Painter

Norm awoke with a start and glanced at his clock. The neon-blue LEDs proclaimed the time to be 12:37 in the afternoon. He cursed under his breath and stood up, wiping the weariness from his eyes. He was late.

He glanced out the window. The painter had already begun to work.

Norm remembered the first night that he saw the man. Staring through the window, brush in hand, his mouth twisted in a grin, baring blackened teeth. He had awakened at midnight, and the sight lasted for a full ten minutes before the painter simply walked away. When he did so, the sun began to crest across the horizon.

He had seen the painter several times after that first incident. Each time, staring through that thin glass pane, his hollow eye sockets making it seem as though he were a simple veneer of a man wrapped taut around something far more primal.

Now, at midday, the painter threw new hues across the sky and ground. He slashed the heavens with streaks of muddy green. He threw splotches of blood red and sickly yellow across the grass. Houses became ancient-looking monoliths of rock; trees turned into tall things with barbed, creeping vines; the odd person strolling about the street uttered a feral scream as paint splattered against them and melted into something only vaguely human.

Norm rubbed his temples as he paced over to the window. With a strained heave, he pulled it open, just in time to see the painter turn toward him.

“Are you ready?” he asked. His cracked lips never left their twisted grin as he spoke, as though they were frozen there.

Norm nodded. “I think I always have been.”

The events of the painter’s previous visit flashed in Norm’s mind. It was the only time before that the man had spoken directly to him. The things he told him were unspeakable, morbid tales of ancient gods, millennia-long plots and plans, and the chains that bind the true rulers of this universe.

And then, as usual, he had disappeared.

The painter raised his brush. Then, suddenly, he stood but a foot from Norm.

“Good.”

Norm barely felt the brush touch him. His attention was focused on his skin, slowly turning the color of slate as pointed scales began to jut from his flesh. He glanced at his hands and found that he had many more of them than before, long and slender and ending in steely claws. He focused his vision, and found himself staring into planes of existence full of buildings, objects, and creatures he had never fathomed before.

“All is done,” the painter said. “Now, my Master has awoken, and the world is his.” He paused. "...and yours."

Norm refocused his vision on the world around him, and took his first step into his new world.

Red

As cliché as it sounds, the first thing I did when I heard that Constance had died was to visit her grave with a rose. After work, tired and disheveled, I stood before her, my suit covered in a fine dust of snow. It had, after all, been a long day.

“Red,” I said, referring to the nickname I had given her after our first night together, “Sorry I took so long. I know I missed the funeral, and…”

Her headstone jutted up from the ground like a lost and forgotten monolith, weathered by time and neglect. It gave no answer, except in its engraving as my eyes scanned over its polished surface.

Constance Meredith Thompson, it proclaimed in bold, gothic letters. 1984-2008. Beloved daughter, sister, and friend.

The moment after I finished the last sentence, my vision flashed red. I imagined the words, “and fiancé” appended on the end. She would have wanted that, I thought. Damn them for not even acknowledging me. ME, the most important man in her life!

My fist clenched around the rose, then relaxed. I exhaled and dropped the flower, the stem now bent like a fractured bone, on to the snow-covered soil. It hit the ground with a soft sound, like a footfall on carpeted floor.

“Right then,” I said out loud. My voice echoed in the cold December air. “I guess your family never did like me much. We always said we’d work through it, but…” I bent down on one knee. Ivory-hued flakes immediately clustered around the leg of my slacks touching the ground.

“I guess there’s never enough time.”

They said that she looked horrid after the accident. Some soccer mom in an SUV ran a red light while talking on a cell phone. Constance had just begun to cross the street. One glance downward, and it was over. She didn’t even scream, a witness told me. She just crumpled under the moving behemoth of chrome and rubber. Her body’s condition meant that her family couldn’t hold an open-casket funeral. Her parents were mostly devout Catholics. That must have grated on them terribly.

“Never enough time,” I repeated, my voice lowered. “You never know when the finite amount we’re given will run out, do you, Red?” I placed my hand on the grave, my fingers tracing the outline of the letters. “Nor when the connections you make in this life might sever. That’s the chance we all take, right? Whenever we make that connection, whenever we try to sustain something that might not survive through the night, let alone until death do us part.”

