 
Red Herring

By Damon L. Wakes

Copyright 2013 Damon L. Wakes

Smashwords Edition

<http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/damonwakes>

http://damonwakes.wordpress.com

Cover Image by Jayne Shives: <http://bean-stock.deviantart.com/art/Fishie-3-80281971>

Cover design by JD McDonnell: http://www.jdmcdonnell.com

Also in the _Flash Fiction Month_ Series:

OCR is Not the Only Font

Bionic Punchline

Osiris Likes This

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Email a copy to that unicorn you met once. Print one off and post it to Cthulu. Print six, staple them to a log and push it out to sea. This book is yours to share and enjoy however you want: just don't sell it or try to pass it off as your own. Thank you for your support.

Contents

Introduction

1: Do Your Thing

2: Whisper Down the Lane

3: Two Pardner System

4: (TM)

5: The Invocation

6: Come With Me if You Want to Live

7: Bring Your Own Blood

8: Tales of the Unexpected

9: The Revolution Kids

10: The Race Card

11: It's a Wonderful Spoof

12: Loose Canon

13: The Marvellous Misadventures of Diabolical Doctor Baby

14: Heads or Tails

15: The Naming Day

16: The Ritual

17: A Story about a Story that is Not This Story

18: Quench your Thirst with Quaff!

19: The Room on the Bottom Floor

20: One Thousand Threads

21: Custard

22: Where Did All the Genies Go?

23: The Second City

24: Episode III: Roommate of the Sith

25: Red Herring

26: Her Sunken Dream

27: The Return

28: The Kingdom of the Wolf

29: The Pen Laughs at Structure

30: Aerosol

31: Musical Isotopes

Statistical Analysis

The End

Connect with Damon L. Wakes

Introduction

"Oh no."

"What? What is it? Did the narrative causality matrix rupture again?"

"No, it's not that."

"Then what is it? How did we get here? WHY CAN I ONLY PHRASE THINGS AS QUESTIONS?"

"We appear to have been dragged out of our canonical literary universe and into the front matter of the book that contains it."

"But why?"

"I can only assume that we're expected to provide new readers with some context for the following thirty-one stories. Since last year's anthology, OCR is Not the Only Font, already included a straightforward explanation of the basics—that the stories were all written as part of Flash Fiction Month, a month-long event in which participants write one 55-1,000 word story every single day—it seems likely that we're supposed to provide that same information in some novel and amusing way, so as not to bore those who already know all about it."

"Seems kind of lazy, doesn't it?"

"Yes, and not terribly effective. I mean, it's hardly the kind of thing that'll come up in casual conversation. We're hardly just going to blurt out that some days of the event challenged participants to write stories meeting various criteria, and that details of those challenges are included here in this book. Also, that some of those challenges were indeed "nasty-ass challenges," demanding stories written to particularly strict criteria, and that those are marked with an asterisk."

"Oh, like that David Bowie one?"

"Yeah, like that."

"And this whole thing is the reason everything I say comes out as a question?"

"To be honest, I reckon that's just a cheap gag. Also, the more questions you ask, the more likely it is that one of them will prompt me to provide the reader with further information about this book."

"Like the fact that it includes a statistical analysis of this year's stories compared with last year's?"

"Precisely. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realise that your inexplicable need to ask me things is really just a pathetic excuse for me to shoehorn basic information into this gratuitously unconventional introduction. Information such as the existence of said statistical analysis, which can be found by following THIS HYPERLINK."

"Can you believe this guy actually put together graphs for this stuff?"

"Haha, yeah. What a tool."

"Do you think we're done here?"

"Probably. I think I've crammed in all the information that was supposed to be here. Seems we're just doing wrap-up banter at this point."

"So can we go home now?"

"Let's. Alright, folks; we'll meet you again in story twenty-nine, right near the end of the book."

"Kind of makes us an odd choice of characters to do the introduction, don't you think?"

"Yeah. Probably best just not to draw attention to it."

BLIP!

1

Do Your Thing

**Challenge #1: Write a story that opens in media res. Also, in the rest of the piece, tell the reader what happened at the start.**

"Quickly!" Sidric Lightfoot made a dash for the entrance of the treasure chamber. "This way!"

"It's no good," cried Argola Quicksnatch. "Already the sounds of the Lich-King's ghouls reach my elven ears. They are loudest from that direction. We must run this way, instead!"

"No!" Khagg the Plunderer barred her way with one vast arm. "From that passage, I detect the stench of a Caversberg tunnel troll! All orcs are taught to recognise it from childhood, so dangerous are these beasts. But I spy a third way. Through this narrow crevice we must go!"

"No." Kibbert 'Many Pockets' Lockbane shook his head. "My dwarvish eyes see what yours cannot. That crevice is crawling with undead pygmy slaughterbaboons. But I know another way we can escape. You see that ornamental pool? It is fed by a small stream—part of the Caversberg river system, I am sure. I could lead us through those caves, and as you know the Lich-King's minions can cross no running water."

But "Wait!" shouted Sidric as they neared the pool's edge. "Those are no ordinary fish lurking in the water: those are leather-nosed gravesharks! We'd all be eaten alive before we could get halfway across."

A chilling laugh— _literally_ chilling—filled the chamber. The whole party turned to find the Lich-King himself standing behind them. Behind the Lich-King stood his retinue of ghouls. Behind the ghouls stood the Caversberg tunnel troll, staring dumbly over the crowd, while the slaughterbaboons hunched down in front, greedily eyeing the adventurers. There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of a lone graveshark jumping in the pool.

"Any last words?" A curl of smoke unfurled from the Lich-King's unholy mouth.

"Actually..." Sidric Lightfoot stepped forward, only the slightest tremor in his voice. "I'd like to introduce my friend, Horatio Hexwright: Hero of Angath's Fjord, Saviour of Barrowmede, Wielder of the Wand of Shalmanar." He beckoned the wizard forward. "Horatio, do your thing."

***

"Right." Kibbert turned to Sidric as they reached their usual booth in the tavern. "I think this round's on you."

"I think the next _several_ rounds are on you," added Argola. Khagg the Plunderer grunted in assent.

"Whaaat?" Sidric looked stung. "Come on. We got out of there alright!"

"Like taking coin from a halfling, you said!" Khagg slammed a massive hand against the table, causing the room to go quiet for a moment. "Well, halflings don't normally have armies of undead pygmy slaughterbaboons, do they?"

Sidric shrugged. "You have to weigh the risks against what you stand to gain! You seemed pretty keen on the idea when I told you how much the Lich-King's sceptre would go for."

"Yes," said Argola. "You were very clear about that. What you neglected to mention was quite how much of that money would go to paying off your gambling debts."

"Though how anyone can lose that much at noughts and crosses, I'll never know." Kibbert glared.

"Hey. We all got an equal share of what was left."

"Yeah?" Khagg stood. "Well you'd better use yours to get us some drinks!"

Sidric pushed the coins around in his palm. "I think it'll have to be halfs, I'm afraid." He walked over to the bar and, after a brief argument with the barkeep, came back again. "And someone else is going to have to chip in."

Kibbert sighed and went back with him. An awkward silence hung over the table for a minute as they paid for the drinks.

It was Khagg who broke it. "You have to admit, though, how we got out of there was pretty impressive."

"Yes," agreed Argola, looking to the wizard sitting quietly in the corner. "Though when Sidric asked you to 'do your thing,' I think he meant magic. Not naked breakdancing."

"Hey!" Horatio Hexwright shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?"

2

Whisper Down the Lane

_Sarah._

_Since Joe quit, we need someone to deal with the budget spreadsheets. An actual accountant would be great. Can you get the HR people on it?_

_By the way, saw that video with the dog and the exercise ball. ROFL!_

_***_

_Dave,_

_We need a new accountant for the R &D budget. Anyone will do, as long as they know how to use Excel. I tried putting this straight through to Human Resources, but they wanted to get it in writing from a manager._

_Thanks,_

_Sarah Porter._

_***_

_The Research and Development Department must requisition a new Accountant to leverage Excel Spreadsheet Software for the Quarterly Budget. Must be a Team Player who is able to Prioritise effectively. Please leverage all available Channels to source a broad Spectrum of Candidates._

_Regards,_

_David Smith, M.B.A._

_***_

_John,_

_The Research and Development Department needs a new accountant. Here are the key responsibilities of the role:_

_• Recording funding and expenditure in spreadsheet form, and ensuring the accuracy of company financial data._

_• Maintaining openness to new tasks and projects, and engaging proactively with demand for ongoing accounting services._

_• To apply a good working understanding of Research and Development processes, practices and policies and the underlying systems._

_• To advise beneficiaries and stakeholders on appropriate methods of cost minimization and resource management._

_The candidate must:_

_• Possess a BA in Accounting and Finance and 3-5 years relevant work experience in a consumer-focused work environment._

_• Have the capacity to speak to individuals and explain processes clearly and concisely._

_• Be a proactive team player who is also able to work independently and prioritise tasks._

_• Operate processes and procedures within relevant policies, escalating issues that cannot be resolved within standard daily operations._

_• Maintain receptiveness to new ideas and approaches._

_• Maintain flexibility to work occasional overtime, esp. weekends._

_Write up the application form and upload the job description to careerjobsnow.com ASAP. I want this done by Friday._

_***_

_David Smith,_

_Please find attached the provisional application form and careerjobsnow description for the Research and Development Accountant position. As you were the manager who notified us of the opening, please feel free to read through and make any changes you deem necessary._

_Yours respectfully,_

_John Carr._

_***_

_Please evidence your aptitude to proactively leverage company financial data in a consumer-focused environment for the benefit of beneficiaries within standard daily operations, escalating resource management tasks not within the administration boundaries of your ongoing accounting paradigm._

You stare at that passage for a few minutes, sitting quietly as you are hit by the first stage of job application frustration: denial. These words have to mean something. Nobody is this stupid. The job ad said something about spreadsheets. There's a "financial" in here, and you think some kind of budget was mentioned five or six pages ago. You spend a few more minutes Googling the company's name, trying to work out what they do, before skipping on to the next section of the application form.

_With reference to previous stakeholder interaction in a corporate environment, furnish expenditure-related activities, activities requiring initiative and judgement guidance within and beyond non-routine work situations. Good communication skills essential._

With the second section of the form comes the second stage of frustration: anger. Quietly seething, you skip ahead yet again.

_Insofar as productivity-oriented standards of..._

You move on to the third stage of frustration: balling up all your socks, and throwing away any that have holes in. Somehow this takes you three days.

_Insofar as productivity-oriented standards of I.T proficiency administrate antidisestablishmentarian work streams and professional services, evidence the post holder's proactive partnership working and interpersonal skills, with particular focus on proactivity and directed leveregement in a product requisition S4 hypersphere. Possession of a Boat Operator's Licence Card is desirable but not essential._

After briefly returning to the first section of the form, you give up in favour of progressing through the fourth stage of application frustration: depression. You eat everything in the fridge. Even the little pot of baking soda. Five romcoms later, you come back to your job application.

_With regard to your proactive approach to work routines, leverage previous employment history to display post holder commitment to your adaptability in working with different teams/individuals..._

"Screw it," you think. If all those infinite monkeys can write Shakespeare, you can cobble together something for this. You have reached the final stage of frustration: acceptance. Going back to the first section of the form, you type in your response:

"I am a proactive team player with a great deal of experience leveraging financial data in a consumer-focused environment..."

3

Two Pardner System

**Challenge #2: Write a western! It must include the old cliche "head them off at the pass" (or a very similar phrase).**

"Howdy!" L'il Red extended a hand. "Welcome to Tombwood!"

"Ah—hello!" The Wolf smiled. He certainly had very big teeth. "Nice place, this."

"Yes." L'il Red found she had already run out of things to say. "Were you looking for anything in particular?"

"Well," he said. "I was looking to move in here. I suppose in a little place like this I should speak to the mayor first."

"That's my grandmother. I'm afraid she just left town today, and she won't be back for a couple of months. If you turn around now, you might be able to head her off at the pass."

"Oh, no. I believe I encountered her on the road some time ago. Just as I was settling down to luncheon. My, that's quite inconvenient."

"It's alright Mister," said Red. "She left me in charge."

"You? You're just a little girl!"

"I've managed on my own before!"

"No no no." The Wolf began to pace. "This just won't do. It's undemocratic!" He stopped. "There must be...an election!"

Red snorted. "Ain't nobody but Grandma runs for mayor."

"Then perhaps I should try." The Wolf fanned himself with his hat. "And if nobody else is running, I suppose I win by default!"

Something about the Wolf's manner struck a nerve with L'il Red. "Now hold on a minute. I don't think it's right for this place to be run by an out-of-towner. I'll be running too!"

"Wonderful." The Wolf didn't seem pleased, somehow. "But if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go and huff, and puff, and make some very appealing campaign promises! Good day, little girl!" And so he trotted off to speak to all the townspeople, pausing only to stare wistfully over the fence at Bo Peep's sheep.

"He's simply charming!" drawled Sleeping Beauty, dozily.

"Yes," agreed Rumplestiltskein. "He is a snappy dresser."

"And so very intelligent!" An Ugly Sister put in. "Did you know: if you only eat half a cake, it's half the calories! You can eat twice as much!"

"Hmph!" grunted one of the Three Blind Mice. "I heard him say to Puss in Boots that he wants to take the bells off all the cats." And he stormed quietly out the door of the saloon.

Red didn't see the Wolf again until the next day. "Hello, Wolf," she said.

"Ah, hello!" The Wolf was looking plumper than before.

"Didja sort out that thing with the mice?"

"Oh, yes, of course. The mice are gone now."

"What?"

"I suggested that they should start training guide dogs. Well, they jumped at the idea. But Tombwood's quite remote. I think they'll be conducting their business from a more...central location." He patted his belly.

The Three Billy Goats disappeared later that day—to sell troll-proof barbwire way out West.

The day after that, the Wolf rode around atop a stagecoach. "Big ears: to hear your concerns! Big eyes: to see opportunity! Big teeth: to eat y...I mean, fight injustice!" He was looking distinctly fat now, and—after a late-night discussion in the Wolf's office—the Three Little Pigs had also left to pursue some new enterprise.

"You have to admit," yawned Sleeping Beauty, "he is good at letting people see their full potential. I think he'll make a fine mayor."

L'il Red was sad to see so many of her friends leave, so she didn't do much in the way of campaigning herself. It wouldn't have made sense anyway, she thought: everyone in town already knew her.

Bo Peep was the next to go. "She's decided to take all her sheep..." the Wolf paused to belch quietly, "to a big-city sheep-shearing business. Naturally..." another belch "she couldn't have managed them all on her own."

The Wolf was positively rotund now. But then, Red had known all along that his half-cake tip was no good. The audience for the electoral speeches was smaller than expected.

