returns with another man in a flowing red robe. His beard is immaculately trimmed. _Lord Samler_ , the boy growls. _Pretender to the throne._

Gred lifts a metal device that holds a steady flame within it. The brass bulge at its base reminds the dragon of a full belly, something she has not felt for a considerable time.

"You see?" Gred says. "See how its ribs protrude, the scales gape outward?"

"Yes, yes." Samler surveys the cavern.

Breathe. If ever you could summon extra strength, do it now. He's come to finish you.

The dragon begins the process, though it is difficult. A breath to get things started. Liquid fuel vaporizes. She works her lungs. She cannot bring herself to exhale. Something about this Lord says that he will not be deterred by a showy flame, and she does not have the strength to do more.

"At last we meet," Samler says. "For thirty years I have awaited this moment."

The dragon lets her flaming belch die.

_Breathe!_ The boy tries to initiate the process, but it is too complex. All he manages is a puff of soot.

Samler brushes at his robe. "You have been quite the cottage industry, dragon. I've cloaked more men in armor by barter of your scales than you might imagine."

The dragon's thoughts drift to twinkling lights. Soon, she thinks. But that is not fair to the boy.

"All good things must end," Samler says. "There comes a time for greater commerce." His sword slides from its sheath.

"Witness, Gred." Samler raises the blade to eye level and sights the dragon's throat along its edge. "I, Lord Samler, am about to single-handedly slay a dragon." He leans forward.

The sword pierces the dragon's hide. The pains of old and new wounds intermingle.

_Breathe!_ the boy pleads. _You're the last. The last. If he kills you ... there will never be another dragon._

That jolts her as no pain could. She breathes, feels the tinder inside her go hot.

_Yes_ , the boy says. _Kill Samler before he kills you._ The words are like cold water. The dragon clenches in mid-breath.

"I will not kill," she says. "Never again."

It's the only way.

"There may be another." Energy surges into her. She herds the boy's consciousness inward, traps him deep within her mind.

He struggles. _Let me help you. You need me._

"That may be true," she says, "but you no longer need me." Like a mother forcing its chick from the nest, she presses insistently against him. He has learned to exert his will without a body. Perhaps he can survive on his own. This is his only chance.

Samler lays his full weight onto the sword. "Spread this tale far and wide," he yells. "I, Samler the Dragon Slayer, shall be king!"

"I never doubted it," Gred says.

A last shove, and the sword pierces the dragon's heart. Another flood of pain. She clenches against it, and draws her focus even tighter. The boy shoots from her like a burst of clean blue flame.

"Gah!" Samler spits.

Dizziness twists the dragon's senses. She feels her life force ebb. Will the sky be bright, or dark? Her heart flutters.

"Gred," Samler says. "Take your trinkets and spread word of what you have seen." There is a subtle difference to the voice that rouses the dragon. She forces an eyelid open.

"Don't you want me to help with the head?"

"I will claim my own trophy," Samler says.

Gred slinks away.

The dragon relaxes. It's the boy. She sees his earnestness in Samler's sweating face.

"I'm sorry," the boy says. He reaches for the blade.

"Leave it," the dragon grunts.

"But I—"

"The world belongs to man. I have been a dreaming dragon, imagining my place in the sky. There are no flames, only death and darkness."

"You're wrong," the boy says. "The flames are there, the dragons are real." He loops his arms around the dragon's snout, and lifts, grunting with the effort. She feels heaviness in her chest and belly. Her head settles again.

"I see them," the boy says. "You've taught me." He leans against her. "When I am king, I'll decree that all men see your flame. And when they have learned to see the sky fires, I'll decree that we name them — for it is man's way of connecting to things, to give them a name."

The dragon tries to raise her head. It's useless.

"Someday we will go there," the boy says. "We will travel beyond the moon, and I will order that we prostrate ourselves and beg forgiveness, not only for what we have done to your kind, but for what greed and lust have done to us." He wedges his shoulder into her jaw, but her head is too heavy.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I wanted you to see."

"No matter," the dragon manages. Her heart thuds and stops beating. She wants to sleep.

"It's not too late," the boy says. He rips the robe from Samler's body, then scabbard and pants and shirt. "I'll build a bonfire to light your way." He wedges clothing beside her snout. "There will be no trophies here." Heat erupts across the dragon's face. She has not felt so warm in ages.

Smells surround her: Death and life, the acrid scent of charred hide. A memory of screaming birds echoes. The world is flame, alive with fire. She sees through it. Tears glisten in the boy's sad eyes.

"To my kind," he says, "I will be known as Samler, Dragon-slayer. To you, dear dragon, I shall ever remain the boy you saved, Alvin Sharpstone."

Alvin Sharpstone, the dragon thinks. I will remember. She takes wing. Heat buffets her upward, the vacuum sky draws her upward, higher, higher, until she is free.

She looks back to the glowing half-circle that marks the cave mouth that was her home. Heart swelling, the dragon sets course for that vast tapestry of light beyond the moon.

~~~~~

~~~~~

_Stephen V. Ramey lives in beautiful New Castle, Pennsylvania, once the tin plating capitol of the world. His work has appeared in various places, including Strange Horizons, Daily Science Fiction, and Liquid Imagination. He edits the annual Triangulation anthology from Parsec Ink, and the speculative twitterzine, trapeze. Find him at_http://www.stephenvramey.com

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#  Take the Standards

by Kallirroe Agelopoulou; published February 18, 2014

There were holes in his head where certain memories should lie. Any attempt to recreate events, any attempt to watch the movie in his mind and it became some foreign, art-house existentialist exercise. Without subtitles.

Spared from the ravaging, only bits and pieces. There was a woman, really young. Her face blurred, but the color of her hair unmistakable. The yellow of the brightest sun. Standing in the middle of a cropped field, the endless blue above shielding her whole body, she _was_ the sun. Somewhere near, a house by a lake. No specific detail about it remained. The water of the lake though, was frozen in some unforgettable moment, its calm surface mirrored till the end of the world. A dead picture, suddenly disturbed. Unraveling in front of his unwavering eyes, an event — like a huge rock fell in the middle of the lake, a hole forcing the waters to recede in its grasp, gushing out again, bigger, darker. Different.

And then it stopped. Where is that lake? Who is that woman? All details his mind considered too trivial to try to hold on to. _It's not important_ , it said, _just forget about all that. You better forget about all that. Or else._ His brain, the bully. Nobody knew why this happened to him, but the doctors had all unanimously reached their final diagnosis. Dissociative amnesia. Psychosomatic, which meant there was nothing biologically wrong with him. Psycho-somatic, which meant he was probably just crazy.