I stood up and brushed the snow off of my leg. “Ours must have run out, love,” I said. “It ran out long before you went away.”

“Hey, babe!” a female voice called out from behind me. “What’s taking you so long?”

“Coming, Liz!” I shouted back over my shoulder. “I’ll be right there-ahh!” I winced and glanced at the palm of my hand. A thorn-sized prick dripped blood down my palm.

“Well, Red,” I muttered through clenched teeth. “It looks like this is goodbye.”

As I turned around, I caught my last sight of that gravestone in my peripheral vision. A streak of crimson ran down its otherwise granite-hued surface.
‘’
Blood for blood, I thought to myself as a slight smile cracked the corners of my lips. It fits so well, so perfectly, like a diamond in a pristine setting. Blood for blood, life for life, entwined above the cold earth as time drifts by like cars drift through red lights, roaring and impersonal, yielding to no one.

[Not really in a "writey" mood at the moment, so I'll write this one fully when I am. Until then, here's a teaser.]

Angela squinted into the orange light of the sunrise in the Pasture Room. Around her, groups of fenced-in sheep and cattle bayed and shuffled in the tan soil, a din that nearly drowned out the omnipresent humming of the engines. She bent down, hands on her knees, and beckoned to a smaller figure standing in the doorway before her, who scampered out toward her.

"Mommy," the figure said, wrapping his arms around Angela's waist. "Why are we here instead of the game room?"

Angela lowered her head to look her son in the eye and hugged him in turn. A mass of black curls fell around her face. "Will, there is no more game room," she said, withdrawing her arms. "God has decreed it so. If we want to play from now on, we'll have to do it somewhere else."

Will's lips twisted into a pout. "But Mommy, why doesn't God want us to play?"

"God's wishes are sometimes strange," Angela said. "But He knows what is best for us. You need to trust in His will." She ruffled the child's hair, the same color as her own. "Now, what do you want to play?"

"I... uh..." Will shuffled his feet in the soil. "I don't really want to play here, Mommy," he said. "There's too many animals, and it kinda' smells bad. And I don't really wanna play anywhere else either."

He looked up to the sky. Above the pair, the luminescent globe of the sun crested over the horizon, its light transitioning from golden to a pale yellow, the color of sand.

"Are you sure, dear?" Angela said, a look of worry crossing her face. "We still have a little bit before school starts."

Will shook his head and stepped away from his mother, leaving dragged-out footprints on the ground below. "I wanna go there early. I know the way," he said. "Is it okay if I go now?"

Gods Without Hands

The egg-shaped machine rested at the center of an otherwise rustic-looking office. Tendrils of wires and tubes snaked from it to other devices, to the wall, and to a small, helmet-like device sitting upon a cushioned burgundy armchair. Flashing lights and monitor displays illuminated the various facets of the array, casting eerie shadows across the otherwise dim room. Bookcases, chairs, and a brick fireplace lined the walls, and varnished hardwood floors glimmered in the half-light. Nestled between two of the bookcases stood a single door, closed; no windows or other portals could be found within, except for the one allowing a slight view into the contents of the egg.

And within the egg? Well, I will get there in a moment. For now, you must also know that two women stood within the room. One sat upon the chair nearby the helmet-device, her legs crossed. Her brown hair had been wound tightly into a bun, and thin-rimmed glasses adorned her mouse-like features, matching in an odd way her sterile white lab coat and plain slippers. The other woman stood before her, a few feet away, hands clasped tightly in front of her. She shivered, as though winter had suddenly taken to the room, and curly locks of red hair slid across her wrinkle-lined face. She seemed dressed too warmly to be inside, in a ruby-red petticoat, white blouse, and long skirt.

"Are you sure this will work?" the standing woman asked, her eyes turning downward to the seated figure before her.

"As I've told you already, Ms. Parkman, I'm not sure," the seated woman replied. "This technology is still new to us, and this is the first time it's been tested on such a... special case. There's no telling what could happen."