"A vote for me..." the Wolf wiped his forehead "is a vote for...mmph...progress." Clear, concise, and delivered with dramatic pauses. All five spectators clapped.

"L'il Red?" Sheriff Cutter turned to her.

"Well," said Red, "I ain't no big city politician. I don't know a lot of fancy words. But I do know that this town should be run by someone who knows it." She stood, strode over to the corpulent Wolf, and prodded him with a finger. "And that's. Not. You!"

Unfortunately for the Wolf, Red's sudden assault made him flinch, and his chair gave way with a crunch. Still more unfortunately, the town stage had been built at the top of a steep valley, and the Wolf's roundness made him prone to rolling. But not all was bad: there were lots of cacti to slow his descent.

Everyone watched as the Wolf dragged himself back up the slope.

"Well," said Rumplestiltskein, "he has taken it rather well."

But the Wolf had not. Finally scrambling back up on stage, he whipped a six-shooter out of his breast pocket and levelled it at Red.

"Why I oughtta..." the Wolf began. But he stopped. "Ugh..." he mumbled. "Oogh...rolling..." Suddenly, he vomited several sheep ten feet off the stage, causing one of the Ugly Sisters to drop her cake in surprise. "Gruuuuuugh..." A couple of dozen sheep this time, followed by Bo Peep, then the Pigs, Billy Goats and Blind Mice. With some difficulty, he heaved out a Bear. Suddenly, almost the whole town was there in front of the stage, all looking quite bewildered and most very slimy.

"Bluuuuurgh!" And that was it—the whole town—because Grandma had joined them.

"So you wanted to see the mayor, did you?" she screeched, rushing to whack the Wolf with her parasol.

But though still very queasy, the Wolf had one last trick up his somewhat-soiled sleeve. He hopped down off the back of the stage, cunningly trusting in the very spiky cacti to stave off pursuit.

Grandma hurried back to L'il Red, grabbing her by the shoulders. "What have I told you about wolves!?"

4

(TM)

"Do you think this is funny?" Big Harry leaned forward in his chair, pressing a sausage-like finger against the table. "Is this some kind of a joke to you?"

"No, no!" Gus tried to lift his hands in a "No way!" gesture, but it was kind of hard with them duct-taped to the chair. "It's not like that!"

"Then what can I do but take it as an insult?" Leaning back again, he gestured to Elbows McCain to join them at the table.

McCain slipped a hand into his suit pocket. When it came out again, it was wearing brass knuckles.

"Okay!" Gus said, hastily, still not sure what he'd done. "Maybe...maybe I did think it'd be funny."

"Ah. Well, I like to think I got a sense of humour, and I'm sure Elbows here don't want to waste his time with no funny guys."

McCain nodded, slinking back into the shadows. Gus breathed a sigh of relief.

"Funny guys is more Vince's for-tay. Vince!" He turned around in his chair and shouted to the man at the back of the room. "I hope you's got your steel toe caps on today!"

Vince began to clomp towards them, his lumpy face obscured by a cloud of cigar smoke.

"Aaaaah!" Gus frantically hopped his whole chair back a few inches. "Wait, wait, wait! It wasn't, like, a joke...as such. I just thought...maybe you...that I...you..."

"Are you screwing with me?" He whipped a knife out of his pocket, the blade shooting from the handle with a crisp "snak!" He pointed it at Gus across the table. "Because when people start screwing with me, I deal with them personal, like."

"Aaaaaaaah..." Gus could feel his forehead prickling with sweat. "Aaah...ummm..." he couldn't think straight. He just said the first thing that popped into his head. "I'm sorry. What were we talking about again?"

"We was talking..." Big Harry heaved a suitcase up onto the table, letting it fall with a crash, "about this!"

Gus didn't like to say anything just then. Big Harry was angry. _Real_ angry. Vein throbbing in forehead angry.

"One of my associates passed you a note. A handwritten note. Handwritten by _me_. This note instructed you to fill the suitcase provided—by _me_ —with four kilos of cocaine and leave it behind the nightclub bins at 2am. These instructions—written by _me_ —were very simple, and very specific. And what do you do? You give me this!" He opened the suitcase. "Two bottles of nasty-looking brown water!"

Again, Gus didn't like to respond. His only hope now was that Big Harry's epic forehead vein would develop into some kind of lethal aneurism.

"Does that look like cocaine to you!?"

Finally, an answer formed itself in Gus's mind. "You uh...you asked for Coke."

"Of course I asked for coke!" Spittle flecked the bottles. "When Big Harry asks for coke, he gets coke! Do I make myself clear?"

"No," Gus insisted. "You asked for 'Coke.' With a capital 'C.' I've still got the note."

Vince stepped over.

"It's, uhhh, that pocket." Gus nodded to his left, trying not to breathe as cigar-breath Vince stooped to retrieve the note.

"He's right, Boss." Vince smoothed the paper out on the table. "'Coke' with a capital 'C.' That's a registered trademark of the Coca-Cola Company."

Big Harry calmed down, but only a little. "Yeah? Well since when does Coke come in kilograms? Huh? Answer me that."

"Well...one litre weighs a kilogram, right?" answered Gus. "I gave you two two-litre bottles. That's four kilograms."

"That's true, Boss." Elbows McCain put in. "I mean, technically it's only true of distilled water at room temperature, but for our purposes it's close enough."

Everyone stared at him.

"What?" He stared back. "I knows my science."

"Alright." Big Harry pushed the suitcase to one side, appraising its contents. "Let me get this straight. I, a crime lord, passed you a note asking for Coke, and you just immediately assumed I was talking about a soft drink?"

"Yes."

"Even though I asked for it in kilograms?"

"Yes."

"And not once did you think I might have actually wanted cocaine?"

"I...uhhh..." Gus felt like he had about four kilograms of sweat clinging to his forehead.

Big Harry laughed. "That's hilarious!" Reaching out with his switchblade, he cut the duct tape holding Gus to the chair and peeled it away, leaving quite a bit of arm hair still clinging to it. "Didn't I tell you I had a sense of humour?"

Gus stood, nervously. "I...uhh...it is pretty funny."

Big Harry spread his big arms wide. "I guess I just been in the business so long, I forgot it meant anything else!" He unscrewed a bottle and lifted it. "To your continuing good health."

"Righto." On shaky legs, Gus made his way to the door. He was just reaching for the handle when Big Harry spoke again.

"Wait a minute..."

Gus turned, and their eyes met.

"...this is Pepsi."

5

The Invocation

***Challenge #3: Write a story entirely in Pilish. That means the number of letters in each word has to correspond to the digits of Pi. In addition, you must use at least five examples of onomatopoeia. Also, your story must feature pie.**

Say I: Muse — a glory aesthetic in design — greet the words slinking viciously, highest sublunary foe to try. Vanquish them. Blanch at nought this bad day brazenly can do: clatter carefully ahead. O, in eloquent creation find a framework unfolds — a speech unveiling pie! Kersplotk! Banfsquik! Yae, kaboomo-crack, k? O words existing be! O cacophany crackle, boom! Splitting numb-loud words, outraging to ear. O Vogonic nonsense, a rhyme's fear! O number of geometry rotund, so! O terrible euclidean, monstrous cruncher figure of circlets! O now done, blissful so! Nasty-ass dare.

6

Come With Me if You Want to Live

"Are you Sally Connal?"

"Do I know you?"

The musclebound gentleman stared through his sunglasses. "That is improbable."

"Because you look kind of familiar. Aren't you the Governor of somewhere?"

"This is not a productive area of discussion. Are you Sally Connal?"

"Well, yes..."

To Sally's surprise, the man slowly drew a large handgun from his coat pocket. To her even greater surprise, a motorcycle crashed through the café window next to her, knocking him through a similar window on the opposite side of the building. The rider of the motorcycle did a tight lap of the room, brought the vehicle to a dramatic halt and stretched out an arm.

"Come with me if you want to live!"

Sally glanced over at the first guy who had spoken to her. He was already standing, the glass under his feet crunching dramatically, as it would under the feet of an implacable bad guy in an action movie.

Sally set down her teacup. "Yeah, okay then."

As the two of them roared away on the motorbike, the other guy ran along behind, almost quickly enough to keep up. "Who is that guy?" asked Sally.

"That's not a guy," replied the bike rider, screeching suddenly around a corner. "It's a cybernetic organism: human flesh over a robotic endoskeleton. It's from..." he left a somewhat hammy pause, "the future! In the future, machines are trying to terminate all humans. That particular model is specifically designed to terminate humans. Terminating humans is all these things do. We call them...'murderbots.'"

"How positively awful." Sally didn't like to engage in too much conversation. The motorbike was going really fast.

Eventually—long after Sally was sure the murderbot had lost track of them—they stopped under a bridge. "My name's Reece Kyle," said the guy with the motorbike.

"Well..." she extended a hand. "Thanks very much for getting me away from that nasty robot."

"Oh no," said Reece. "We're not free of it yet. That thing doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear, and it absolutely will not stop...ever." There was that hammy pause again. "But don't worry. I'll protect you."

Suddenly, Sally thought of something. "Why are you doing all this for me?"

"I come from the future too," explained Reece. "It's a terrible, irradiated wasteland swarming with murderbots, where human skulls litter the ground and flying robots control the sky. But we're not without hope. One man has united the survivors. Under his leadership, we've managed to take back some of what was once ours. And soon, because of him, we'll take it all. That's why the murderbot was sent here to kill you. You see, in a few months...you invent a surprisingly durable snack food. In the future, that's all that's left to eat."

Sally put a hand to her forehead. "This is all so much to take in. ...but wait! In the future, you must have some sort of anti-robot laser gun. I'm assuming you brought one back?"

Reece shook his head. "Time travel doesn't work that way. Only organic material can pass through the distortion field."

"But the murderbot got through okay. You said it was...what was it? Human skin over a robot skeleton?"

"Well, yeah..."

"So why couldn't you, say, wrap a laser gun in bacon and bring it back that way?"

"Because...oh no."

The murderbot had picked that moment to turn up again.

"Run!" shouted Reece. "I'll hold it off for as long as I can!"

Sally ran, but quickly (and seemingly inevitably) found herself in a narrow corridor, the murderbot striding close behind her. Stealing a glance, Sally saw that it was carrying a long cardboard box, which it opened to reveal a shotgun. Red roses tumbled out of the box and onto the floor, and the murderbot stepped on them without remorse or pity.

But as Sally looked forward once again—trying to run as fast as possible—she saw a second murderbot, identical to the first. It spoke: "Get down."

Sally threw herself to the floor. There was a "pew" noise, followed by a blinding beam of light, which immediately melted the bad guy murderbot's face.

"Sally Connal," said the remaining murderbot. "I am a robot from the future. I have been programmed to protect you."

"But why?" Sally placed a hand to her forehead again. "This is all so much to take in!"

In its characteristic monotone, the murderbot explained: "Sally Connal. Two minutes ago you devised a way of carrying awesome sci-fi laser guns through time." Hefting something that looked like an elastic band ball made of meat, it tore away a few strips of bacon, revealing a really rad-looking sci-fi laser gun, its muzzle still streaming coolant vapour. "Come with me if you want to live."

7

Bring Your Own Blood

"Blergh!" said Ben. "I am Count Dragula! I vant to suck your blahd!" He did a little dance, showing off his costume.

Martin laughed. "Dude...that's awesome. That's...that's just awesome." As costumes went, it wasn't terribly ambitious, but what it lacked in effort, it more than made up for in sheer hilarity.

"I'm the transvestite from Transylvania, man!" He fished around in his purse for a moment before bringing out a bottle of vodka—though only a small one. "Oh. And I brought booze."

"Aaah, thanks, man!" Martin tried to forget that he'd brought an entire keg of beer to Ben's birthday thing back in June. "Awesome."

"So how many people have you got coming to this thing, anyway?"

"Aaah, loads! I put it out on Facebook as one of those 'invite your friends' things—open to everyone. Could be a crazy night! You never know who might turn up."

"Maybe even a vampire! Blergh! Hahaha." Ben spread his cape out, doing much the same shuffling little dance as before. Martin wondered if he'd sewn the sequins onto the dress himself.

The party was actually not as popular as Martin had hoped. "Invite everybody" parties were, he supposed, most likely to take off when people had nowhere better to be. In that respect, Halloween probably hadn't been the best time to try one. Despite the costumes, he recognised everybody. There was James, wrapped in toilet paper as a mummy; Lauren, also wrapped in toilet paper (it was clearly a popular last-minute option); Richard, painted blue with a Smurf hat; and Becky, the obligatory sexy geek.

Martin didn't really know the other party guests, as such, but they were all casual acquaintances or friends of friends. It certainly wasn't a huge turnout. On the upside, the small turn-out meant that he was the only werewolf. On the downside, he could see why: all the fur made it kind of an impractical costume. Even in October, the number of people crammed into the living room of the three-bedroom house made all that fake fur kind of sweaty.

Just then, someone new turned up. Another vampire—there were quite a few of those. This one was different, though. He had a moustache, for one thing, and what looked like a pencilled-in monobrow. It would probably have confused most people, but Martin had taken that Gothic Literature module last year: he knew the original Dracula when he saw him. This guy matched the description in the book to a T.

"Hey!" Martin met him at the door. "Awesome costume, man. Have a beer!"

"Ah...no thank you. I have...as you say...'brought my own beverage.'" He held up a bottle of red liquid.

"Oh, right." Martin gave him a knowing look. "Yeah, I get it." This was like the complete opposite of Ben's Count Dragula thing: not at all inventive, but between the "blood" and the accent, it was pretty ambitious. The cloak actually looked kind of expensive. Martin had a look out onto the street, then checked his watch. It was still early—maybe all the internet people were just turning up fashionably late.

But no. Eleven O'clock rolled around, and only three more people had turned up—an alien, another vampire, and another of Martin's casual acquaintances wrapped in toilet paper. Things weren't exactly winding down, though. Ben was certainly keeping people entertained.

"I'm the transvestite from Transylvania!" he said, way louder than was necessary. "I vant to suck your..." (the room let out a collective giggle) "blahd!" he finished eventually. "Woooo!" And there was the dance again. This got another laugh from everyone. Everyone, that was, except the guy in the Dracula costume, who simply stood there coldly, sipping his "blood."

Richard was wearing a lampshade on his head. Ben nabbed it and put it on himself. "Woooo!" he said again. "Look at me! I'm a vampire in a dress! Lah la la la la..."

"Right!" said the Dracula lookalike, rolling the "R" impressively. He set his drink down with a sharp crack. "I have put up with this all night, sir, and I shall put up with it no more!" He snarled, and Martin noticed for the first time that he had some really realistic fake fangs.

"Woah, man." Richard stepped forward, placing a hand on the guest's shoulder. "Come on. It's just a costume, right? It's just a bit of fun." Clearly the guy was way too into his Bram Stoker.