Being locked up in an asylum, however voluntarily, however self-consciously he made that decision, didn't alleviate his worries. The doctors were reassuring, but this step could have been the beginning of a bottomless downward spiral. He was not the right age to start exhibiting signs of schizophrenia, but it was still possible. He knew this because of all the books he'd read. They were still easily retrievable from the recesses of his mind; more alive in him than at any time he might have actually needed them — during exams, tests, grueling finals. Medicine, engineering, biotechnology. He could have walked in any biotech lab the next morning, and he'd get hired on the spot. He'd have the knowledge to make it work. The books were there. As far as he knew, all of them. It was the people and the places and the events that were missing.

The Event. That's what was missing. If anything triggered this partial memory loss in him, it must have been that moment by the lake. The decisive moment that destroyed him, that lingered on, salting the wound. Was it a drowning he witnessed? An accident? Suicide? He felt incapable of anything like that, but he was not the same person anymore. All he had left were the books and glimpses of an idealized ... something. None of the resentment, the seething hatred, or all the sickness that came along with day-to-day life.

Still, he would try to get into that mindset.

~~~~~

"This could be my home there, by the lake."

The doctor stopped him before he put another word in. "It _is_ your home. We've talked about it before, haven't we, Charles?"

_That's not the point. Pay attention_. "Of course, of course. It's mine. The house I bought and restored. For my family. I put in weeks of work, I slaved over it for months, and finally it was ready. Ready to be presented. But maybe there were gloomy faces at the unraveling. Maybe not everyone was happy. One frown, one negative remark and I would have been devastated. Disheartened enough to take the plunge."

"That's a nice theory. A very nice theory indeed, but what's so different from the last one you shared with me, in this very room, just a few days back? The one where, once you build that beautiful house, you found yourself so deep in debt that you decided to leave it all behind. End your life, right there in that lake."

Charles had no answer to that.

The doctor threw him a sympathetic look. "All very logical attempts to bind the threads of your remaining memories but — let's not forget — debunked from the get-go. Your wife, she found you disoriented, lying in your room, dry as a stick. Not in the lake, half-drowned. It was months after you and your family moved to the place, and she swears you were all very excited to be there."

"We were?"

The doctor made no attempt to hide his agitation. "Surely these facts, these checkpoints in your life that I'm sharing with you, they must be starting to take root inside your mind? You should really try to make them stick, don't bother about the things you don't remember. Instead, let's see what it is that you can relearn. What you need to know to be back with your family as soon as possible. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Of course." Charles meant it, too. Any sort of normalcy would be better than what he had now.

"Thank God for small miracles. You have no problem creating new memories. Just let the old ones go. We're all here to help you." The doctor started shuffling at his papers again, adding nonchalantly, "You can have visitors again soon, if you feel up to it."

Visitors. That woman with the scarf and the heavy coat, brown hair cropped short. Cute, friendly. Funny. And that girl, the one with the long blonde hair. Not blonde like the sun, but close enough to make him feel ... comfortable. Like he knew her. Even though she always just stared at him, even though she'd never even touched him. He had done something to her, Charles was sure of that. Nothing else would explain a daughter not touching her father — not when he found himself at his weakest.

Snapping out of it, he turned to face the doctor again. "No visitors, not yet. I need to be alone for a while."

The doctor reassured him with a smile. "If that's what you want, fine. Don't worry too much. Take your time, you're doing great."

Doctor Cohen smiled, but who knew what he wrote down in that notebook of his? _'Antisocial.' 'Irredeemable.' 'Unfit to be released. Ever.'_

Charles knew he wouldn't be able to avoid his family for long.

~~~~~

Back in his room, he lay down. Not to sleep, not exactly. He had been doing exercises. Push-ups for the brain. The doctor said _forget_ ; everybody simply wanted him to move on, make a new start, but they just didn't get it. He couldn't move on, not until he found out, made sure he wasn't going crazy. For weeks now, he'd been working — trying to take the faces he had learned, apply them to all he remembered. Basic scientific research rules: _take the Standards, those things that truly are, the facts. The Laws of this world. Add them to what you think might be. Each time getting a little bit closer to what the truth is._ He closed his eyes.

Walking outside his house, in his field. Walking in that field with the sun on his side. He turned to look at her. Instead of that blurred face, the face that everyone told him was that of his daughter. It was his daughter with the sky behind her, lighting up the place. Her mother, his wife? That lovely woman, that honest smile, she should have been somewhere near, too. Maybe inside the house. That's right, she was in the house preparing them lunch. They were ready to get back, him checking the field for insect specimens and his daughter ... just sitting there, in the middle of the field, staring. Toward him, but not _at_ him. Her eyes wide open, looking at something beyond where he stood. The lake. Calm, iridescent. He knew what that lake looked like. He turned to see what she was looking at. In the middle of watery stillness, something stirred. Something creating circular waves, as if a huge fish had just reached the surface, ready to jump. But it was no fish that came out of that stir pot. It was something big...

But what?

Charles was so close now, he was almost there, ready to find out. To know. Every time he managed to free a bit of the blackness, replace it with something, a possibility, it felt like he was pulling out a huge suction cup attached to his brain. This one — the last leech sucking on his remaining memories — was going to need all of his strength to get rid of.

He didn't stop, not this time. He forced the brain to do its job. Remember. Something coming out of the lake. Big — not a fish. _Lakes have fish._ And algae, plants. A plant coming out of the water. Green ... no, it wasn't green. It was the color of death. Black. Whatever came out didn't look alive, but it very well could have been. _A tree._ Eyes shut tight, Charles pushed even more, until logical deduction and imagination worked together to force out a specific image. He saw darkness underneath the crystal clear water, the skeletal frame of a huge tree. That was where the branches sprang from. They grew, tangled up from the deep until they reached just out of the surface. And then they rose, expanding, a sudden mass demanding space, splashing water furiously out of its way. Above and over the surface, the emaciated appendages moved rapidly, entwined, forming the most bizarre patterns, carving the sky. Reaching out, finally reaching him.

And there it really ended. Nothing more could come out of his memories; there weren't any for him to build a story upon. He nervously got up, moving aimlessly through the room, finally settling in front of the window. Outside, the rest of the patients were wandering around the yard, under a sky stained with heavy clouds. Black sky, harboring rain. The color of death, alive.

Charles sat on a chair, eyes fixed high, mind circling all the possibilities of his revelation. That image in his head, that unreal growth emerging from the depths, tracing him. Forged by a diseased brain, under extreme duress, birthed out of his absolute _need_ to solve this. Of course it was unreliable. Unbelievable, unscientific. As far as he knew, he could still be on the way to actual madness. Even worse, that image could send his mind down that path faster than he ever had imagined. The logical part of the brain told him so, but something else inside him screamed that he had found at least part of the truth.