Ms. Parkman took a few steps over to the egg. Her heels, colored blood-red to match the rest of her outfit, clapped on the floor, producing a sound like distant gunfire. "But there's no danger to him, right? My son won't be hurt?"

"No, there's no danger," the seated woman replied. "Think of this as a simple look-see. I'll be an observer, and that's it. I couldn't interfere with him even if I were inclined to."

Ms. Parkman finished her last step over to the egg. Unclasping her hands, she placed one on the glass.

"My boy..." she whispered to what lay inside. "My beautiful boy..."

In fact, what lay inside was not a boy, but instead a man. Or, at least, as far as anyone could tell. You see, this particular man possessed no facial features whatsoever - no mouth, ears, eyes, nose, or hair. A small, clear tube ran from a hole in his throat, and the huff-puff of a nearby machine betrayed its purpose as a breathing tube. Several other wires, attached to tiny devices scattered all over his body, lay scattered haphazardly around the chamber, a tangled spider's web of rubber and copper.

"Ms. Parkman?" the woman in the chair said.

Ms. Parkman snapped out of her reverie. "Yes, Doctor?"

The woman smiled. "Please," she said, "Call me Julie, or at least Doctor Maxwell if you really need to be formal."

"All right... Julie," Ms. Parkman said, her face a portrait of sorrow. She backed away from the tank, her hand tracing the outside of the window until distance forced it to leave.

"I need your permission to begin," Dr. Maxwell said. She picked the helmet up off of its resting place and placed it in her lap.

Ms. Parkman hesitated, glanced over at the egg, then at Dr. Maxwell, and back to the tank again. She closed her eyes, winced, and breathed a deep breath.

"You... may begin," she said as she exhaled.

"Very well," Dr. Maxwell said. She reached up to her bun and pulled out a long hairpin, causing cascades of brown hair to fall around her. "This process should take no more than a few minutes. This is just a trial-run, after all; if it works, then we can take a better look at him at a later date."

"You mean at what he's dreaming?" Ms. Parkman said.

Dr. Maxwell nodded. "In a way, yes. Frankly, there have only been a few cases of your son's... unique condition in medical history. To be quite honest with you, we have no idea whether he can dream or not, whether he can think in terms of spacial relations or sounds or... well, anything." She brushed a few strands of hair out of her face. "Please, sit down, Ms. Parkman. You look uncomfortable."

"All right," Ms. Parkman said. She walked over to a chair across from Dr. Maxwell's and placed herself there, at the edge of the seat. "But, anyway, there is a chance, right?"

"There is a chance," Dr. Maxwell answered, placing her hands on the helmet in her lap. "From what we know of how the brain works, whenever someone loses a part of themselves - say, becomes deaf or blind, or has a limb amputated - the part of their brain that normally controls that function sort of lends its power to other areas of the mind. So, someone who loses their sight, for example, might possess a greater sense of hearing than normal, because more of their brain devotes itself to that particular sense.

"In cases like your son's," she continued, gesturing in the direction of the egg, "where the victim has been blind or deaf from birth, the effect is even stronger. The human brain possesses an almost limitless capacity for adaptability from birth. It's very possible, therefore, that, because your son possesses no functional senses whatsoever - no touch, hearing, seeing, taste, or scent - his brain may have discovered a new method altogether for sensing the world around him. Or he may simply be what we call a non-sensor - someone who simply cannot experience the outside world through any means."

Worry lines appeared on Ms. Parkman's face. "But... what if he is a..." She swallowed. "...non-sensor?"

"Then I'm afraid that he may have to remain in specialized hospitals for the rest of his life," Dr. Maxwell said. "But if he can communicate, then there is a chance - however small - that he may be able to lead a normal life, eventually."

"That all depends," she continued, "on what his dreams are. If it is clear that he has some sort of sensory perception, then we may be able to communicate with him somehow. But if not... well, the images I receive will likely be a mess."

"I understand," Ms. Parkman said. "Please, just... just get on with it. I don't think I can take waiting anymore..."

Dr. Maxwell placed her hands on the sides of the helmet. "Of course, Ms. Parkman," she said, lifting the device up and over her head. Her arms then rested upon those of the chair. One hand fingered a small switch engraved into one of the chair's arms.