"Oh," said the guest, twisting Richard's hand away with a surprisingly strong grip. "For you, perhaps, it is only a costume. For you, it is just a bit of fun. But for me, it is my entire life!"

The room suddenly went silent. Suddenly, Martin realised. He had said it himself. _You never know who might turn up._

"So you..." he stammered. "You're really..."

"That's right! For I..." he whipped off his cape. "I am the real Count Dragula!"

Everyone stared in surprise. It was impossible to look away. The dress. The sequins. The gloves. It was everything Ben had done, but...more.

"Mmm-hmm." He waggled a nail-polished finger at the room as a whole. "Oh, yeah. I'm the real transvestite from Transylvania." He turned to Ben. "I'm more vamp than you can handle!" And with that, Count Dragula made his high-heeled exit from the room.

Ben took the lampshade off his head and slumped down onto the sofa. The awkward silence continued.

"Well," said Richard at last. "I don't think any of us expected him to say that."

8

Tales of the Unexpected

**Challenge #4: Write a Drabble—a story of exactly 100 words. The term "Drabble" originates from Monty Python's** **Big Red Book** **.**

A tense scene unfolds today as families who were expecting a pleasant day at the zoo are, in fact, confronted by something completely different. Local man Brian has been taken hostage by "Monty" the Burmese Python. His mother had this to say:

"He's not a hostage, he's a very naughty boy!"

We'll be keeping you up to date with all events as they...oh! It seems Monty has released a list of demands. He wants...a shrubbery. A top negotiator has already been flown in from Spain. Sir, what are your thoughts on this turn of events?

"NOBODY EXPECTS THE SERPENT'S IMPOSITION!!!"

9

The Revolution Kids

_This story was inspired by the sculptures of_ _Yinka Shonibare MBE._

Jeff knew it had been a bad idea to buy those pills. Not because he thought anything bad would happen—quite the opposite. He'd been suckered in by some vague mumbo-jumbo. "They're new," the guy at the stall had said. But then he'd got them home and read the little leaflet—as he always did—and there it was: "homeopathic." He'd just spent thirty quid on sugar pills. Chucked them out the window.

***

It was eleven thirty when he noticed the fox out on the patio, crunching the pills with its mean little teeth and licking up the crumbs. Jeff had thought it was funny at first—at least someone was getting something out of them—but then he wondered if it might not be good for the fox. What if they made its stomach swell up? Or something? He opened the door, and the fox bolted. He swept up all the little white pills with his hands and dumped them in the bin in a plastic tub.

***

The fox was there again the next day, licking the patio stones. Jeff tried to watch it, the lights in the room switched off, but the fox saw him anyway. It didn't bolt, though. It pressed its paws up on the glass.

"More." It said, throat straining to produce the noise. "Please...more."

Jeff was fascinated. What else could he do? He opened the back door a crack and chucked a handful of the pills, salvaged from the bin. He went back to the market in the morning. Sure enough, the conman had moved on. Jeff wondered if he knew what he was selling. Probably not. Jeff had a feeling it was worth more than thirty quid.

***

When the fox came the third time, it was wrapped in a black bin liner. Wore it like a cloak, clutching the plastic with its front paws. That was the other thing: it walked on two legs now. "Please..." it said. "Please..." It held a tiny paw out like a hand.

Jeff scooped half a dozen pills out of the plastic tub and dropped them in front of it. Almost before they hit the floor, it was on all fours again, crunching them up.

"I..." Jeff stammered. "I...uh..." He couldn't talk to it. The thing was hideous, somehow. Not quite human, not even animal.

It licked the last few fragments from the grimy patio. "Thank you," it said, squeezing backwards through the fence, its eyes always on him. "Thank you."

***

Two days later, the fox was gone. Jeff wondered if it knew he was running out of pills. He hadn't liked to let on, in case it left. The fox was valuable. He'd been keeping a big canvas laundry bag just inside his back door, but it seemed he'd missed his chance. Still had some pills, though—somebody would pay handsomely for those. If he could only work out who...

But two more days and the fox was back. It had clothes this time. Garish, catwalk stuff. The sort of thing a particularly eccentric aristocrat might have worn two centuries ago. It knocked on the window.

Jeff opened the back door a crack and peered through.

"Hello." The fox looked up sheepishly. "I do hope I didn't embarrass myself earlier." It stood neatly on two legs, one arm curled primly behind its back.

"Oh, no..." Jeff managed to mumble. "Not at all...no." He ducked back inside and, without thinking, carried the whole tub of pills through. There were only about five left.

The fox gazed at him blankly.

"I'll get you more!" he said, hurriedly. "Just got to find some, then..."

The fox waved a hand. "I don't need anything from you anymore. You see, I came here to offer my thanks. To invite you to witness something...quite wonderful. But you'll have to drive." It looked down at its feet. "You understand."

"No, I get it...sure." Jeff fumbled for his keys.

***

"Just here, please."

It was a patch of woodland without even a real road leading into it: the last half mile had been mud. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"The birth of a new world. I have big plans, you see." The fox reached over and removed the keys from the ignition.

"Hey!" Jeff made to snatch them back, but thought better of it. He didn't want to scare the fox. Silently, it opened the door and slipped out onto the ground.

"This way, please." The fox followed the headlights away from the road, and Jeff could do nothing but trail behind. Thankfully, he'd had the sense to bring a torch. His peculiar companion didn't seem to need one.

"Just here."

Jeff shone the torch in the direction the fox indicated, and nearly threw up. It was the conman, obviously dead and hard even to look at.

"Once I found him, I...well...couldn't risk him finding out what he had. You understand."

"Give me my keys." The fox was barely waist high. It was like arguing with a child. Still, Jeff's voice trembled.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, old chum."

"Give..."

There was a flash of gilded metal in the torchlight as the fox drew and cocked a pistol. "You'll find a shovel down there. Get digging."

Jeff began.

"There's a good chap."

***

As Jeff worked, the fox began tapping something into a mobile phone. The light from the screen made its eyes shine blue, the hair on its face standing out luridly.

"Alright." It pocketed the phone once more. "I'll take it from here."

"Then...can I have my keys back?"

"No. You know too much, as they say. But don't worry: I'll give you a sporting chance. I'm a stickler for tradition, don't you know?"

"What?" Just then, Jeff became aware of noises in the distance. There was baying in the night, and it was accompanied by a bugle.

"Chop chop." The fox clapped crisply, gun still in hand. "The dogs are coming."

10

The Race Card

**Challenge #5: Write a Science Fiction story. It must feature the phrase "Puny Earthling".**

The pod was twenty metres high, every inch of it gleaming with heat-burnished chrome. It made a peculiar ticking noise as the metal cooled and contracted, loud enough to be heard over the rumbling of tanks hurtling down the street towards it. Helicopters dropped marksmen on rooftops, and foot soldiers poured from armoured vans. Three miles away, a battery of mobile artillery was just setting itself into place.

The pod itself made no particular preparations. It simply sat there, cooling serenely, protruding from the concrete of the square. Then, all of a sudden, cracks appeared in its surface. Panels popped outward as four crab-like legs separated from its flawless frame. And all of a sudden, the topmost part of that ovoid body disappeared...only it hadn't disappeared. The sun passed through that space with a peculiar shimmer, suggesting that the material was still there: it had merely become permeable to light. A figure stood silhouetted in that great transparent dome.

"People of Earth," it began. "This is not a mission of peace. This is a mission of conquest! Surrender your iridium to Khzalg the Almighty!"

The soldiers held their fire. Even a round from one of the tanks was unlikely to so much as dent the pod. Use of force would only anger the invader, and—worse—it would mean more paperwork to fill out at the end of the day. Instead, they waited, as protocol demanded.

A hatch opened in the turret of one of the tanks, and a man with a megaphone lifted himself out. "Attention Khzalg the Almighty! We hear your request and would like to enter into a dialogue. We hope we can come to a peaceful arrangement, benefitting all involved."

"Khzalg the Almighty does not negotiate! Tremble, puny Earthling, and..."

There was a very loud and extremely discontented murmur from the streets. Even with the pod's deafening synthetic voicebox, Khzalg found he had to wait for it to die down a little.

"What?" he asked. "What? What's..."

"That's racist!" said the man with the megaphone.

"Wha?" Khzalg looked around the crowd from within his armoured battle-dome. "No... Of course it's...no..."

"It is!" said the man with the megaphone. "That's an offensive stereotype. Not all humans are puny!"

"Well," said Khzalg, "with respect...you are quite puny."

"There!" shouted one of the marksmen. "He did it again!"

Khzalg shuffled uneasily inside his dome. "I'm just saying...there are definite physiological differences we need to acknowledge. I think we can agree that your primitive battle-vehicles are puny in comparison to my mighty quadpod."

"That's not because we're human," said the man with the megaphone. "That's because our technology developed on a planet with a combination of geopolitical and socioeconomic pressures not conducive to the fabrication of interstellar war machines. You don't know what sort of things we might have achieved if your colonialist ancestors hadn't exploited us to build the pyramids and Stonehenge and Atlantis. You're so culturally insensitive."

"You're just a great big racist!"

"Look, I..." Khzalg the Almighty nervously tried to right a streetlamp with one of his pod's enormous legs. "I feel like we might have got off on the wrong foot here. Why don't I buy you all a drink? I know this great place just beside Zeta Persei..."

11

It's a Wonderful Spoof

"Goodbye, cruel world!" Greg prepared to take a long jump off edge of the bridge—he didn't want to bump into the side on the way down.

Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light. Barely managing to stop himself falling off in surprise, Greg looked to his right. A glowing, winged figure was perched on the railing. "No, stop, don't do it," he said, not particularly enthusiastically. He took his cigarette out of his mouth for a moment to have a swig from a three-litre bottle of cheap cider.

"Who are you!?"

"I'm your guardian angel."

Greg just stared.

"I'm not being sarcastic. I literally am." He put the cigarette back in his mouth, freeing up a hand to offer to Greg. "The name's Lawrence."

Greg shook his hand. "Greg."

Lawrence screwed his face up, as if talking to an idiot. "Yeah, mate. I think I picked that up at some point over the last forty or fifty years. Now, I can have a pretty good guess about this, but...why are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Well, my wife left me. I've got no home, no car, no money. No self esteem. Things are just getting harder, you know?"

Lawrence took a swig of his cider. "Yeah, well it's not exactly made for fun viewing, just so you know."

"I just feel sometimes like...maybe it would have been better if I'd never been b..."

"Don't say that!" Lawrence threw his cider bottle off the bridge, enraged.

For the first time, Greg wondered if it really might be worth going on living. If this angel—this agent of God Himself—showed such conviction, who was he to argue?

Lawrence continued. "Just...don't! Don't you even finish that sentence! Every. Freaking. Time! You say: 'Oooh, Lawrence, I wish I'd never been born' and then I've got to take you to some awful alternate dimension where...I don't know...Hitler beats orphans to death with starving puppies because you were never there to do yadah-yadah-yadah. Then it's all: 'I want to live, Lawrence! I want to live!' and I've got to send you back here again. Well I'm not doing it!" He swung his arms out in a forceful gesture. "I'm done, man! I'm freaking done!"

Greg stared in surprise. Lawrence just sat there, smoking furiously.

"Just..." he waved at the river down below. "Go on. They don't pay me enough for this."

"I thought...aren't the streets in Heaven paved with gold or something?"

"Yep. They are. Not a scrap left for poor old Lawrence."

Greg continued to stare, and Lawrence continued to smoke.

"Can I...I don't know...pick something else, then?"

"Like what? I do serious work, you know. I'm not just going to send you on holiday to some magical land of candy floss unicorns." He took another drag, squinting into the middle distance. "Never again."

"Hey. I don't think things could get much worse—I'd take anything."

"Wait...so, like...you'd wish everything was the opposite of the way it is now?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Lawrence nodded thoughtfully, blowing out smoke. "I could go for that."

There was a pop, and another blinding flash of light.

Greg looked around. "We're uh...we're still here."

"Oh, are we?"

"Yeah. Except you're holding a big pile of gold bullion."

"Which is quite clearly the opposite of not having any money."

"Where's mine, then?"

"Huh. I guess the opposite thing doesn't work on you. Because..." he traced his finger in the air, working something out. "Yeah, opposite-you wouldn't have a guardian angel, so none of this would work to begin with. Yeah, that sort of makes sense, now I think about it..."

"Great. So you get everything you wanted and I'm still the same as ever."

"It seems so, yeah."

"Goodbye, Lawrence." Greg threw himself off the edge of the bridge. Several seconds later, he hit the water with a thud.

"Yikes, man!" Lawrence fluttered down. "You okay?"

"Yeah! I actually feel better than before. And my cold sore's gone!"

"Oh, yeah. You jumped off a bridge. In this world, that's like some kind of crazy miracle cure or something."

"Wow. This is actually kind of cool!"

"It certainly beats the usual."

"Hang on. Let's try something else."

Greg swam to the side of the river and hurried up the bank into town. Lawrence followed just overhead.

"Can I borrow one of those gold bricks?"

"Sure."

Taking the weighty lump of metal, Greg hurled it at a police officer, catching him square in the back of the head. The officer crumpled to the ground.

"Oh no..." Greg looked on in horror as the policeman just lay there, not moving. "How could you let me do that!?" he screamed at Lawrence.

"Just wait."

Finally, the policeman got up. "My headache's gone!" he cried. "And you just assaulted an officer of the law." He strode over. "Here's a minus ten-thousand pound fine..." he wrote out a cheque, "and a coupon for twenty-five years off your next prison sentence. It's good until Twenty-eighteen."

"Wow. Thanks!"

"Just doing my job, sir."

Greg turned to Lawrence. "I was right! This place is fantastic! Can I just stay here forever?"

"I'd probably have to pull some strings, but I can't imagine why not. What do you want to do next?"

"I dunno. I sort of want to see what's on TV in opposite world. But first there's uh...there's something I've got to do."

Lawrence waited while Greg hurried over through a nearby door, but he came back again pretty much immediately.

"Sorry. I thought there was a toilet in there, but it's just some creepy butler with a funnel."

Realisation dawned.

"I want to live, Lawrence. I want to live."

12

Loose Canon

***Challenge #6: Include the names of at least 15 books of the Bible (one must be Genesis). Include at least 15 recognizable, well-known foreign language words or phrases (one must be "plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose"—"the more things change, the more they stay the same"). Include at least 15 words that are colours (one must be periwinkle).**

"Monsieurs...monsieurs!" The chairman spread his arms, trying to ignore the stuffy heat of the interstellar conference room. "We would be better without all these ad hominem attacks, non?"

"...and that's another thing!" cried the representative of the Church of the Third Moon of Tobit. "Stop switching between French and Latin! It's doing my head in!"