Connecting the two opposites pulling him apart, wasn't going to be easy, especially if he had to do it on his own. But how could he ever share what he found with Doctor Cohen? With anyone? He refused to end up as one of the zombies walking outside, tripping on their own feet, not when he still had a chance to get out of there, whole.

He took another look at the walking dead outside his window, never happier to be in his own room, separated from the everyday signs of madness that lived in this place. But maybe now was the time to get a feel of the other side. How it worked, how it operated. What it is they had, that he didn't? Yet.

Before he really, truly, became one of them, he had to recognize the kind of thinking he had to avoid. See the way obsessions could take someone and rip him apart. Then maybe he would avoid the same fate — learn to keep this, whatever it was that he'd come up with, from destroying him completely.

~~~~~

Joining them for the first time, as they roamed among the high walls of the yard, Charles chose wisely. Not any of the heavily sedated ones, the ones that walked around dragging their feet, mouths drooling. Not someone from the OCD group, someone who might go on for hours rearranging the stems of flowers before settling down to speak to him — if they could ever do that. He spotted the perfect candidate right away. A young man, reading a book. He took a peek at the title. _A Tree Grows Up in Brooklyn_.

"Is it any good?"

"Entertaining. For chick-lit." The man offered him a hand. "I'm Bryan."

"Charles. I should have brought some books here, too."

"They help."

"How?" Charles sat down, ready to get into the mindset.

The man stared at him, seriously. "They fill up the void. Stop it from taking over."

The comment caught him off-guard. "What?"

Bryan laughed as he closed his book. "I thought you were looking for crazy talk. Did my best to provide."

"Hah. Very funny."

"But seriously, books, music ... they release the mind from obsession. For a bit, at least. If you don't end up incorporating it all to your pathology, anyway."

"It sounds complicated."

"Hey man, it's a daily struggle. You should already know that. You're in here, right?"

"Right." He nodded slowly in agreement, not ready to share his story. Not yet, maybe not ever.

Bryan continued, hopefully. "But we move on. Everything is possible. Even in this place."

And there it was. Charles came here, among the 'sick', with the arrogance of a clinical trialist. _Let's see how 'real' mental patients think. Let's observe and make notes of their primitive behavior._ Instead he found a ray of light through the despair. Hope. _There are no limits to the world. Anything is possible._ Things never before imagined came true, changed people, reshaped the world. Every book he had ever read attested to that; his own line of work did.

Maybe even this, what his mind conjured, was not as impossible as it seemed. Maybe there was some truth to the absurdity.

~~~~~

"I saw you at the yard yesterday. You were talking to Bryan." Doctor Cohen looked serious.

"Yeah ... I felt like a walk. And a talk."

Charles' attempt at humor completely missed the mark. "You were talking to Bryan, but you don't want your family to visit. Why do you think that is?"

There was a hint of an accusatory note there. An attempt to shame him. He accommodated the good doc. "It's different. It's difficult for me to see them. They know me, but I don't know them."

"But they don't know you either. It's as if you're meeting for the first time. Only, these people care about you, they have an emotional attachment to you already. Take advantage of that. You should try to connect with them, instead of hanging around with any of the patients. They will be here for a long time, you won't. Don't feel you have to fit in this place. This is not your home, Charles."

"Why not? What's so different about me? Bryan seems perfectly fine, and yet he's locked up in here."

Doctor Cohen answered calmly. "Bryan took years and years of therapy to get to this level. Did he ever tell you why he's in here? When he was twenty he took a screwdriver and jammed it to his father's throat. Only the drugs keep his symptoms at bay. You are not like that."

"How can I be sure?" A perfectly honest question, if there ever was one.

"Trust me. You have to have the right mindset, the right holds for his sort of ideas to take over. Your issues will take their time to get resolved, but if you don't let them, they won't cripple you. So, don't let them."

Charles remained unconvinced, but he'd heard enough. "Doctor? I think I'm ready to see my family again."

The doctor's face lit up, more than an overburdened Christmas tree.

~~~~~

Leaving Doctor Cohen's office, Charles was convinced he made the right decision. It was the only way out of the situation. Avoiding them again would only make him look even worse. The doctor would surely start to question his ability to reintegrate into society. But there was something else, too. In his memories he was never alone. When it happened, whatever it was, _she_ was there too. His daughter should surely remember it all. There had to be a way to relay to her the images in his head, without damning himself in the process. Following the stairs up to his room, so lost in thought, he barely registered the call.

"Hey!"

Charles turned to see Bryan, right behind him. "Sorry, just finished my session, I'm a little preoccupied."

"No worries. That's the way I usually end up after all the poking and prodding, too. Just thought I'd say hello." Bryan smiled at him. "So, hi. You may go on with your business."

Charles had to chuckle at that. "I don't have much planned. My family's visiting tomorrow, I should probably brush up on my social skills. You might have noticed they're a bit rusty."

"A family! That's great. Be on your best behavior, polite and kind and ... boom! Instant ticket out of here."

"Do you have someone?"

"Sure. They just don't care. Bad blood between us, plus they have their own problems."

The words slipped out of Charles' mouth, before he even realized it. "Don't you mean spilled blood?"

"What?" Thankfully, Bryan hadn't heard.

Charles still couldn't resist the question. "Why are you in here?"

"Remember what I told you about the books keeping the void away? Turns out I prefer them to everything I left behind. I'm not interested in going back, not based on what I remember. Plus nobody wants me back." He lifted his shoulders, sighing melodramatically. "I'm a lost cause."

It was bizarre that he'd lie about it, in this place, where everyone had something to be ashamed off, but Charles decided to let it go. "I have to leave, run by my notes, see that I'm in shape for tomorrow."

"Sure. We'll talk."

~~~~~

Donna, his wife, started the visit by hugging him tight. She eventually let him go, but not before she planted a soft kiss on his left cheek. It felt nice.

"How are you? It's been a long time." She immediately started fussing over him, fixing his pillows, rearranging the sheets.

_I'm not incapacitated,_ he wanted to say. Instead he answered in his friendliest tone, "I'm doing better. How are you two?"

"All quiet on the Western front!" He smiled at that and her eyes watered. "I'm sorry," she continued, "it's just ... I keep forgetting how you remember every single book you've ever read, in detail, but nothing about us."

Donna was always so smiley; he hated seeing her like that. "There are things I remember about you, just not a whole picture. More like ... feelings." Now he was just making stuff up. "I remember being happy. For what it's worth."