"Both zese languahges are acceptable undere ze Scarlet convention."

"Then jolly well pick one!"

"Yes," droned the arch robo-deacon of Nehemiah IV. "It is illogical for the chairman to speak BASIC when the committee speaks C++." His processor whined. "ANNOYANCE LEVEL GREEN!"

The chairman sighed. The same arguments had been used again and again ad infinitum. Ad nauseam, even. "Ah simply think we should get backe to ze real issue. Ouat coloure should oure hats be?"

"Is it not obvious? Our hats should be #E9967A."

Everyone stared blankly. "Pardon," said the chairman. "These numbers..."

The robo-deacon let out an electro-sigh. "They represent a colour. It is like 'salmon pink,' but it is much better than salmon pink. It is a Godly colour."

There was a pause.

"Ah would not considere salmon to be a Godly coloure per se, but...let's mark down zat suggestion."

"ANNOYANCE LEVEL AMBER!"

"What about sky blue?" put in the Archbishop of Gamma Hosea IX. "The same colour as Heaven."

"On Habakkuk," explained the lizard-priest of that planet, "the sky is mauve."

"Genesis tells of how God sent a rainbow after the Flood. Can we use more than one colour?"

"Ehhh..." the chairman wobbled a hand in the air. "We are not made of money."

"Ahem."

"Ah, mea culpa. The coin-cardinal of Baruch is. But we cannot spend him! Non?"

"ANNOYANCE LEVEL ORANGE!"

"Perhaps a nice beige?" suggested a vicar from a quaint little space station orbiting Jonah.

"You show absolutely no awareness of human aesthetic ideals. Have you considered converting to Mechanised Catholicism? The Gigapope of Ezra recently began allowing non-robots into the Church."

"I hear it's still a bit of a cause célèbre."

"Yes. Personally, I disapprove. Human minds are governed by emotion. Emotion clouds logic. Logic is the language of God. Your species' capacity for emotion makes me very angry."

"Wait. How does that even..."

"ANNOYANCE LEVEL RED!" The robo-deacon began to shake violently.

"Dios mio!" exclaimed the representative from Sirach V. "He's gone loco!"

"Blasphemy!" The robo-deacon's arms began to flail wildly. "ANNOYANCE LEVEL PERIWINKLE! CRUSH! KILL! DESTROY!"

"Does anybody mind if I turn this off?"

"No," came the chorus from the room.

"BOOOooooooop" went the robo-deacon, slumping over the table.

"And I'd advise the chairman to make him a persona non grata. If this keeps up we'll never get anything done."

"Ah do not think ah can do zat. A robot is not a person of any sort, so...he will still be at ze next meeting." He shrugged. "C'est la vie."

There was a pause, during which the vicar from Jonah picked up and rearranged his spilled papers.

"Bien. Now zat is sorted, back to the hats. What do you sink about eggshell?"

"I'd question the wisdom of that choice: shows up dirt. Umber?"

"Umber's nice."

"I could go for that!"

"It's a nice, humble colour. A good choice for our faith."

"I'm allergic."

This revelation sucked all the momentum out of the discussion.

"Sacrebleu..." The chairman pinched his nose. "Come on! Zis should not be so 'ard! We need a hat coloure to represent the Intergalactic Assimilated Church."

There were no suggestions.

"'Ow about yellow?"

"Or good old black? The same colour as the oil that robot's leaking onto the carpet."

"Can somebody call the concierge?"

"Can we please just pick a coloure! Zis is not ze olden days and we are not ze caveman Romans! We should be past all zese petty squabbles. And zis committe of judges is supposed to be ze best in ze universe! If you do not come up with somezing in ze next ten seconds, I will 'ave you all wearing fuchsia!"

There was a pause.

"Is that anything like salmon pink?"

The chairman sighed. "Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."

13

The Marvellous Misadventures of Diabolical Doctor Baby

"I remember the days when the world trembled at the very mention of the name 'Doctor Baby.' Now...I don't know what the world thinks. It's all hacking and cyber-terrorism." He curled a gloved hand dramatically in front of him. "There's just no place for the traditional supervillain any more! No place...for Doctor Baby..."

Goon waited patiently. Though Doctor Baby was simply standing, staring into the middle distance, Goon had known the Doctor for long enough to recognise one of his uniquely lengthy dramatic pauses.

"...no place, at least," Doctor Baby continued, inevitably, "as a supervillain. Goon!" he turned. "We are going straight."

"Durr, really, Boss? You sure you want to do that?" This had not been what Goon had expected to hear. He scratched at his balding head with one great, gorilla-like finger.

"Yes." Doctor Baby pressed a hand against the glass case of his infamous cute ray, staring mournfully in past his own reflection. "I have never been one to quail before adversity. And as times change...so must I. I will become..."

Goon took this opportunity to go and get himself a cup of coffee. He stopped to chat with Trisha, the Assistant Henchman Coordinator, on the way back. She had kindly asked if he'd like a bear claw to go with his coffee, but "Nuh-uh, Miss," he'd said. "I'm vegetarian." He got back to the boss's office just in time to hear him finish his sentence.

"...an entrepreneur!"

Doctor Baby regarded Goon coolly. Goon had assisted his endeavours back before Captain Caulk had become his nemesis. Back before The Astounding Welt had even set pink, lumpy foot within the superhero scene. Goon had been the first, and—through loyalty and dedication more than actual aptitude—he had earned his place as the right hand of the diabolical Doctor Baby.

"So, uh....if you're becoming an entreprener, what are you going to entrepren?"

"A prudent question." Doctor Baby clasped his hands behind his back. "And one that, as a criminal mastermind, I have already considered. First and foremost in my considerations was the matter of my name, and the reputation that comes with it. Naturally I'd like to capitalise on my existing association with babies and miscellaneous episodes of baby-themed mayhem. It is my belief that this strong public image should serve quite well as corporate branding. Granted, the populace currently associates me mostly with atomic rattles and rusk grenades, but I think in time—thanks partly to my reduced media presence of late—focus might be shifted towards more benign goals."

"You could turn this super-lair into a nursery."

"'Doctor Baby's Day Care'? Good grief, Goon. Nobody would take me seriously! No, I feel it would be more dignified if the Doctor Baby name were to provide a product to parents, rather than a service to their sticky little offspring."

"So, uhh...what sort of product, Boss?"

Doctor Baby paused to stare out through the vast window of his office, though Goon was positive he would have already given this due consideration. He was a criminal mastermind, after all.

"Re-tool the gigglesplosives factory for baby powder, and...I believe the peekaboo serum plant could produce baby oil in a pinch. The public will not trust me immediately—I harbour no false hopes—but these commodities are innocuous enough that they should come around. See if you can't get hold of that reporter, Clint Cark: the one who looks a bit like Captain Caulk, but with glasses. He always seems to take an interest in my affairs. Might be willing to run an article: 'Supervillain Loses Edge: Finds Heart.' Something sappy like that." He glanced dejectedly at the cute ray once more.

"Will do, Boss." Goon was the toughest henchman there was, but even he couldn't help but be saddened by the thought that, with Doctor Baby's retirement (of sorts), the golden age of the supervillain was coming to an end.

***

Doctor Baby was pleased to discover that it took less than a week to modify his production facilities for their new roles. Pleased, and a little saddened. It shouldn't be so easy to tear down an empire.

"Do you have the samples, Goon?"

"Right here, Boss." Goon held out the tub of powder. They didn't have proper packaging yet. The PR department was still trying to convert Doctor Baby's logo into something still recognisable, but less threatening.

"Hmm..." Doctor Baby rubbed some of the powder between his fingers. "Yes, very astringent...quite an unusual aroma, though. And the oil?"

Goon passed the little screw-cap bottle. Doctor Baby brushed the powder off his fingers and onto his super-suit before tipping a little of the baby oil onto his palm. He rubbed it between his hands. "Oh, my! Yes, I can see there being a market for this. It's exceptionally light! But we must find a better perfume to scent it with. As it is, the smell is almost unpleasant. Where did you source the ingredients?"

"Well, Boss. It certainly wasn't easy getting all those babies at such short notice!"

Doctor Baby stopped rubbing his hands. "Goon. Do tell me you understand that baby oil is for babies. Not made of babies."

"Is it, Boss?"

"Yes."

"You're...you're sure it can't be both?"

"Yes."

"Oh dear."

There was a pause, but not one of Doctor Baby's famous dramatic pauses. It was really more of an awkward pause.

"And the baby powder?"

"A, er, by-product of the oil, Boss."

"Well, I suppose that's...economical, at least."

Another pause. It was distinctly awkward this time.

"Should I shut down the factories?" asked Goon.

"Ummm..." Doctor Baby rubbed the oil between his hands once more. It really was exceptionally light. "No," he said. "No, I don't think so. In fact...find more babies. And make sure the pram-mobile has a full tank tonight."

"Yes, Boss." Goon saluted and hurried smartly out of the room. He was the toughest henchman there was, but even he couldn't help a little smile: perhaps the golden age of supervillains wasn't over just yet.

14

Heads or Tails

"Ow!" yelped Joe. "Static shock!"

"Oh yeah," said Betty. "It's this new jumper. Always funny when that happens."

"Now that you mention it, I do feel kind of funny." Joe rubbed his head, staring at the pile of pennies in the centre of the poker table. "Wait...I...I see something."

"What is it?" asked Fred.

"That coin!" he said. "That one, right there! I...know...what it says on the bottom. I know, even though I can't see it."

"What?" asked Betty.

"It's...it's a picture of the Queen. A picture...in profile!"

"Joe?" Betty spoke quietly. "You're sort of freaking me out."

"Yeah," said Fred. "They're all like that."

Joe ignored him. Reaching out with a trembling hand, he turned over the 2p piece. "It is! See? It is!"

"Oh my God." Betty stood up suddenly, knocking over her bottle of WKD in the process. "He's right! He's right, Fred! He's right!"

"And...and this one!" Joe pointed. "This one has...the same picture!"

"Yeah," said Fred. "Of course. They all do. If the head's not on the top, it's on the bottom. That's why it's called 'Heads or Tails.'"

Joe turned the coin over. Sure enough, there was the Queen's head underneath.

Betty pressed her fingers over her mouth. "But he knows, Fred! He knows without looking!"

"Of course he does!" Fred slapped a hand to his forehead. "They're all like that! Do I have to draw you a diagram?"

"I'm...getting something new." Joe turned his attention elsewhere. "This coin...this one was minted in 1992."

"That's amazing!" screamed Betty.

"It's not! Look!" Fred pointed. "It says so right there. I can see it too. What's wrong with you people?"

"Don't worry. People always doubt things they don't understand." Betty placed a hand gently on Joe's shoulder.

"Ow!" Joe flinched as Betty's jumper zapped him again.

"Oh. Sorry."

Joe stared at the pile of pennies. "It's gone," he said after a moment. "My gift is gone. Or...was it a curse?"

"That's it." Fred stood and pulled on his coat. "I'm finding new friends."

15

The Naming Day

**Challenge #7: Write a story of exactly 999 words. The word "nine" must appear somewhere in the piece.**

Long, long ago in a time none now remember, there was a city, ringed round by walls of stone. Ringed well, for in those days hideous creatures stalked the land, and bandits lurked on every road. But such troubles were not thought of much in that safe city. Particularly not with two fine princes born to its kind king, and a holiday announced for all, for this was the wondrous naming day.

Though the great hall of that grand city was vast indeed, still only those dearest to the royal family could sit inside, for they were well-liked by all and had so many friends that not even half could fit within those walls. Not only the fine garden just outside, but also the street, and the adjoining roads were packed with guests, all hoping to glimpse just one small part of that day's joy.

But when the seer approached the throne and spoke, it became clear that this naming day would not be like the others.

"This child is Envy," said he, "and this one Pride. Ruin shall snap always at their heels, and each shall be the downfall of the other."

All were silent for a moment. Then, the king stood.

"How dare you." His voice grew to a roar. "How dare you, wretch! What sort of names are these, for the heirs to my throne?"

The seer bowed. "These are the names the gods have given. No more can I say."

"And no more should you!" The king unsheathed his sword—ceremonial, and not meant for war—and pointed it at the aged seer. "Take back your words or face my ire!"

The seer looked him in the eye. "Better your ire than that of the gods, if I should fail to speak what they say."

The spectators held their breath. Though the seer's position was, in modern times, mostly ceremonial, to question him was unheard of, though here he had clearly overstepped his power.

"Guards." The king sheathed his sword once more. "See this man is banished from the kingdom. There are doubtless others—more humble—who can serve in his place."

The king spoke calmly, confident that he had seen the seer's true ambitions that day. But in the darkness of night and the fog of memory, his words seemed different. This seer had served well for more than half the king's reign, and had shown great conviction to face exile for his words—a punishment that in those days meant almost certain death.

The more the king thought on the seer's strange words, the more he felt he'd made a grave mistake. For nine generations, the seers had been trusted to warn of sudden danger—things no other man could see—and countless tales told of how the city had thus been saved. The city had a long, rich history, and the king was terrified to think that he might be the one to see it end, even for the sake of his two sons.

So, without a word to his wife, the king slipped out of bed and down the stairs, to the place where his most trusted servant slept. Leaving himself no time to let fear have him think again, he ordered that the princes be taken far away, and left—with great secrecy—in the care of some lowly shepherd beyond the kingdom's borders. Two orphaned little boys, he said, could take their place, and he would love and raise them as his own.

But though the servant was too loyal to question, or even speak a word to anyone else, there was one other who heard this decree first hand. For the queen herself had been awake, fearful of the seer's words, and had followed her husband to his servant's chamber. Noiselessly, she fled back up to their tower and gently took the princes from where they lay, carrying them in a plain basket packed with clothes. The land beyond the kingdom was dangerous indeed but, beyond the risk of wild beasts, the king could not be trusted. With the seer's words still stinging in his ears, who could say that he would not send soldiers out to that poor shepherd's house, to put a more certain end to the princes' threat?

For this reason, the queen fled from the palace. But though she ran bravely through the streets, the king saw what she had done too soon, and just before she reached the city walls, she began to hear the hooves of the king's guard behind her. But the queen knew her city well, and so she turned down a narrow path—little more than a gap between buildings—towards the river. On foot, she knew she could never escape the horses, but the current was swift and there were always boats moored along the water's edge.

But alas, the king's guard followed close behind, and came upon her just as she managed to unfasten the knot that held the boat. It was their haste to see her safe, in the end, that was her undoing, for one guardsman steered his horse too carelessly, and it tumbled down the bank and into the water, sending queen and princes and rider into the river, all swept away by the current.