Her thankful look made the lie worth it. She leaned in, hugged him again. "You can be happy again! We can all go back to being happy. Isn't that right, Megan?" She looked at their daughter, still standing by the doorway.

"Sure."

Donna turned to him again. "Now that you're better, you should come to the house. See if anything looks familiar."

Bingo. This was his chance. "That would be nice." He turned to look at Megan, speaking as nonchalantly as possible. "Maybe we could hang out by the lake some time, at the cornfield. Like we used to."

She stared at him, eyes wide open, dumbfounded. Nothing he said would have justified her reaction, unless she did know something about the day he lost his mind, something about that lake, something she was too afraid to tell anyone.

"Megan, your father asked you a question."

Eyes clouded, the girl conformed to the circumstance, but he sensed her discomfort as she spat the words out. "Sure. Walk by the lake."

Oblivious to the signs, or just used to teenage behavior, his wife got up and moved toward the door. "I think I'm gonna go get us all something to drink. Megan, go sit by your father, talk a bit, ok?"

Megan barely had time to protest before her mother was gone. She slowly approached his bed, careful to always keep him at arm's length.

Charles decided to jump right in. It was now or never. "So, that lake must be really something, huh? I don't remember it, not exactly, but it feels like it's a sight to be seen."

"It's just a lake."

"Are you sure? Nothing amazing about it? Nothing at all?"

She looked at him intently, frowning, mouth closed tight.

"Megan? Is there something you're not telling me?"

Finally reaching her boiling point, she let it all out. "What about the lake? You know what happened! You might have everybody else fooled, but I know! You're not my father!" For a moment she stood, body trembling from head to toe, before she ran out the door.

That didn't go well. But now Charles knew, something actually happened, something that had her so scared, she couldn't even talk to him about it. Something as scary as what he remembered. Something, _exactly_ like he remembered. Giddily realizing he might not be going crazy after all, Charles laughed with abandonment. Now that he knew he was not crazy, he sounded crazier than ever. He forced himself to stop and Donna returned soon enough.

"Where's Megan?"

"Went to get some air." He shifted the conversation, before she had time to process that. "I think we should arrange for me to visit the house as soon as possible."

She looked at him gratefully, unaware of the cogs always turning in his brain. "I'll talk to Doctor Cohen. Right away."

This time he instigated their hug. Their kiss, too.

~~~~~

That night as he fell asleep, he didn't force himself to remember. He didn't seek out the problem. The problem found him.

The lake, calm like always. Nothing special about it. The sun was almost lost, but he stayed by its side, until it faded away completely. Eyes fixed on the water. Sure enough, the event unfolded. Branches, infinite lines, rising from the depths, rushing over to reach him. Only this time, the darkness spoke.

Forget, Charles. Forget it all. Wouldn't you want to forget it all?

_No_ , he ached to reply, _don't take them. Don't take the memories away from me. I'll lose myself; there'll be nothing to hold on to. Nothing real._ He tried to utter the words, but this was a dream, there was not the slightest chance he could ever control what happened. He could only watch as they entered his head; all the lines, however massive, fitting perfectly inside, finding their place. Taking over.

He woke up drenched in sweat, in the middle of the night, alone in his room. What he feared most was finally here. The first sign. Voices speaking to him. This time his laughter was forced; it didn't spawn from any real exhilaration. This time it didn't just sound crazy.

It was.

~~~~~

All Charles had to do was remain calm. Regain control, stop the madness from taking over. The next morning he made sure the hallucinations hadn't followed him outside dreamworld. He remained silent all morning, ready to ambush and crush them, should they appear. They never did.

_There might be hope yet_. If he could get to the house with his family, with his daughter, he'd find out what happened that day by the lake. What that thing stalking him really was.

Doctor Cohen lifted his head from his papers to greet him. It was not a warm welcome. "I saw you yesterday. You were talking to Bryan. Did he ever tell you why he was in here?"

Charles eyed the doctor curiously. "I bumped into him by chance. And no, he never told me why he was in here. You did. Just a couple of days ago, remember?"

The doctor continued with his speech anyway. "Right. You should focus on your family, this institution is not your home, Charles."

"I understand that. That's why we're here, isn't it? Did Donna tell you our plans?"

Cohen's face smiled for the first time that morning. "Yes! I think it's a great idea. If you're feeling up to it, it should be arranged as soon as possible!"

"We'd like that. Tomorrow?"

A nod. "Start packing your suitcases. Wait here, I have something for you." He walked out the door, leaving Charles alone.

There was no plan, how could there have been? Still, Charles knew exactly what to do once that door shut him in. As if he had done this countless times before, he got up and headed straight to the cabinet. His file was easily retrieved. He read fast, focusing on the final, bold letters from each set of papers.

Rational/ Remembering/ Hopeful/ A chance?

He spotted a familiar name as he put the file back. Bryan. He shuffled through the notes.

Denial/ Hallucinations/ Withdrawn/ Forgetting.

Something drew him to look up the more detailed description of Bryan's hallucinations. What he found almost made him drop everything. Charles opened more and more files, as fast as his hands could run through them. Discovering the same pattern, again and again. Black tentacles, ropes, branches, whatever. The patients, they all had the same memories, they knew, they had seen it too. Coming through kitchen faucets and bathtubs, mirrors and television sets. An otherworldly being, calling them to forget. But they didn't remember any of it, like he did. Not anymore. The moment he heard footsteps, he was back at his seat, heart racing, face calmer than ever.

Doctor Cohen beamed as he handed Charles a disposable camera. "Here you are. Go ahead, make new memories, record them. Start over. You're leaving early morning tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe you'll never come back!" He offered his hand. "I hope you'll find all you need, there. I really do."

Charles was pretty sure they were not referring to the same thing, but he held the doctor's hand tightly anyway. "Me too."

~~~~~

Mind racing, he spent the rest of the day in his room. They all felt it, they all heard it — the thing of black reaching out. This was not mass hysteria or anything like it. He had never met the people of this institution before. It had to be real. It spoke, trying to shut up their fear and doubt. _Forget_ , it always said, the word appearing in the documents again and again. Some of the patients must have been really afraid because it wouldn't shut up. That vision of talking madness, finally engulfing them all, beating them down. They had all done exactly as it commanded — they forgot. All except him.

He was the only one still trying to remember and, by God, he would try to keep it that way.

~~~~~

The lake wasn't calm. Frogs and insects and fish were troubling the water incessantly — a perfectly normal, lively ecosystem. Charles stood for a good while looking at it, taking photographs, trying to force something to happen. Nothing did. Donna joined him.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

"More than I would have imagined."

She smiled and placed her hands on his chest. "Stay here, relax all you want. But ... won't you go talk to Megan, too? She's at the cornfield. She's hasn't been herself lately. Tell her everything's gonna be alright. She needs to hear it."

He had no problem obliging. "Of course." That was the plan anyway. Talk to Megan, elicit the truth from her. The time had come.

Donna headed back to the house and he left the lakeside, walked slowly toward the sun standing in the middle of his field. She was staring at the horizon, a lean figure painting the prettiest picture.

"Megan."

She turned to face him, angrily. "What do you want?"

Charles spoke as softly as possible. "Just to talk."

"There's nothing to say, not anymore."

"We could talk about what we shared. Here, you and me. There are things in my head, that I cannot understand. My memories—"

She immediately cut him off, eyes on the verge of tears. "Memory loss, my ass. I actually took pity on you when they locked you up. And then you started asking about the lake and the field and us, walking together. And I knew what this was really all about. A lie, to get you off the hook. How can you stand there like nothing has happened? Like you never pushed me down in this field, like you never touched me? I swear, if you ever leave that asylum, if you try to come back, I'll tell. I'll tell them all!"

She stormed away, leaving him behind. Leaving him to waddle his way through the mess again. To process the impossible. His rabbit hole was deep.

Forget.

In the middle of that field, Charles stood still, mind in shambles. He only ever wanted to remember. _Take the Standards._ He looked up at the sky, to where the sun kept beaming. Megan. Beautiful Megan. That bitch, the thoughts she tried to plant into his mind. Those horrible thoughts were all her fault. And his wife, that timid flower, that unreal niceness. Who knew what she really thought of him, what plans she had. To get rid of him, kill him. Why else would she want him out of the asylum, after everything that happened? _Take the Standards; apply them to what might be._ There was no way she didn't know.

Forget.

He had holes in his head. Hungry pits of nothingness sucking on the tit of the universe, newborn kittens gobbling down details and facts and analyses. Never satiated, they bided their time until it finally came. They existed for it to take hold of. Invisible tentacles sprouting, taking over his brain, planting the seed. _You have to have the right holds._ The right holds, for the idea to form in you.

Forget.

He had holes in his head and finally they stopped screaming. Finally, happy again, no worries, no questions. Silence. And the pull of God. The liberator, liberating him. _What else could it be?_

Calmly, Charles followed the path back to the house.

~~~~~

"Didn't you hear me the first time?" Megan was sitting by the bushes at the other side of the lake. Face smeared from tears, she turned up to look at him as he approached, knife behind his back.

He slit his wife's throat, too.

And then, real silence. Nothing. He sat alone by the lake, the blood of two dead bodies on his hands, the sun lying on his lap and nature didn't care. Why would it? He got up, but before he left, to go God knows where, he had to look at that lake again, for one last time. There was nothing more to expect, no more revelations, not really. He already had his absolution. Still, when he turned, the water was locked in stillness. That blackness again rippled through, started going at him. Would it say anything this time? Would it speak?

Back again, Charles? So soon? What a pity.

Just like that, he was back at the doctor's office.

~~~~~

"Ah, our star patient. Welcome back, Charles."

He looked around, dazed, knife still in hand. This couldn't be happening. "What's going on?"

Doctor Cohen smiled at him. "It's really amazing what the brain can do, Charles. What it can create. But yours went far and beyond that. It really did."

The doctor got up, pointed to the patients outside his window. "See them all down there?"

They were walking around like always, just like he remembered them. Charles didn't even try to mask his confusion.

"Was it all a dream?"

Doctor Cohen kept his eyes outside the window. "The ones that didn't make it... They've been here a long time; most of them succumbed. The holes cracked open completely, driving them insane, their pathologies returning, even worse. Some, like your friend Bryan, they simply chose not to go back, filled the emptiness with books, new stories. You're the only one remaining. The only one who remembers, that can't let go. Not going forward, or regressing." He turned to look at Charles again. "Well, until today. Although none of us could ever imagine how far you'd take it, the twisted ways you'd create to bring everything together. But you were obviously a very clever man. Very well-read. You managed to incorporate what you remembered in your pathology. Finally making it so, that killing your own family was justified." The doctor stared at him, impressed. "It's part of what makes you such an interesting specimen."

The words out of his mouth were but a whisper. "Specimen?"

"Come."

Doctor Cohen closed the door of the office behind them. Calm waters, sparkling under the sun. They were looking straight at his lake.

_This must be a dream._ "Where am I?"

"I'll give you a hint. At least one of us is dead."

Or maybe Charles wasn't dreaming. Maybe...

"Is this hell?"

A laugh. "Of course not. But I can see why you'd think that." Doctor Cohen walked through the place like he'd been there before. "See, I know you are dead, because we found your body. Right there." He pointed to a bush near the water and turned to look at Charles again. "That day at the lake, was your last. But I could very well be dead too. Who knows how long the experiment has been going on? You never check bio-cultures as they grow, do you? You put them to a machine and eventually, the results pop up." Doctor Cohen laughed under the cloudless sky. "Isn't it amazing? We're just bodiless minds, interacting inside an extremely intricate Petri dish. Erasing the past, recreating the future. Trying to find the root of human malice. Together, like we always meant to be. On opposite sides of the fence, but still..." He turned to look at Charles again, a twinkle in his eye. "You used to call it _holistic therapy_. Oh boy, did we have a good laugh at that. Get it, Charlie? Holes, holistic?"

Charles stood, staring at the man talking to him, the sky, the lake. The water. Still trying to scientifically weasel his way out of this predicament. But there was nowhere to go, not anymore. For just one moment, everything was back. _Charlie._ Charlie the biotech engineer, who helped create this thing. The one who would have been immortalized as another doctor, another artificial intelligence guiding the experiment. Charlie, who couldn't have anticipated what would happen, that day by the lake.

"The experiment will continue. Of course it will." The doctor muttered to himself. "Take dead, twisted people, people who have done horrible things. The brains of the irredeemable, plug them in. What does it take to fix their pathology? What do they have to lose to be whole again?"

He started walking away. "Maybe now we'll take the books out as well. You might still remember the plug-in process, but you wouldn't have the tools to keep digging, to keep searching for the truth." He continued walking, deep in thought, already considering the possibilities. "We'll see."

~~~~~

~~~~~

_Kallirroe is a med intern with a severe case of sci-fi and horror addiction. Writing helps. Some of her work appears in such publications as Dark Bits, Sanitarium, Dark Edifice, Bewildering stories, Thick Jam, and Microhorror. She keeps trying to hit her daily writing quota in Athens, Greece, but only sporadically updates her blog. It can be found online at_kallirroe.blogspot.com

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#  One Hour Empire

by Tim West; published February 25, 2014

3:04 AM

She was the first to arrive, but she wouldn't be the last.