The king, when he heard this news, was utterly consumed by grief, and for several weeks would not leave his chamber, cursing both himself and the seer who had set these things in motion. But even when he emerged, he was not the leader he had been before, and the people had no faith in him. It would be fifteen years before the kingdom fell. Its walls already tumbling to the ground, a tribe of barbarians found it easy prey, and though the new seer had warning of this from the gods, he dared not tell the king of what he'd heard.

Thus came ruin to the city old,

For gods will have their way, when all is told.

16

The Ritual

For three moons, no rain had fallen. The grass had yellowed, died, and blown away beneath the sun's fierce heat, and the earth had split, the cracks between the shattered pieces wide enough to trap a goat's foot. The tribe did not turn to magic lightly, but this time the choice was clear: something must be done.

With great ceremony, Akana stepped inside the grave-hut, the air sweltering even in the shade. Surely even the ancestors, their bones secure in sacred urns, must feel this heat? And so Akana was confident when he came to speak.

"Wise ancestors," he spoke to the painted urns. "For three moons, the sun has beaten down upon our land. Our crops have died, and our goats and cattle soon shall follow. Take pity on us, please, and make this great drought stop."

But three days passed, and still the sun beat down, and still the drought continued. From the ancestors, no answer came.

"This is not the way to summon rain," said Suro. And she took from her store of things a marvellous staff of fine construction. Standing out in the driest field, she turned this staff slowly from end to end, and as she turned it, it produced the sound of raindrops hitting ground. This, Suro knew, would draw the clouds over their land, and let the water fall.

But three days passed, and still the sun beat down.

"What good is it to make the sounds of rain?" asked Saktak. "It is the coolness that we need, and the life it gives to plants." And so he devised a plan. Piling a great quantity of wood up in the place where Suro had turned the staff, he set a fire. This struck the other tribesmen as being very strange—they had no want of heat—but Saktak was cunning. Onto the fire, he threw potent spices, so that the great heat of the flames would carry them up to the sun's vast eye and make it weep.

But three more days passed, and still the sun beat down.

Finally, Oktok came to try his hand at bringing clouds to the clear sky. He had no power among the ancestors, no wondrous staff, no clever plan. But Oktok had heard of new magic, from some country far across the waves. Putting on his finest clothes, he took the chieftain's table—the best to be found for many miles—and dragged it out into the field where the fire had been. Then, he took papers, inscribed with nothing in particular, but necessary nonetheless. Sitting before the chief's fine table, he straightened these and cleared his throat.

"The weather today will be dry and sunny, with temperatures in the high thirties. There will be no rain all week."

The heavens opened.

17

A Story about a Story that is Not This Story

**Challenge #8: Write a flash fiction piece that is autobiographical in nature.**

I can't quite remember what went wrong that day. In hindsight, it was probably a lot of things, chief amongst them the fact that I'd just stopped caring by that point. But regardless of how it went wrong, it went wrong, and it went wrong in the space of just one question:

"Can I have your creative writing coursework?"

It's one of those questions that either slips by without a second thought—of course I've got my coursework! What do you think I am, some kind of imbecile?—or, as on that troublesome morning, hits you in the face like a wet sack of cephalopods.

I don't recall exactly how I answered at the time, but it was something along the lines of "I'm sorry. I could do with a little longer just to clean it up a bit. When's the absolute deadline?"

Whatever I said, it was good enough to get the teacher to go away, giving me the chance to formulate a plan:

1) Check you are wearing clothes.

If I looked down and I was naked, there was a good chance it was all a dream and that a three-headed clown was about to burst into the room riding a horse made of tapioca. No such luck.

2) Check how much coursework you actually have ready to hand in.

Fortunately, this unpleasant surprise had come to me during the one English lesson a week that took place in a computer room. Surreptitiously, I opened up the Word document I'd started the day the work was handed out, and not touched since. It wasn't much. It also wasn't pretty.

3) Consider collapsing to the ground and frothing at the mouth. (Probably should have been one spot further down the list.)

4) Quietly start typing.

There is an art to typing furiously without looking as though you are typing furiously. There is, but I haven't mastered it. At some point the teacher came over and had a look at what I had on screen. Then she did that thing with her eyebrows. That thing that says "I spend thirty-five hours a week watching kids produce work they absolutely don't want to do, and even I think this is poor." She then took the opportunity to remind me that I had until three-thirty and that I would do well to use that time.

Panic over. Sort of. The lesson had twenty minutes left to go. I'd have fifteen more minutes to work on my story at break time. Then almost an hour during lunch, and the half hour between the end of the school day and the coursework deadline. A little more than two hours' heavily-interrupted writing time.

Except that as I sat there, quietly glad that the teacher hadn't noticed that the literary abomination on screen didn't even have an ending yet, I realised I couldn't write this thing. It just...it sucked. I added about five more words, but couldn't shift the idea that I'd get a better mark even if I just wrote one really pretentious sentence in the dead centre of the page. "Art is a burning swan" or "The pen laughs at structure." Okay, I wasn't really going to do that, but there was a chance it might fool someone, whereas what I'd written so far sure wasn't going to.

The lesson ended, and I hurried up to the library to grab a computer for breaktime. There weren't any. Also, I realised, even if there had been I wouldn't have been able to get any work done. If I couldn't do it back in the (comparatively) quiet classroom, how would I manage here? The library was the only indoor place pupils had to go, and while it wasn't as packed as it was in winter, it was still pretty unpleasant. Also, there was always someone wandering around pressing Alt+F4 on everybody's keyboards. And somebody had once tried to garrotte me in there, so it was hardly the ideal place to get anything done. The first bell rang, and I got back into my lessons. There was still lunchtime, I thought. There was still a chance: I'd see if I could weasel my way into one of the computer rooms.

Lunch came, and finally I got somewhere. Really forcing myself to write, I almost finished what I'd started. The only problem was...it was abysmal. And when I picked it up again at the end of the day—thirty minutes till the deadline—it only looked worse. Staring at this monstrosity on the screen, I realised I had two options: clean up this disaster as best I could, or start again from scratch. I opted for the latter.

Perhaps it was just the fact that hardly anybody else was in the library, but suddenly, everything was clear, inconsequential. It was as though the pressure had become so great that my mind had collapsed in on itself like a neutron star. Out of necessity, more than anything else, the story flowed, and somehow—I'm still really not quite sure exactly how it happened—I got the thing done. Five minutes to go, or I wouldn't get back to the classroom in time. I knew I had a decision to make: hand in this new thing I hadn't even read, or go with the story I'd spent all day fretting over. But then, I realised, I didn't really have that choice: in my haste to write this new thing, start to finish, I'd never put an ending on the one I had before.

I got back to the English teacher just in time to discover that several other pupils were still sat in the classroom, writing. A little late for me to join them. I handed in my work.

The teacher glanced at it. "Yes," she said, almost immediately. "This is a lot better."

That was it, I thought. All I had to do was just scrape by.

When the marks came back, that was my best piece of work.

18

Quench your Thirst with Quaff!

"Okay. We have _Quaff_ , _Diet Quaff_ , and _Quaff with Lemon_. _Quaff with Lemon_ is proving to be very popular. What can we take home from this?"

"Clearly our customers are intrigued by this bold new flavour. It's quite likely they'd respond well to something even more exotic."

"You mean something like _Quaff_...with lime?"

"I think we're looking for something more exotic than that, sir."

"Alright. We need ideas, people! Where can we take _Quaff_ next? It's got to be really off the wall."

"Actually, I've had this idea for a while...it's kind of crazy, though."

"Good man, Bert! Right now I think crazy's just what we need! Let's hear it."

"Okay. What I'm thinking: _Quaff Gravy_."

"Say again?"

" _Quaff Gravy_. A handful of people are already adding Quaff to cooking. I feel that something like this might gain a cult following."

"You're serious. _Quaff Gravy_."

"Is it, like...thick? Or what?"

"Not properly thick, no, but I was thinking...I don't know...a sort of milkshake consistency."

"So it's still a drink."

"Yeah! But you can also have it on a roast."

"I'm sorry...just to be clear. We're talking about a thick, meaty soft drink?"

"That's crazy."

"I thought you said...you know...crazy was what we needed."

"Okay, yes, I said that, but this is just...I can't get my head around it. Is it still fizzy?"

"Yeah."

"And sweet?"

"Yeah."

"So you're suggesting a thick, meaty, fizzy soft drink...with sugar and sweeteners."

"Yeah! _Quaff Gravy_."

"It sounds salty. Is it salty?"

"Well...maybe."

"You haven't thought about it?"

"It would need to be taste tested, no question, but...come on! You said you wanted something off the wall!"

"Hmmm. We do. But at the same time, we don't want to drive away our customers. Our brand is familiar, well-trusted. We want to challenge consumers with a brand-new taste sensation, but it has to be something they'll accept. Nothing that'll overwhelm them. No, I don't think...I don't think the world is quite ready for _Quaff Gravy_. But don't you worry—we'll come up with something even if we have to sit in here all night!"

**This story was brought to you by** **Quaff with Lime** **. Quench your thirst with** **Quaff** **!**

19

The Room on the Bottom Floor

***Challenge #9: Collaborate with one or two other people. The piece must be written in an Epistolary style. One of the characters must be incarcerated. The story must feature the seven deadly sins.**

**The letters from Oswald Alexander Humphries are my own. The other letters, however, were written by** Chelsey Moyer **. Her contributions made this one of the more entertaining challenges to tackle!**

Dear Sir,

I have been most disappointed with the way I have been treated while staying at your establishment. My room does not have its own thermostat, nor even a window, and the heat is unbearable. This is entirely unacceptable. If this is how you treat a prestigious lawyer, I cannot imagine what the regular riff-raff must have to put up with.

Furthermore, I would like to lodge a complaint against your employee, one "Miles." He wouldn't give me a last name—which I think says something about the level of professionalism among your staff. When I implied that I was strongly considering taking my business elsewhere, he had the audacity to laugh at me.

Given the appalling quality of service I have had to endure, I believe some form of compensation is in order.

Regards,

Oswald Alexander Humphries, LL.B.

***

Mr. Humphries:

I am pleased to hear your review of my hospitality! My minions prepared your room just for you, and I'm glad you have found it in good order. However, I'm afraid our accommodations were a bit rushed given the large volume of our "prestigious lawyer" population.

We reserve thermostats for the riff-raff, as those people have only committed a few of the deadly sins. I do love to toy with the underachievers. You should see their dismay after realizing the thermostats only go up. It never fails to amuse!

I would not presume to play such paltry tricks on you, one of my VIP customers. By my review, your record shows you have completed six out of seven sins.

__Wrath

X_Greed

X_Sloth

X_Pride

X_Lust

X_Envy

X_Gluttony.

Keep up the good work! Only one more to go!

Satan

P.S. I will be sure to give Miles a commendation. He has always been one of my best employees.

***

Mr. Satan,

My apologies. Shortly before your correspondence arrived, Miles informed me that this is not, in fact, a budget hotel. On reflection, the choice of decor in your facilities no longer seems quite so unusual, and Miles' staggeringly poor customer service skills are now rather more understandable. However, there are a number of legal issues here that must be addressed:

One: Your failure to properly signpost this establishment as a Hell-themed resort could be construed as false advertising. I personally came here expecting a simple, reasonably priced room, and nothing more. Many of your other patrons seem similarly displeased.

Two: The decorative pools of lava, while quite atmospheric, are a clear health hazard.

Three: Compounded by issue two, I have not seen a single fire exit during my time here. Given the staggering levels of overcrowding, this is a clear violation of local building legislation.

Four: Public indecency. You know what I mean: the whole BDSM thing. Move it behind closed doors, or face prosecution.

I am not sure I understand your review system. You say I have completed six of seven sins. If I wish to be upgraded to First Class, do I need to complete all seven, or are lower scores more desirable?

Yours faithfully,

Oswald Alexander Humphries, LL.B.

***

Oswald:

I assure you, this is _not_ a budget hotel. On the other hand, it is quite a bargain when you consider the duration of your expected stay. A soul might seem like a steep price, but I think it is but a pittance compared to the value we offer.

We prefer to keep our advertising minimal. The influx of new residents has kept us extremely busy as it is. I'm not sure what you're implying about these other patrons. We boast of the highest residency numbers among our competition, and we pride ourselves on our customer loyalty—most of them stay for eternity!

You'll be relieved to note that the pools of lava are for entertainment only. Despite appearances, I think you'll find our insurance and no-deaths-permitted policy is ironclad in its thoroughness.

Concerning fire exits, again, I refer you to our insurance policy. I'm afraid you may have some confusion concerning what "local" legislature is. Did you not notice when you crossed the border? That's okay. Most people find it easy to miss.

Public indecency is just another service our fine establishment provides for your enjoyment! I hear it is very popular where you come from.

You're in luck. To upgrade to First Class, you need only complete all seven sins and we will ensure you receive only the finest benefits available—including all the women and food you could ever want! That means you only need to complete the last one, and you're there. (Low scores are for losers.)

You can do it! Down here, _we_ believe in _you_.

Satan

***

Satan,

I commend you for your dedication to the part you are playing, and am honestly quite surprised I hadn't heard of your establishment before I came here myself. It appears to occupy quite a unique niche in the hospitality and catering market. In keeping with the theme of your resort, I have given Miles a sound thrashing with his own pitchfork. I trust this will be wrathful enough to ensure the upgrade I requested.

P.S. I can't help but wonder about the implications of your "crossing the border" comment. Am I to take it that you operate within some sort of ersatz international waters? Such an arrangement could be very beneficial to some of my clients. Perhaps we could reach some kind of arrangement?

Oswald Alexander Humphries, LL.B.

***

Ozzy!

Congratulations! I am pleased to announce that you have successfully completed all seven requisite sins.

You now qualify to be moved to our seventh and most prestigious level of Hell. Our hottest property by far, it is my personal favorite—in fact I practically live next door. Perhaps I'll pop in and give you a housewarming party myself, neighbor!

With a concentration of thirty percent lawyers, you should feel right at home. You'll even get to rub elbows with the rich and famous—we have numerous celebrities and politicians.

As for your business propositions, I'm always willing to make a deal for the right price.

Satan

P.S. Miles wasn't amused. He said something about dropping your name around the Death Row block. Weren't you a criminal lawyer?

20

One Thousand Threads

The farbeast's claws raked across Khorsa's back, and he strained to put on just a little more speed. It would do nothing to change his fate—once the beast had your scent, there was no hope left for you—it was for the village. If he didn't lead the monster far enough away, far enough upwind...it would find them again.

But today the wind was blowing down towards the river, and even that gentle slope had made Khorsa's legs clumsy and feeble. He didn't even make it out of the valley. A little more than three quarters of the way up the slope, there was a steep earth ridge. Here, his legs gave way beneath him and he slipped.

Rolling over to face the fiend, Khorsa bared his teeth, drawing the dagger from his belt. A feeble gesture. The farbeast had five knives upon each paw, and its hide was studded with the stubs of old arrows. The creature slowed as it approached, wide mouth cracking into a jagged snarl. Khorsa snarled back, making a pitiful jab with the dagger, still too weak to stand. It had been his duty to run, and he had failed. The farbeast would take two victims today. And if not two, then more.

But the creature came no closer. Instead, it cowered. Khorsa became suddenly aware of someone scrambling down the ridge behind him. Turning, he saw a figure robed in white. She held a golden thread before her, and it was this the farbeast feared. Wondrously, it fled.

It was only then that Khorsa realised who had saved him: this traveller was human. But he was too grateful to shy away when she passed the thread around his neck. The material flashed cold, and when he reached up to touch it, he found there was no knot—only a seamless band of gold.

"You need fear those creatures no more," said the traveller.

***

The wounds on Khorsa's back had healed over by the time the village could repay the white-robed witch. Two bags of gold nuggets, painstakingly claimed from the banks of the river.

But "I cannot accept this," said the witch. "One of your number still does not have a cord."

"And with good reason." The elder waved a finger in the air. "A farbeast fears only one thing, and that's bad magic!" It was not the first time he'd said it.

"If you don't, you'll be in danger. You don't want that."

Saria spoke. "How do we take these off?"

Khorsa had been wondering the same thing. He had tried slipping it over his head when he lay down to sleep, but it was far too tight.

"You don't." The witch smiled. "But it's a small price to pay to be free of the farbeast."

"Too great a price, if you ask me."

"I don't..." Saria fiddled with the cord around her neck. "It feels like it's breathing. I don't want to wear this forever..."

"You see!" The elder cried. "Bad magic!"

But Saria had already found a solution. Taking the scissors from her pocket, she set about cutting through the cord around her neck. It took some work, but soon she was done. "There," she said, smiling.

The witch was preoccupied with the elder. "Such a fuss over nothing!" she sighed.

Meanwhile, Saria had become quite pale. As Khorsa watched, she began to shiver. The scissors dropped from her hand.

"Are you alright?"

A bead of blood trickled down from Saria's nose as her eyes rolled back in her head. She fell to the floor, twitching wildly.

"Why are you just standing there?" the elder shouted at the witch. "Do something!"

"Not until we've finished." she said, firmly, holding the last cord out to the elder.

Khorsa tried to re-fasten the cord around Saria's neck, but in his hands the substance would not be rejoined. It refused even to hold a simple knot. Saria was now lying perfectly still.

"Just hurry up!"

Khorsa could see the elder didn't have any other choice. He held still while the witch joined the cord around his neck.

"Now help her."

The witch glanced at Saria. "There's nothing I can do."

With a roar, Khorsa leapt forward, brandishing his dagger. But the leap did not take him far: the cord around his neck suddenly tightened, and he couldn't breathe.

The witch held a thin red thread, which she twisted between her fingers. On her left arm, she wore many more like it.

"Did you think I would walk among you savages unprotected?" she hissed. "The true magic is mine alone."

Khorsa's throat burned. His eyes felt as though they would explode. Suddenly, the cord relaxed. Kneeling, he saw the bags of gold hit the ground in front of him.

"Melt those down and draw them into wire. I hear there is another village quite nearby."

***

The wounds on Khorsa's back were old scars by the time he managed to forge the key to the witch's tower. He had cast it from the same gold she used to make her cords. Fifty feet below, the "village" sprawled, coal smoke choking the sun from the sky.

The witch's eyes, accustomed only to the distant sights of her crystal ball, widened in surprise as he came through the door. Immediately, she rushed for her collection of threads, all tied to a vast rack or frame, a label and a name on every one. Frantically, she searched and searched, fingers running across the labels of innumerable threads. Khorsa, however, simply stood and waited. As the witch's hunger for slaves had grown, she had only become more vulnerable: for in that great mass of lives that she had stolen, she could no longer find the first. Finally, with one wide sweep of his hammer—taken from the mines—he smashed the wooden frame, one thousand threads scattering to the floor. He threw Saria's scissors at the witch's feet.

"Unmake them," he spat. "Every single one."

21

Custard

"It's been a really long day, but I still have to write something for Flash Fiction Month."

"Have you considered just writing 'banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana banana'?"

"Naah. Did that last year."

22

Where Did All the Genies Go?

**Challenge #10: Write a 369er. A 369er is three different stories that are each exactly 69 words long, that are connected by a common theme, and meant to be read together.**

"My name is Ben! I am 5 years old! If you find this bottle, please email me at dinosaurben2008@squeemail.com and tell me where you found it! I live in Wales, so maybe when you find it it's gone a really long way!"

Screwing the cap onto the green plastic bottle (because green plastic looked like glass), Ben threw it in the sea. He hoped someone would reply this time.

***

Taking the letter out of the bottle, Miguel crossed through the original message, careful to do so using only one short line per word. The pen wouldn't last forever. No shortage of paper or bottles though. Messages from scientists, from hobbyists, sometimes just from bored kids: seemed like they all washed up there.

"S.O.S." he began. "Capsized near Barbados. Now stranded. Have seen no search planes for two weeks..."

***

Kalleq wandered along the shore, his mouth a lemon-sucking dot of dissatisfaction. Seemed like the whole world's waste washed up in Quaqortoq. Giving the plastic bottle another kick, he noticed that there was some paper wedged inside it. Probably a cigarette butt too. Kalleq remembered back when the bottles were made of glass, and people had manners. With some difficulty, he stooped and carried the bottle to the bin.

23

The Second City

You may know of an old tale, about a great city that crumbled, because its king was made a fool by fate, and fell into despair after his queen and princes were swept away by the river of that place. However, what you may not know is that the raging waters did not slay the princes, but only carried them far away, deep into the desolate wasteland where none but beasts dwelled.

In this bad place, no hope had they of human help, nor any did they find. Their infant cries brought only a she-wolf, seeking to devour them. But fate is nothing without balance, and the princes' journey—begun so terribly—could not also end in such a way. Sensing this, the wolf forgot food, and instead raised the children as her own.

In this way, the twin princes passed their first fifteen years. After this, the she-wolf died—having had an unusually long life for such an animal—and the princes carried her body reverently to the top of the highest hill they knew, sad to think that they would now know greater solitude even than they had before.

But it so happened that on the very day they climbed the hill, a caravan had passed below, and become beset by a great six-legged serpent. The princes were not surprised to see this creature—for in those days many such things roamed the earth—but the caravan and its drivers brought them much amazement.

Eager to protect this strange new wonder, the princes ran down the hillside with the swiftness of wolves. Clothed in animal skins and wielding crude clubs, they terrified the people of the caravan more even than the monster that had first assaulted them. But soon the fearful travellers saw how one wild-man gripped the serpent around the neck while the other struck its head, and they rejoiced to have found help in this desolate place.

"Thank you greatly," said the driver, stepping forward to embrace the nearest of the brothers. "Name anything we have that can repay you, and it shall be given."

But immediately it became clear that the brothers knew no words, for they had not heard a human voice since their first day of life.

"Strange," said one of the travellers "Mark this one. Does he not have the same nose and chin as our late king?"

"Do not think on it," replied another. "Why, these two look as much like the good queen as anyone—well can I remember such a face."

"Then might these not be the lost princes, named Pride and Envy by the cruel seer?"

"These are our names!" cried the twins, at once. "In speaking them, you have freed us from our silence." And this was so miraculous that the people of the caravan could not doubt that they were speaking to the sons of kings.

"Tell us," said Pride, "where is this kingdom that we are heir to?"

The driver pointed. "Its stones stand a hundred miles to the east, but its people wander, scattered. The barbarian hordes have driven us from our land, and so the kingdom itself is nowhere now."

Envy spoke bitterly. "Since that place could not be ours, it is well that it has fallen."

But "Hush, brother," said Pride. "We must have a new kingdom. One that will withstand a thousand ages."

And so the twin princes began to build a city, high upon the hill where they had buried the she-wolf. The work was hard, but Pride would not settle for anything but the highest walls, and the most lavish towers. Envy, meanwhile, sought out those places where the crude barbarians camped, and took from them his lost inheritance. Seeing this, many who had fled from that first city chose to become citizens of the second. Pride and Envy, the bad seer had said, would have ruin snapping always at their heels, but here the people saw no danger. Indeed, this city was the only haven in the barren wilderness.

But the brothers' work slowly forced them apart. In designing palaces and parks befitting his great dignity, Pride secluded himself in ever higher towers. Envy, meanwhile, stalked the wasteland, seeking out ever more distant riches that were owed to him, and striving always to maintain his great army that would strip the savage barbarians of all that they had. Only the driver of that first caravan saw that this was happening, however, for he had become the princes' trusted messenger. Eventually, there came a message that he dreaded to bring.

"His Majesty, King Pride, declares that as you have been gone so long from the capital, he has claimed the kingdom for his own."

"That wretch has a kingdom only because I fought for it!" Envy cried. "It is rightfully mine!" So leaving his army out in the wasteland, he rode homeward, his messenger's tired horse straining to follow.

By the time the messenger managed to catch his master, he was already in the throne room, lavish beyond compare.

"If I can have no crown," shouted Envy, "then I shall see yours broken!" and with one mighty blow from his sword, he cut the golden band, slaying his brother with that same stroke. Too late, he realised what he had done and all he had lost. His messenger, and all his courtiers, watched in horror as he began to panic, dashing to and fro before the throne.

"O gods," he wailed, "hide me from my shame!"

The messenger stepped forward to offer what comfort he could, but immediately had to step back, for the creature darting to and fro before the throne was not his master, but a wolf: having heard his plea, the gods had transformed him. With a scattering of claws on stone, the animal fled into the street, and no citizen of that great place ever saw it again.

Though ambition is a virtue clear,

Vainglory offends the envious ear.

24

Episode III: Roommate of the Sith

**Challenge #11: Write a piece of Fan Fiction.**

_On November 13th, Darth Vader was asked to remove himself from his place of residence on Tatooine. That request came from the Jedi Council. Deep down, he knew they were right, but he also knew that someday, he would return from the Dark Side. With nowhere else to go, he appeared at the home of his friend, Emperor Palpatine. Sometime earlier, Palpatine's mentor had thrown him out, requesting that he never return. Can two Sith Lords share a space station without driving each other crazy?_

"There." Palpatine slammed something down next to Vader's plate. "There's the key to the back door of the Death Star."

Vader sighed, though it was pretty much indistinguishable from the noise of his regular breathing. "What is it this time?"

"I'm sick of seeing you! Always swanning around in your fancy robot ninja suit. You think you're better than me?"

"It's hard not to with you wearing that stupid dressing gown all day. You run a whole empire, and you still go out dressed like that?"

"I'm a malevolent dictator with magic powers! Who's going to argue with me?"

"Anyone with any sort of fashion sense."

"Eeeyurrrgheh..." Palpatine made a "blah blah blah" motion with his hand. "I don't have time for this. I've got friends coming over for Dejarik later."

There was a noise like a bird getting sucked into a pod racer. It took Palpatine a moment to realise that Vader was laughing.

"What?" He said, folding his arms. "I have friends."

"Name one."

"There's...uh...Greedo."

"The guy Han Solo shot first?"

"Oh. Then no, not him, not him. But...uhh...you know, just...the guys."

"What 'guys'?"

"You know...the grey guys. In the grey suits."

"The people who work on the Death Star?"

"Yeah! And the...oh. What do you call them. The ones in that white, funny-looking armour that doesn't really do anything."

"The Stormtroopers?"

"Yeah!"

Vader sighed again. "And you say I need a life outside of work."

"Yeah. You should get a hobby."

"Like what."

"Like something far away from here." Palpatine pressed a finger to the table. "From now on, you stay on your side of the Death Star, and I'll stay on my side of the Death Star, and we'll all be a lot happier."

"It's...ugh." Vader clapped his hands to the side of his awkwardly chunky helmet. "This thing is the size of a small moon. I don't see why we ever run into each other in the first place."

"Yeah, well, we do. Now kindly remove that spaghetti from my Dejarik table."

Vader chuckled.

"What's so funny?" asked Palpatine.

"It's not spaghetti, it's linguine."

Palpatine paused, picked up the plate, then threw it at the wall. "Now it's garbage."

Vader folded his arms. "I am not cleaning that up."

"With that crazy mask of yours, I don't see how you could have eaten it!" And with that, Emperor Palpatine turned and stomped away.

Sighing once again, Darth Vader stood and went to find a mop.

25

Red Herring

The shotgun blast was deafening in the cold, hard foyer of the bank. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of several small chunks of plaster clattering to the floor.

"Alright!" shouted the gunman. "I'm not going to ask you to put your faces to the floor, because it wouldn't matter if you did!" He pointed to his Nixon mask. " _Point Break_ reference. Classy, right?"

Nobody said anything. They simply watched, perfectly still, as the rest of the robbers filed in. There was a Ronald Reagan, a Jimmy Carter and...another Richard Nixon. Clearly there weren't all that many Lyndon B. Johnson masks around. Jimmy Carter hurried over to the door of the vault and began unpacking various clamps and drills.

"My card." The first Nixon handed a business card to the bank teller, lingering over the gesture so that everyone in the room could see the design: a simple red silhouette of a fish on a plain white background. It had been in all the newspapers.

"That's the Red Herring!" hissed a customer, still standing in line.

"I thought they said he was a master of disguise!" whispered someone else in reply. "Richard Nixon mask and a pinstripe suit? Not particularly imaginative, is it?"

"Who said that?" The Red Herring strode over to the man in the queue.

"I...uh...I mean...It's just that...all the other disguises you've used have been really impressive..."

The Red Herring laughed. "So good to meet a fan of my work! And so sorry to disappoint. Normally I do my best to make things nice and theatrical, but this heist's all about the money, I'm afraid. Speaking of which..." he took a few steps towards the vault. "How's that door coming, Jimmy?"

"Aaaaaand I'm done!"

"Hey! What was that...twenty seconds? That's crazy! But I suppose that's to be expected from the top safe-cracker in the country. Reagan, would you do the honours?"

Unceremoniously, Ronald Reagan shot Jimmy Carter in the back of the head. "Now we only got to split the money three ways, right Boss?"

"That's right! Good job shutting down the CCTV, by the way. You're all done with that?"

"Sure am!"

BLAM.

"Don't worry." He dropped the shotgun and turned to the last remaining accomplice. "I'll still need you to help carry the money."

The accomplice levelled his own weapon at Red Herring's chest. "Don't count on that happening."

"Oh, come on." The master criminal spread his arms. "Is this because we both came as Nixon? Because I called it two weeks ago. And I told you, if you wanted that Lyndon B. Johnson mask to arrive in time, you'd have to shell out for the faster shipping."