Since this phenomenon had begun, she was always my favorite. I wasn't in love with her, just captivated by her presence. I couldn't remember her name, Jeanette or Jacqueline, but she was fairly tall, had brown hair with blonde bangs, some acne scars on her forehead, and a tattoo on her forearm. Maybe more than any other of them, she appeared the most intense — the eyes say a lot. Regardless, she always said hello to me every time she woke up.

 In the three years that she had been part of this, she would ask me how my night was, and, "Does this still freak you out?" I would tell her no, but she knew I was terrible at lying. But if my assistant Tyson was around, he'd run from the room.

Then as she would leave, she'd turn to me and say "Dolores' in Manhattan Beach. They'll know."

She was right too. Once the next one came, they would ask, and I would simply tell them where.

Still, with all of this going on, I never asked that many questions. I had been at this career for well over a decade, and not once did I ever press further than "How did it happen?" If anything, I was sure that if he could get away from Alchemilla, I might get some answers; but Dr. Armitage frowned heavily upon too many questions and follow-ups.

This night was no different. She rolled out from her drawer, sat herself up, and looked around for anyone else. When all she saw was me, she jumped down. Her bare feet were chilled by the icy tiles as walked towards me.

"Hi John," she said. "Did I have shoes on this time?"

"No," I shook my head. "Just whatever you were in when it happened."

"Does this still freak you out?"

"No." I blushed.

"Liar," she touched my arm. She sure didn't feel dead; her skin was warm.

"You got me." I hung my head in defeat.

"So have you been busy tonight?"

"A little bit." I winced. "Apparently there was a double suicide at Union Station. It was not pretty."

"That's horrible," she gasped.

"What can you do?" I shrugged, saddened by tonight's work.

"So are the others up yet?"

"Nope," I said, smiling. "You're the first one."

"Good." She winked. "I can pick where _I_ want to go to tonight."

"Where would that be?"

"Home." She said the word with nostalgia in her voice.

"Do you think they'll object?"

"I don't care," she said. "I just want to see my baby-boy."

~~~~~

3:18 AM

Jordan was the next to show. It was usually at this time he rolled off his slab in his mall security uniform, and if Tyson was around, he'd freak out and head for the office or the closet — whichever was closer. But Tyson wasn't around tonight.

Jordan swung his legs around, and pushed himself off. I nodded to him as he looked on.

"Hello, John," he said.

"Jordan."

"Am I the first one up?"

"I'm afraid not." I shook my head.

"Well, is it Dolores' again?"

"Not this time."

"Well, where am I going?"

"Burbank," I informed him. "I take it you know where she lives?"

"Who? Jacqueline?"

"That's her name." I nodded. "Yes, she wanted to get back home to her baby-boy. She doesn't look like the kind of girl to have kids."

"It's not a kid," Jordan said, walking to the pine door with a frosted glass window displaying the word: Morgue. "I don't know what the hell it is, but I hate going to her place. That thing freaks me out."

"What is it, then? Some weird-looking dog?"

"I don't know for sure." He opened the door. "But whatever it is, she needs to put it away when we're there."

~~~~~

3:32 AM

Of the five of them who come through these hallowed slabs each night, Memphis was the hardest to keep track of. I never knew where he was coming from. In the last few days, he'd roll in wearing board shorts and caked in sand, skin extra crispy, bruises on his chest, red horizontal lines running across his back. He looked terrible. Some mornings he should've stayed dead, or gone, or whatever the hell it was.

Memphis had a promising career, or so the local papers declared. Since he was a California boy, what else would he do but surf? Still, as good as he was, he was having a devil of a time making it pro. There were sponsorships to be won, and he just couldn't do it.

It was around that time that Memphis began to do errands for some old, bacon-skinned Mexican out in Sultan City. A few times I found mescaline on the boy, leading me to wonder whether it was it for him or for the Mexican? I never did ask. After all, Armitage had instructed not to ask a lot of questions, or conduct follow-ups.

Still, one night when Memphis woke, he mentioned the old man's name: Valentino. It was a strange name. It was a name that made you want to Google it. It was a name that read a Mexican legend in the world of luchador wrestling. What wisdom was the old man trying to pass on to this struggling surfer?

"Hey there, John," I heard Memphis say, his throat like gravel, his body beat up and stiff.

"Memphis, you look like terrible, man."

"Is that your professional opinion?"

"What the hell is going on?" I inquired.

"The old man is working me to death," he groaned. "Say, can I get a glass of water?"

"Sure can." I took a bottle of water from the fridge. "So what is going on?" I asked, offering him a chair after he took the cold bottle. "What is Valentino doing to you?"

"Wants to make me a star." Memphis winced between large gulps of water.

"Like in wrestling?"

"Exactly," he nodded, now recovering as we talked. Must be instant regeneration.

"Did you ask for this?"

"No," he said. "But the more he pushes me, the harder he trains me, the more I seem to want it."

"You could always stop."

"Nah." He stretched — surely even with instant regeneration that slab can't be good for the back. "Pretty soon, the old man's moving me from arm drags to a variation of suplexes. Maybe it's a good thing this is happening to me." He smiled as he walked to the door. "At least I can't die from this."

I waved. "That's unless they drop you from the rafters."

~~~~~

3:40 AM

I was deeply immersed in paperwork when I heard some rustling from the back. Looking up at the clock, I figured it was either one of them, or maybe Tyson coming into work. As I got up from my chair, I wondered if it was Dr. Armitage, but it wasn't likely. He doesn't come in until almost 6:30 every morning.

Tip-toeing to the row of silver drawers, I even questioned if it could be a reporter. Ever since Jordan dropped, they have been nosing around. Bastards.

"Hello?" I said. "Tyson? Is that you? Or is this Sunday?"

"It's me, Sunday," she answered in a muffled voice. "I'm stuck again. Could you give me a hand?"

"Yeah, sure." I went directly to slab 37, infamous for always being jammed, even when there's no one in there.

"You're a doll," she proclaimed.

When I arrived at 37, I could see it was locked up this time. Surely it had to be Tyson's doing. I reminded myself to have a word with him. However, how do you say it without freaking him out? _Oh Tyson, from now on, please_ do not _lock the drawers. How else are they to get out?_

I talked to her as I found the right key for 37. We've been through this before, and we use small talk to avoid the darker aspect of this. It's no wonder we can't get anyone else down here with us. As she chattered on about her bust of a date, I managed to find the correct key, and with a good jerk, the slab with the lovely Sunday Nguyen slid open.

"Thank you, John." She took a deep breath. "I never thought formaldehyde and bleach would smell so nice."

"Nice," is all I could say.

"So am I the first?"

"No." I shook my head, as I helped her out, trying not to wrinkle or damage the dress she had on, with Christian Louboutin heels. "You're the last one this time."

"Fabulous," she groaned. "So where's the meeting tonight?"

"Jacqueline's place." I helped her down, hanging onto her for a moment — just in case.

"Thanks, John. So where does she live?" she said, taking her first steps into her "new life."

"205 East Palm Avenue." I handed her the address. "It's in Burbank."

She folded up the paper, placing it in her purse. "I just hope she's cooking breakfast, because I'm starving."

"You can always call her and ask."

"I will." She nodded. "Well ... thanks for everything John. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll be here."

~~~~~

3:56 AM

I was a little surprised when I heard the sound of someone kicking and screaming in the slabs. But maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. It's more than a little frightening to wake up in there for the first time. I was mostly surprised because it had been so long since this happened.

"Lemme out!" someone screamed from inside the silver lockers. "Somebody open the door!"

"Hang on, I'm coming!" I said.

It didn't seem to help. The kicking and screaming continued until I could get the door unlocked.

"Easy there, buddy," I said as I struggled to hang onto the guy. He was climbing out head first, blinking at the bright fluorescent lights. "Everything's going to be all right."

It didn't matter what I said to him, because after he crashed onto the cold, sterile floor, he laid in the fetal position, sobbing profusely. I allowed him to lay there; this is what usually happens to anyone new to this. By now, I have become a pro at this.

In a matter of seconds, I have already offered him a cot with a blanket and a pillow, and some water to drink. Then I mention that we always keep some scrubs, as well as fresh clothes for when they're done.

I don't know who this guy is. There hasn't been anyone new since Jordan, and that was two years ago. These poor souls have to learn to create a new life. It can happen at any time, and no matter where you are, it will find you and bring you back here. This I don't tell him, though, because when he is finished I will give him the address of a support group that specializes in this.

~~~~~

~~~~~

Born in Windsor, Ontario, Tim is a writer, moralist, surrealist, lunatic, obsessed with roller coasters and professional wrestlers, and an Omegamaniac. This is his first piece published, and expects it to be a gateway to many other wonderful projects and aspirations. He can be found on Twitter: @OneHourEmpire.

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# Article

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#  5 Tips for Better Titles

by Mike Cluff; published February 13, 2014

We don't judge books by covers. At least we aren't supposed to. Yet, I can safely bet that you have stood in the bookstore aisles thinking: "Now, what do I want to read today? How about a 'white people almost kissing' romance? Or maybe a 'pale, undead teen' YA novel? Then again you might want the 'bright symbol on dark background' adventure.

Guilty. All of us.

However, there is no guilt associated when judging a piece of fiction by its title. No guilt. None. Actually, the opposite applies. I think you _should_ feel guilty if you _don't_ judge a fictional work by its title — especially when your own work is in question.

And here is a little secret that really isn't a secret at all: The title is the first bit of information editors read in a submission, and therefore they judge the crap out of a submission by its title. And they definitely don't feel guilty about it. It's not their fault, with the ever-growing slush pile, guilt is mostly beaten out of editors.

Of course a good editor won't stop at the title, but a title will set a precedent, for good or bad. So from an editor, here are some tips on how to create a better title.

  1. Say what the story is about, but keep it short.

A title needs to be relevant to its subject and grab your attention. Relevant, not explicitly explanatory. Nobody wants to read the story before they actually read the story, if that makes any sense.

_How I Ran Away With My Slave Friend and Sailed Down The Mississippi, Meeting All Types of Interesting People, All While Braving Many Degrees of Danger_ would be an applicable title for Mark Twain's classic, but _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ is more effective and efficient as a title.

Fiction authors have to remember that they are writing fiction, not a scientific thesis. So, unless you are writing a story about a scientific thesis, keep your title short.

Authors likewise should be careful about making titles too short. Using one word or a single word proceeded by an article runs the risk of being terribly vague and/or generic — for example "The Sky" or "A Man". Additionally, short titles run the risk of sharing the same title with a completely different piece of literature. Titles aren't copyrighted, but having a unique title will help a piece of fiction stand out.

  2. Give the audience a hint, but don't give the story away.

This advice is especially applicable to mysteries. _The Adventure of the Speckled Band_ is a title that makes a lot more sense after the story is read. Still, the hint is in place. If Arthur Conan Doyle would have named the story _A Snake in the Vents_ , Holmes' reveal would have been mediocre at best.

It is extremely satisfying for readers to connect the dots in any story they are reading. Give your readers a bit of a puzzle in the title, and when they have that 'aha' moment, connecting the title to the story, they will be more pleased with themselves and the story.

Just make sure the title isn't too hard of a puzzle. No need to alienate readers.

  3. Stay true to the story, but don't be dull.

Titles are usually indicative of the tone, genre, and voice of the story. A story written from a third person point of view probably shouldn't have a title like "My Christmas," which is a first person point of view statement.

Orwell's _Animal Farm_ is a metaphorical title that fits well for a metaphorical story about communism. Calling the story _Communist Animals_ would have sold the metaphor and the book short.

Simply put, comedic titles are fitting for comedies, mysterious titles for mysteries, etc. Breaking away from this formula might be an effective way to gain attention, but maybe not the type of attention desired.

  4. Make it original, but not gimmicky or cliché.

Titles need to be catchy. They need to have a bit of pizzazz. Something that stands out. However, this can be taken too far. Way too far.

Using metaphors and abstract ideas in a title to represent elements of a work is an effective way to build intrigue. Steinbeck's _Of Mice and Men_ is much better than, let's say, _The Small Guy and His Big Dumb Friend_. A good metaphorical title will add depth to a story. Just remember Tip 2 and don't make the metaphor too deep.

An aspect of this tip, that blends with Tip 1, is to avoid pompous, complex titles designed to impress readers (which is more a statement of an author's ego than of their work). The title of this article was almost "Titular Conundrums," but that would have been hypocritical. We'll use another classic to make this point. _The Scarlet Letter_ is a simple title that builds interest. Hawthorne could have instead used a title like _Puritanical Alphabetic Punishments And A Put-Out Preacher_ and his career would have been over. Instead, Hawthorne chose a simple obscure title, yet one that carries symbolism (the book of Psalms in the Bible associates the color scarlet with sin), and uses it to set the tone for the whole book — obscurity and sin.