"Oh," said the accomplice. "It's not that. It's just I'm..." he peeled off his Nixon mask, "Bruce Steel. F.B.I." There was a surprised gasp from the bystanders.

"We've...uh...we've been planning this heist for quite a while, remember? All those meetings? The F.B.I. thing is news, but I already knew what your face looked like."

"Oh," said Bruce. "Sorry." He peeled off his accomplice mask. "Bruce Steel," he said again. "F.B.I." There was a polite gasp from the bystanders. "I've been undercover for longer than you'd think. Deep undercover. At times...almost too deep. Sometimes it's like...it's like it's the disguise that wears you. I know you know that, Red Herring."

"You don't know anything about me!" And with that, Red Herring tore off his own Nixon mask. The room gasped once again.

"I..." Bruce Steel waved his bank robber mask awkwardly. "I already know what you look like. Meetings, remember?"

"Oh! Right. Now I've done it too. Hang on..."

With some effort—because it was really well stuck on—he peeled off his Red Herring mask.

"You don't know anything about me!" The gasp from the room was less enthusiastic this time.

"Jacque Flaneur," said Steel, not a hint of surprise in his voice. "Once Broadway's finest actor, now reduced to a life of crime. You have no idea how closely I've followed your story."

"Oh, but I do. Because..." Jacque removed yet another mask, his French accent suddenly morphing into an Irish brogue, "it was me who put you on the case, boyo!"

This time, it was Steel's turn to gasp. "Director O'connell!"

"'Tis I!"

Steel dropped his gun. "But...why?" It was the question everybody wanted to ask.

"For one reason. One reason alone." He took a step forward, closing the gap between himself and Steel. "Because you...are the real Red Herring!" Gripping Steel's chin, he suddenly pulled the skin upwards. Except it wasn't skin—it was latex.

"So. You've got it all figured out, then, don't you?"

"Indeed I do, lad. Right down to the fact that you..." he peeled another mask from the Red Herring, "really are Jaque Flaneur!"

"Mon Dieu! Can it really be? Can you really have pulled so many threads, yet not realised the great truth behind it all?"

"No," said O'connell. "I always knew that there was more. But I think it's time you gave us the truth."

"You don't want the truth, my friend. You won't like it when you see it."

"No. I think it's time I saw your real face."

"Very well." Jacque—the real Jacque—began fumbling for the edge of his mask. "The truth is that I...am your brother!"

"That's impossible!"

"Is it now, boyo?"

"Yes," he said, with true feeling in his voice. "Because I..." he peeled off his own mask and shook out his hair. "I am your daughter—Priscilla O'Connell!"

Director O'Connell's long-lost brother laughed. "Now that really is impossible."

"Why?"

He peeled off one last mask. "Because I really am Richard Nixon. And furthermore..." he peeled a mask off Priscilla, "you are an alpaca."

"What?" said the bank teller.

"Pwaa!" bleated Priscilla.

Putting on his Red Herring mask once more, Richard Nixon picked up a large bag of money and left the building.

"Okay," said the man in the queue. "That actually was quite impressive."

26

Her Sunken Dream

***Challenge #12: Write a story which takes inspiration from the lyrics, songs or motion picture career of David Robert Jones, aka David Bowie. It must include at least 10 made-up words (a maximum of 1 per sentence). The story must feature two different significant changes experienced by the character(s) during the course of the story. The story must span a period of five years or feature a lapse of five years. It must also include all five senses.**

"Now, you're a cannish guy. Know how I can tell? Because you're here! Everyone else is either skreeking out into space or digging down as far as they can go. But you...you know how to think outside the box! No point digging a massive bunker if some snaggly bomb scores a direct hit. No point running off all the way to Mars only to starve when you get there either. Yessir, the sea's the place to be! Far enough from the bombs to be safe, not so far that you're stuck there when the danger's over. So." Esteban smiled and took the expensive pen from his pocket. "Shall I put you down for the basic package, or will sir be upgrading to the deluxe?"

***

Five years later, Esteban Mosquera was no longer so enthusiastic about his underwater habitat. Living beneath the waves had been quite a selling point before the war—and still hadn't lost all its novelty—but the structure itself was a god-awful small affair. To begin with, if he was honest, it had just been a money-spinning scheme. He could let rooms out to saps looking for a little extra security, and if worst really did come to worst, he'd be safe himself. Thing was, worst had come to worst, and now he was regretting cutting some of those corners during construction. The place was hardly shoddy—he was no conman—but it certainly wasn't lavish. The narrow hallways always had pipes overhead, and there was no decoration anywhere. Just metre after metre of the same flupping metal wall to stare at all day every day. Worse still, there were no windows. Truth was, at this point he was quite aware that he might well be housing the very last little pocket of humanity in existence, and they definitely weren't doing as well as they could have been. The money he'd made before the war was no consolation at all. He was no longer a businessman: he was the guardian of humankind.

***

The girl with the mousey hair was not old enough to properly remember the world on the surface. All she had ever known was Seatown, with its faint smell of zinc that nobody ever seemed to get used to. She had never heard a cricket; at night, she could listen only to the ceiling groaning under the weight of the water. She had never felt grass between her toes; only the thick blankets of algae that grew where the floor was wet and the lights shone strong. She had never tasted a sour blackberry, picked by the side of the road—only the pale, mushy apples that grew in the hydroponicarium.

The girl with the mousey hair didn't particularly care that she could never come up from the bottom of the sea. It wasn't that the surface didn't matter. It was just that it didn't matter any more. The things that had been up there had all been burned, or irradiated, or simply blasted into tiny little atomlets. All that was left now were stories and pictures, and it didn't particularly matter that she didn't have any of her own. She was happy just to watch the viddies. She had seen most of them ten times or more.

But then she saw the film about the chubbly little men who get shot out of a cannon and land on the moon—right in its eye!—and she began to wonder about Mars again. People always spoke sadly about it. They talked about how some big piece of the city there—something absolutely, positively inscrimpable—had been blown to pieces with the last rocket that was due to leave, and the place had failed. But on the moon in that viddy, the little black-and-white men met some peculiar space people who went "fwoof!" when struck with an umbrella. That made her wonder: was there life on Mars? If not the people who took their city with them, then someone else who had been there all along? And for the first time, she wanted to leave Seatown. Because for the first time, she thought there might be somewhere else to go.

27

The Return

"Welcome to the Triassic Experience! Would you like a map?"

"Actually, I was here just yesterday. I only came in to return this jigsaw puzzle."

"Okay. Do you have a receipt?"

"Nooooo..." Brian breathed in through his teeth, grimacing. "I actually didn't get one."

"Ohh." The gift shop cashier winced. "I'm afraid we do require proof of purchase for all returns."

"Uh-huh, yeah, I get that. It's just...I literally bought it yesterday. It's not even been opened. See?" He pointed out the cellophane still on the box.

"Hmmm. Can I just ask...why do you want to return it, anyway?"

"Well, it was for my daughter. She's a bit under the weather at the moment, and when we came on our family outing yesterday, she had to stay behind with her grandmother. I thought this would cheer her up a bit, but one of the dinosaurs on it scares her. It's, uhh..." he pointed, "this one. Right here. You can kind of see what she's on about, right? You know. Grrrrr!" Brian made his free hand into talons.

"Haha. Yeah, it is a bit scary."

"So, um..." he checked her name tag, "Vicky. Do you think you can help me out?"

"Sorry. I can't actually get the money out of the machine without a receipt. There's a code you've got to put in."

"Oh, so it's like a mechanical problem?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"Well, could you maybe do an exchange then?"

Suddenly, a dinosaur's head burst up through the floor. "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!" it said. "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!"

The two other people in the gift shop immediately fled through the big glass doors, screaming. Brian would have too, but the dinosaur was blocking his only escape route. After years of merely being annoyed by the shelves and shelves of tourist tat cluttering up every attraction anywhere, the problem had finally become life-threatening. He'd always known this would happen.

The dinosaur, scrabbling at the lino with its tiny little arms, managed to squeeze itself up into the room. It was a T-Rex, or an allosaur. Something big and carnivorous. "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!" It said again, before sniffing around the stacks of merchandise.

Brian couldn't think of anything to do about this, so he just stood there, tightly clutching the dinosaur puzzle (ages five and up) that he'd been hoping to get rid of. The dinosaur swished its tail angrily, knocking over a rack of key rings. Then it kicked a pile of soft toys. After that, it tried to knock all the books off a bookshelf, but its arms were too short and stubby. "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!" said the dinosaur, headbutting the shelf instead.

Just then, Brian remembered something he'd seen in a movie once. "Stay perfectly still," he said to Vicky, the cashier. "They can't see you if you don't move."

"Who said that?" demanded the dinosaur. It turned to look at them. "What have you done to my house?"

"Uhhhhhhh..." said Brian.

"What?" asked Vicky.

"My house!" The dinosaur bobbed its head up and down. "Did you do this? You monsters! You absolute brutes!"

"Just...um...just slow down. What happened to your...um...your house."

Brian was genuinely impressed by Vicky's control of the situation. He was still just trying to take it all in.

"I don't know what happened to my house, that's the point!" The dinosaur stomped back and forth a few paces. "I was only gone for ten minutes!"

"Well you definitely weren't here ten minutes ago. I think I'd remember."

"Okay. Maybe it was more like twenty."

"When you say you were gone...gone where, exactly?"

The dinosaur gestured with its tiny little arms. "The basement! Where else?"

"I'm just going to come right out and say it." Vicky put her hands on the counter. "I don't think there have been any dinosaurs around here for about 66 million years."

"Well..." the dinosaur tried to scratch the back of its head, but couldn't even get close to reaching it. "Maybe I sorta lost track of how long it had been."

Brian finally thought of something to say. "What were you doing all that time, anyway?"

The dinosaur shrugged. "TVtropes."

28

The Kingdom of the Wolf

Long, long ago in a time none now remember, there was a city, ringed round by walls of stone. But these walls were kept more for tradition than any particular need. The barbarian hordes had been scattered long ago, and no foul beasts dared to stalk among the herds of that fine place. But though the citizens of this great kingdom were safe from foreign harm, their very king came to threaten them.

This king had grown cruel with age, and now cared nothing for his subjects—only for himself. Long had it been known that he was wont to bend his will to wealthy men, and often would he lend his royal guard to aid their work. This was known, but rarely spoken, for the king had servants to keep watch in all the streets.

But as the kingdom's walls did nothing to protect it from its gravest threat, so too did the king's spies prove wanting. For in the darkness one quiet night, he woke to find a wolf standing just inside his door.

"Guards!" he shouted, "Guards, protect me!"

But the wolf caught his words like fowl and devoured them, so they never left the room. "Hear me, Majesty," it said, "before you speak."

And the king did not try to call again, for he could see that this was not some creature from the wild, but an apparition. Its eyes shone with their own green light, and the skin about them was red and blistered, as though they burned like coals. "Speak, horror," he said, "and tell me what you will."

"For nine generations, I have watched this place, and all its kings. And for nine generations, I have not shown my face. But your greed forces me to act. Change your ways, Majesty, or in one year I will return."

And with that, the black beast left. Immediately, the king called in his guards, but though their search was swift, no intruder did they find, and all the palace doors were still locked tight.

The wolf's speech left the king deep in thought, and he resolved to return to his old, good ways and tend his people. But within a month the gifts of merchants overwhelmed him, and his heart was hardened once again.

"What right has a beast," he asked himself, "to confront a king?" And so he sent horsemen out into the fields, and all the nearby woods, to slay this creature if they could.

But one year on from that quiet night, the wolf appeared again.

"You disappoint me, Majesty."

The king looked on in horror. Where before the flesh around the wolf's eyes had only blistered, it now sloughed wetly from its face, hanging from its jaw in gory threads. He tried to cry out, but terror robbed him of his voice, and so he could only listen.

But the wolf had little more to say. "Change your ways, or in one year I will return."

And so for nearly two months this time, the king refused all tribute, and sought to act only in the interests of his people. But once again, the lustre of gold banished the wolf's dire warnings from his mind.

"What mockery is this?" he thought. "How will my rule be remembered, if I bow to this vile beast?"

And so rather than refuse the merchants' gold, he resolved to spend it. Doubling his force of horsemen, he sent out a hunt that would slaughter all the wolves in the wilds of his nation. And lest the creature cowered somewhere in the city, he doubled also his spies. Yet somehow, still, a rumour spread that some fevered madness had claimed the king.

But despite his great efforts, and his great expense, the king's black wolf appeared again. The king stared on in horror. The heat had spread beyond its eyes, and its whole head was now consumed by ethereal flame. Smoke poured from its nostrils and rose from its hide.

"And once again I must appear!" The wolf advanced upon him as it spoke, and with each word a jet of flame escaped its mouth. "Can you not see how much this pains me? How much I have sacrificed to bring you these portents?"

But though spies and horsemen had all failed, the king had one last measure of security. Snatching the dagger from its place beneath his pillow, he plunged it through the devil's heart.

The green coals of the wolf's eyes seemed to lose their heat. "Yield, Majesty," it breathed. "Yield, and you can yet be saved. Persist, and ten thousand wolves shall take my place."

But the king would never yield, for he knew there were no longer any wolves to take the place of his tormentor. And to celebrate his victory, he held a masquerade the following year, on the very night the wolf would have returned, had he not with cold steel quenched the fires of its eyes. No expense was spared in providing music, food and wine, and guests from all across the kingdom were invited to share in this great merriment.

"A toast!" the king announced. "To glory, to tradition, and to the honour of the kingdom!"

But there was no applause. Somewhere in the crowd, someone threw down their wine, shattering the glass against the floor. The gesture was repeated, again and again, all across the room.

"Arrest those traitors!" The king looked to his guards, but there was no response.

Slowly, the crowd began to gather around the king. There was a chant, potent and angry, but there was chaos in the noise and so he couldn't hear the words. Too late, he realised that he had only slain a ghost. Through his cruelty and misdeeds, the king had bred his ten thousand wolves: each one living in the heart of a courtier. And with a howl, the circle closed.

So as virtue is its own reward,

Corruption has a cost none can afford.

29

The Pen Laughs at Structure

**Challenge #13: Write a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not in that order. The beginning can't be first, the end can't be last, and the middle can't be in the middle.**

"I don't mean to alarm you, Paul, but I've turned into a horse."

"Not to worry. I'll just turn this dial back a little, aaaaand..."

"Now I'm two horses."

"Okay. I'm going to stop fiddling with this thing now."

"Please do."

There was an awkward silence. Dave tapped two of his front hooves nervously on the hot, sticky tarmac of the car park.

"So...um."

"We should get going?"

"Yeah. Which way?"

Paul looked around. "Well, the sun's over there, but I don't know what time it is, or where we are, or where the crystalline elixir would be."

"I thought you said that thing was going to make our job easier."

"The device isn't perfect, alright?"

"Gee, really!?" The horses snorted angrily. "I hadn't noticed."

Suddenly, a dinosaur's head burst up through the floor. "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!" it said. "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!"

"Oh no." Dave stared in horror. "What's going on now? That dinosaur's not supposed to be here!"

"Look, it's fine. Sometimes when you screw around with the narrative causality matrix, it drags in stuff from other stories. Just ignore it."

"Screw that," huffed Dave. "I'm asking for directions. Excuse me!"

"Yes?" The dinosaur turned to look at him.

"Do you know the way to the crystalline elixir?"

"Yeah, but it's quite a way. Head down Middle of Nowhere Street, then take a left at the Orphanage of Fear. After that, just keep going until you see the Elaborate Underground Base."

Paul let out an impressed whistle. "Somebody's spent a while on TVtropes."

"Yeah," said the dinosaur. "Were you not here two days ago? That was actually a thing."

"I was kind of busy. As you can see, this is a buddy comedy. Dave and I are on a hilarious quest to find the crystalline elixir, but..." he waved the device complacently, "I've devised a way of avoiding all the hijinks."

Dave whinnied in annoyance.

"Okay. Most of the hijinks."

"I don't know..." the dinosaur balanced its massive head on a tiny little arm, its elbow resting on the concrete. "Don't you think you're being excessively Genre Savvy? That seems like the kind of thing that might cause hilarity to ensue, if you know what I mean."

"That's basically what I said," offered Dave.

"No, it's cool. Like I said, I've got this little device that lets me manipulate the narrative causality matrix. I can just skip right to the end."

"What? You can't do that!"

"Watch me."

BLIP!

wobblewobblewobblewobble

"I'm still two horses."

"You're just not going to let me forget about that, are you?"

"It's really starting to bum me out."

"Quit complaining! We're in the underground base thingy, and I'm pretty sure that's the crystalline elixir right there."

"Good. Maybe one of its magic powers is to stop me being two horses."

"Oh, come on, Dave! Give it a rest!"

"Just hurry up and get the thing, would you?"

"Fine! I will."

Paul stomped over to the sci-fi looking pedestal in the middle of the room and lifted the cylindrical glass cover. A cloud of cold vapour tumbled to the floor. Reaching into the container, he took out a small white nugget.

"Do you know what we're actually supposed to do with this? I mean, normally you'd drink an elixir, but obviously that's not an option here. It's gotta be food, right?"

"Yeah, probably."

"I mean, worst case scenario: something funny happens. It shouldn't—the device should have eliminated pretty much all the hijinks—but if worst comes to worst, that's it, right?"

"Yeah. It's not going to be anything really unpleasant."

"Unless that really unpleasant thing was, in fact, funny..." Paul eyed the crystalline elixir suspiciously.

"Just do it already!"

"Alright, alright!"

Paul popped the nugget in his mouth and chewed once. Immediately, he spat it out again. "Peh," he said," frantically wiping fragments off his tongue with both hands.

"What?" asked Dave. "What is it?"

"It's crack cocaine."

The horses gave each other a tired look. "I told you this was a bad idea."

"In retrospect, the device does seem to have caused as many hijinks as it prevented."

Suddenly, a dinosaur's head burst up through the floor. "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!" it said. "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!"

"Alright," said Paul, readying the device once more. "That's it. We're going home."

BLIP!

wibblewibblewibblewibble

"Eureka!" shouted Paul. "I've done it!"

"Oh, great," sighed Dave. "What crazy scheme have you come up with this time?"

"It's not a crazy scheme! It's a device that'll let us bypass all the regular hijinks that stop us from getting the crystalline elixir."

"I don't know...that sounds like the sort of thing that might end up causing hilarity to ensue."

"No, it's cool. See, it works by manipulating the narrative causality matrix itself. Rather than coming up with a specific crazy scheme, we'll just insert ourselves into whatever storyline eventually leads to us obtaining the crystalline elixir."

"I just want to go on record as saying that I think this is a bad idea."

"Oh, come on! What's the worst that could happen?"

BLIP!

30

Aerosol

It has been a day and a half since the crash, and I have found a cabin. In some ways, this is a relief. I don't know if I could face another night on the mountain without shelter. Outside, a fire does no good: the heat simply travels upwards. However, this place also raises some difficult questions. I estimate that I've put eight miles between myself and the crash site. I don't know if this will be enough. It occurs to me that I don't really know anything.

The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are never recovered. It does not explain what to do if the payload begins to leak.

Jenkins shouted after me as I ran, said it was our duty to defend the aircraft. I tried to warn him about the spur of wood protruding from the fuselage—no way it had failed to pierce the tank. Sometimes I wonder if I should have gone back, dragged him with me. Too late now.

***

The payload is colourless and odourless. Out of necessity, I have melted down some snow to drink. I can only hope that this is safe. The sky is silent. If they know where we are, they have not sent out a search.

***

There are cracks in the cabin walls. I have spent days looking for somewhere else to go, but have found nothing so far. I wonder about the fluid leaking slowly from the plane. It was supposed to be released as an aerosol. I don't know what it will do, trickling across the land. I saw a dead vole lying in the snow today, but it's too soon to have been a result of the leak. I hope it's too soon.

***

The cracks in the walls seem to widen every day. Perhaps it's because I have stayed so long. With no planes overhead, and the ever-present threat of the spreading leak, even the tiniest annoyance fills my mind and cannot be ignored. My small rations have run out, but there are cans of food in a cupboard by the window here. The labels are all foreign, and it's strange to think that I'm behind enemy lines. I've forgotten everything that I was trained to do in this situation. It all seems pointless. There are no people to capture me here, though I almost wish there were. The only enemy is the one we brought, seeping through the hillside.

Today I saw a bird at the window, batting at the glass.

***

Many of the cans have rusted through and spoiled. The first one I opened spilled out something black and crumbly. The second and third were much the same. I am keeping the spoiled food outside, buried underneath the snow. While I have so little, I cannot throw anything away. I have a little snare wire in my survival tin, and could always use some bait.

***

With nothing left to eat, I have begun to hunt, but hold little hope. Today, I spent all morning stalking an ibex that I saw up on the ridge. But when I finally had it in the sights of my service pistol, I realised that it was sick. A healthy animal wouldn't have let me get that close. Besides that, there were little cysts all down one side of its face. A thick rope of drool dangled from its bottom lip.

I should have walked farther. I should have put more distance between myself and the plane. Too late now.

***

The cracks really are widening. There's one by my bed that I can put my hand through. When I first noticed it, I could barely see daylight on the other side. I think it's the fire, drying out the wooden walls, but I cannot do without it. I would stop up the gaps, but I am wearing all the cloth I have. There were no sheets or blankets left here by the owners. I don't know if it's still safe here, but it's too late to risk another move. The payload is colourless and odourless.

***

I shot Jenkins today. How he survived in the plane so long, nobody will ever know, but he wasn't well. Whatever we were flying in, it did something to his brain. He was violent, incoherent, obviously contaminated. There was nothing else I could do. I'm aware I'll be court martialled for this, if I'm ever found at all. I hope these notes will help my case. His body is in the stream—I couldn't risk moving him.

***

There is almost no wall left now. By day, the sun streams through the spaces in the wood. By night, the wind blows through. On more than one occasion, the bird I saw has flown straight through the building. It has tumours on the backs of its wings. Whatever was in the plane, it is in here now too.

***

Someone is at the door.

***

Today I managed to trap an alpine hare. It was obviously contaminated, but there's nothing else to eat. Also, I'm past caring. We brought this thing to the mountain. I suppose it's our duty to stay here with it. Down by the stream, all the trees have died.

***

The cabin has exploded. It didn't happen suddenly. The cracks just widened and widened until that was all there was. The walls are nothing but jagged splinters now, suspended in the air, and now I realise. I don't need this place. The plane has taken everything—Jenkins, the cabin, the animals, the trees—and I can do without it. I am free.

***

Matches. Glue. Airplane wings. My pen is running out of ink.

***

Someone is at the door.

31

Musical Isotopes

**Challenge #14: Write a piece of absurdist fiction.**

Once upon a time, on a Tuesday, Hydrogen decided to quit its day job and become a country music star.

"I have decided to quit my day job and become a country music star," said Hydrogen.

Hydrogen's job was promptly outsourced to a sweatshop in China. Zhang Xiu Ying, an amateur musician and part-time waitress, was an employee of this sweatshop.

Contrary to the extremely disparaging remarks Neodymium had made shortly before Hydrogen decided to begin its music career, Hydrogen immediately became extremely successful. This was because the televised talent contest Hydrogen used to pursue a record deal had been fixed by the Mafia in order to recover financial losses suffered due to a clerical error caused by a freak accident involving a pickled stoat. Hydrogen was not aware of this, as up until the contest win it had spent most of its time devising an elaborate sob-story about Plutonium. This story would later earn Hydrogen a book deal, plus a considerable fortune from the sale of the movie rights, though ultimately the director lost confidence in the project and the film was never made.

Jealous of Hydrogen's easy success, Zhang Xiu Ying started a mean-spirited blog—www.hydrogenlooksfatandugly.com—that initially went completely unread. However, almost a year later, a small-town reporter stumbled across it and used it in an article as an example of how the anonymity of online presence frees people from the established conventions of polite society and proves that ultimately, deep down, we are all petty and spiteful. That article immediately went viral, driving millions of views to www.hydrogenlooksfatandugly.com.

This sudden influx of attention prompted Zhang Xiu Ying to change tack. Having begun as an outlet for various poorly-articulated rants about Hydrogen's choice of clothes and the repetitive nature of its lyrics (which were largely ghost-written by its friend, Helium), the blog quickly morphed into a discourse on the lottery of birth and the superficiality of manufactured fame.

You know this because the pickled stoat shared the link on Twitter.
Statistical Analysis

Why, hello there! I didn't see you come in. Possibly because this is a book, not a room, and there's no way I could literally see you doing anything. That would be crazy. But regardless of how you got here, I should probably explain that last year's anthology— _OCR is Not the Only Font_ —included a section analysing the results of Flash Fiction Month, and that in this book I'll be building on that. While last year's analysis focused on the effect of Flash Fiction Month as a whole, this one will have more to do with how this year's event went differently for me. If that doesn't interest you, you might like to skip this section, but unfortunately you can't because suddenly there's a graph!

Fig 1: "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!" says Fig. 1. "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!"

If you've read the section with graphs and stuff from _OCR is Not the Only Font_ , this might look familiar. I did the same thing last year, though obviously this graph uses this year's word counts. The blue line (the one with diamond dots, for those of you reading in black and white) shows the word count for each day of the month, while the red line (square dots) is an average of five days: that day itself, and the two before and after. Essentially, the red line shows the same thing as the blue line—word count over time—but it evens out all the horrible spiky bits that make it impossible to tell what's going on.

"What _is_ going on?" I hear you cry! Well, since you asked so enthusiastically...not much, really. On average, I was writing 500-900 words each day. It went up and down an awful lot on some individual days, but on the whole didn't change much over the course of the month. In fact, almost all the points on the red line are in the 600-800 region, so that red line isn't doing anything interesting whatsoever. It's almost as though I was subconsciously trying to sabotage my own statistical analysis! Let's see if I can save this with...Fig. 2!

Fig. 2: "Zzzzzzzzzz...huh!? What? How did I get here?"

Here's the five day average for this year (2013: red line, square dots) compared with the one for last year (2012: green line, triangular dots). Notice how there's actually something going on in this graph? Yeah, that's right! Things are happening!

More specifically, two things are happening. One is that this year's line is much spikier than last year's. I'm not certain why that's the case, but I suspect it's not terribly important. The other thing that's happening is that, while my average word count per day dropped over the course of the month in 2012, this time around it stayed boringly consistent. The two lines also seem to share the same little jump in word count around Day 27, possibly because the end was in sight and I was motivated to write a little more on those days. The drop at the very end is likely down to the challenges: the final challenge of 2012 involved a very short word limit, and the final challenge this year didn't really lend itself to a long story, so there you go.

But to show you the most interesting difference between these two Flash Fiction Months, I'll need a different graph entirely...

Fig. 3: "I am a graph! Squeeze me!"

This graph shows averages taken from across _entire months_. In 2012, my average word count per day for the whole month was 511. Considering that these stories have a minimum word count of 55, and a maximum word count of 1000 (also included in the graph for comparison), this doesn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary: it's pretty much right in the middle of the two extremes. This year, however, my average was 703: that's nearly two hundred words more every single day. I feel it's particularly high given that, in order to actually hit that maximum possible average of 1000 words per day, you'd have to ignore any challenges that required you to write less. Plus, some challenges (such as that Pilish one) _really_ aren't conducive to long stories, even if they don't technically rule them out.

To illustrate this increase in story length a different way: in 2012, five of my flash fiction stories had word counts of over 900; this year, that figure more than doubled to thirteen. In _OCR is Not the Only Font_ , I raised the point that more words aren't necessarily better, but this year I've clearly become better at churning out more words. In the eleven months between these two events, I've participated in a variety of other flash fiction challenges, and also participated in National Novel Writing Month for the first time. I've had more practice at coming up with stories on the spot, and I've learned to plan them out more carefully. All in all, I'm not certain that these things have made me a better writer, but they do seem to have allowed me to tackle a wider range of stories, including some longer ones. Have a look at this:

Fig. 4: In case you were wondering about the flavour of this pie chart, it's banoffee.

In _OCR is Not the Only Font_ , I acknowledged that this sort of event tends to prompt fun, silly stories over serious ones. And clearly that's still the case. But this year has seen a very slight increase in the number of heavier stories. Not only that, but I feel as though some of the ones I've counted as "funny" for the purposes of this graph did have somewhat more substance than last year. _Whisper Down the Lane_ , for example, should be laugh-worthy, but there was also a serious (possibly even kind of depressing) point behind it too. And I think that illustrates the big problem with statistics-based analyses of literature: you can't boil genre down into a little pie chart. Ultimately, if you want to understand what makes a story tick, you've just got to read it and take it apart. Graphs and numbers won't really help you. They are handy for some things, though. And if nothing else, I hope you've found them entertaining.
The End

If you skipped to this point trying to find out whodunnit, you're doing this reading thing wrong. You're a loose cannon! Turn in your library card and your gun. If, however, you have actually finished the book, I'm guessing you enjoyed it. If you want more stories like this, you could try OCR is Not the Only Font. If novels are more your thing, have a look at Face of Glass. Finally, if you know anybody else who might like _Red Herring_ , please consider sharing it with them.

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Books by Damon L. Wakes

**Prehistoric Fantasy:**

Face of Glass

**The** _Flash Fiction Month_ **Series:**

OCR is Not the Only Font

Red Herring

Bionic Punchline

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