And finally, let's make this clear: rarely are puns and/or plays on existing titles taken seriously. In fact, they usually just annoy editors. If your story is a satire or other form of comedy, then puns and other comedic devices in a title could be true to the story (see Tip 3) and could be appropriate — with a heavy emphasis on 'could'. If you are going to take the chance with a 'clever' or 'cheeky' title, you better be damn sure that you aren't the only one that thinks it is funny. Which leads to Tip 5.

  5. Be confident, but stay flexible.

Don't be cheap with the titling process. Think your title through. But keep in mind that the title might be changed by an editor or a publisher. Don't be offended.

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# Book Reviews

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#  Book Review: Moon Hoax, by Paul Gillebaard

Review by Jon Clapier; published February 6, 2014

MOON HOAX by Paul Gillebaard is a novel that explores the unique idea of China trying to discredit the American moon landings by bringing forth 'proof' that they never really happened. I was skeptical, at first, that Mr. Gillebaard would be able to do so in a way that would be believable. To my pleasant surprise he did, coming up with a fairly plausible plot that incorporated the hints of old urban legends with new Chinese subterfuge. Despite my preconceptions, I began to sink into the story. And then things started going wrong.

 The main character was a little too perfect, his only flaws being his too good looks and his multitudes of associations with beautiful women.

The writing style, or voice, of the book is good for a new author but not what I would expect from a more experienced word-smith. Most of the characters are two-dimensional and clichéd. They don't have the kind of depth that makes them real. They felt like characters in a book, and my favorite stories are the ones where I forget I'm reading fiction.

When action was needed, it moved along well, and the overall subject material was well researched, but I got the distinct impression that the book needed another edit, not just for typos (I found a couple of those), but more so for content.

Towards the end of the book Mr. Gillebaard had me turning pages quickly as he built some excellent suspense but then, he inexplicably gave away far too much information and the thrill that should have accompanied the situation that he had skillfully built fell apart. It was almost as bad as watching the Sixth Sense with an annoying nephew who says, "The Dr. is a ghost!" halfway through the movie. But enough of my reminiscing.

In my opinion Moon Hoax is a decent read, but not as good as it should, or could, have been. Mr. Gillebaard has the ability to make a story move forward and to captivate interest. When he learns to extract all of the potential suspense from the circumstances that he engineers, I'd be willing to bet that people will be waiting in line for that book. And I would be one of them.

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#  Book Review: The Colony: Genesis, by Michaelbrent Collings

Review by Jon Clapier; published February 20, 2014

THE COLONY: GENESIS, by Michaelbrent Collings, is another zombie end-of-the-world-apocalypse. Need I say more? Yes, I do, even at the risk of sounding slightly psychotic by answering my own apparently rhetorical question.

I have spent plenty of time in the slush pile of Fiction Vortex, occasionally finding myself agonizing over some wonderful ideas presented within the hundreds of stories that I have read, but often those excellent ideas were written without the skill to project them in a manner pleasing to the eye and mind. Most of these are rejected outright simply because the authors haven't yet become practiced at their craft. Many others are returned to their authors with editorial suggestions. I also find some very well-written stories that seem to go nowhere or suffer from a basic premise that is flawed. These too can sometimes be salvaged with editing and rewriting but usually they are also rejected.

It has become apparent to me that in most cases a good author can take a bad idea and write a good story, but a bad author will rarely make a good idea into a successful story. (No jokes about Meyer!)

Mr. Collings has taken a general idea that has been done by others and given us his own interpretation of it, and it is good. So, whether you like zombie novels or not, I think you will find The Colony: Genesis is definitely well-written, fast-paced, and it moves forward without bogging down, much more so than most novels. He will have you turning pages quickly, (or clicking the page down button!) The action is intense, gory, and abundant. There were times when I was reading it that I felt real concern for the characters because the threat of peril is so constant and horrific. Much like the old adage of 'out of the frying pan and into the fire,' but here Collings adds for his characters, 'and then into the river of lava.'

The basic zombie premise was presented with a new twist and it lent enough mystery to keep my attention from wandering while I read. In fact, I was drawn into the book well enough to not note the passage of time or how many pages were flying by, which is one of the greatest compliments I can give for any book.

I will point out that, just because I personally liked it, I am not under the opinion that it is perfect. The character development seemed to me to be a little bit cliché — especially for supporting characters — and the situations didn't give me the same chills that I have gotten from some of my favorite Stephen King novels. But I would still recommend it to anyone who enjoys the genre, or even one close to it.

If you are squeamish at the sight of blood, either real or in print, then this may not be the book for you. But, if you want a straightforward horrific adventure with a taste of mystery, then you should definitely enjoy The Colony: Genesis. My only real complaint was: It was too short.

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#  About Fiction Vortex

Fiction Vortex, let's see ...

A fiction vortex is a tornado of stories that pick you up and hurl you through a barn to find enlightenment on the other side. It's a whirlpool of fascinating tales so compelling that they suck you in, drag you down to the bottom of your mind, and drown you with incessant waves of glorious imagery and believable characters.

Nope.

A fiction vortex is an online speculative fiction magazine focused on publishing great science fiction and fantasy, and is run by incredibly attractive and intelligent people with great taste in literature and formidable writing prowess.

Not that either. But we're getting closer.

Founded in the 277th year of the Takolatchni Dynasty, Fiction Vortex set out to encourage people to write and publish great speculative fiction. It sprang fully formed from the elbow of TWOS, retaining none of TWOS's form but most of its spirit. And the patron god of writers, the insecure, the depressed, and the mentally ill regarded Fiction Vortex in his magic mirror of self-loathing and declared it good, insofar as something that gives writer's undue hope can be declared good. Thereafter, he charged the Rear Admiral of the Galactic 5th Fleet to defend Fiction Vortex down to the last robot warrior.

Now we're talking.

Take your pick. We don't care how you characterize us or the site.

Fiction Vortex focuses on publishing speculative fiction. That means science fiction and fantasy (with a light smattering of horror and a few other subgenres), be it light, heavy, deep, flighty, spaceflighty, cerebral, visceral, epic, or mundane. But mundane in a my-local-gas-station-has-elf-mechanics-but-it's-not-really-a-big-deal-around-here kind of way. Got it?

Basically, we want imaginative stories that are well written, but not full of supercilious floridity.

There's a long-standing belief that science fiction and fantasy stories aren't as good as purely literary fare. We want you to prove that mindset wrong (not just wrong, but a steaming pile of griffin dung wrong) with every story we publish. It's almost like we're saying, "I do not bite my thumb at you, literary snobs, but I do bite my thumb," but in a completely polite and non-confrontational way.

We've got more great stories online, with a new story twice a week. Visit our website FictionVortex.com, follow us on Twitter: @FictionVortex, and like us on Facebook: FictionVortex.

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