"I'll drift out of consciousness for a bit," she continued. "This device is deigned to supplant my senses with his. I will, for all intents and purposes, be living his life."

"Wish me luck, Ms. Parkman," she continued, flashing the older woman a smile. The next moment, she pressed down upon the switch, and the machine whirred to life. A visor slid down in front of Dr. Maxwell's eyes and began to flash color after color. Messages, graphs, and diagrams passed across the monitors attached to the egg. The lights around the room dimmed even further than they already had, and then snuffed out entirely.

Dr. Maxwell twitched, and then lay still.

Ms Parkman squinted as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The room fell quiet except for the low hum of the device, transmitting who-knows-what between the seated doctor and the captive figure in the egg. A minute passed. Ms. Parkman shifted her position on the chair. Two minutes. Her fingers drummed nervously on her knees. Three minutes. The chart tracking Dr. Maxwell's brainwaves on a nearby monitor registered a few spikes. A glimmer of hope appeared in Ms. Parkman's eyes. She leaned over to get a closer look at the unconscious woman before her. Four minutes.

Dr. Maxwell stirred. The visor on her helmet retracted, and a second later, her eyes opened.

Ms. Parkman stood up with a start. "Doctor! Wh-what did you see? Did you see my son's thoughts? What did he say??"

Dr. Maxwell, however, simply stood up, a gradual motion which at the same time appeared strained, as though the doctor's muscles had atrophied in her short repose. She half-stumbled over to a cabinet and pulled out a drawer, revealing a bottle of some brown liquid and two crystal glasses.

"Doctor?" Ms. Parkman said, "What did you..."

Still silent, Dr. Maxwell poured an inch of the liquid into each of the glasses. "Twenty year old single-malt bourbon," she said, her voice feeble. "It'll take the edge off."

Ms. Parkman stared blankly at the doctor. "The edge... what are you talking about??"

"I've never seen anything like it," Dr. Maxwell said, notes of melancholy creeping into her voice. "Never a thing. Not even on the most schizophrenic, insane bastards we tested this thing on." She tipped her wrist back and downed the contents of the glass, grimacing as it went down.

Ms. Parkman strode over to Dr. Maxwell in a flash and grabbed her by the collar of her coat. "What did you see??" she bellowed, her face a few inches from the other woman's. "Tell me, please!! I have to know!!"

Dr. Maxwell's eyes closed for a moment. When they opened again, they were full of anguish.

"Nothing," she said. "I saw nothing."

"No!!" Ms. Parkman screamed, shaking the other woman by her coat. "You must have done something wrong! The machine must have malfunctioned, or... or you got your calculations wrong or..." She stepped back. A tear flowed from each of her eyes. "This can't be..."

"Ms. Parkman," Dr. Maxwell said, "There was nothing wrong. The diagnostic I ran on the machine beforehand showed everything in working order, and it's highly doubtful that a second diagnostic will show anything different. Your son, I'm afraid... is blank. He feels nothing."

"No... no, this..." Ms. Parkman fell to her knees. "This isn't right... I was supposed to see him, to see his thoughts, to... to tell him I love him..."

"Ms. Parkman," Dr Maxwell said, "I'm terribly sorry, but we're going to have to ask you to leave. These results are... they need to be analyzed. Very thoroughly. We'll call you if... when we know something."

"But... but my son-"

"-will be transferred back to St. Anthony's hospital within twenty-four hours, where you may see him again. Until then, we need to run more tests. Nothing harmful, we assure you-"

Ms. Parkman stumbled back to her feet, then sprinted the meter or so to the egg and wrapped her arms around it. "You can go to hell!" she snapped, "All of you! I'm not leaving my son! He can hear me... he can..."

Dr. Maxwell wrapped her fingers around the second glass of bourbon, which quickly disappeared between her lips. She slammed the glass down. "Ms. Parkman, you WILL leave now, or I WILL call security and have them escort you out." She sighed raggedly. "Now."

Breathing heavily, Ms. Parkman slowly withdrew herself from the egg. Then, without a word, she grabbed her purse from a nearby table and stormed out the door to the office, slamming it behind her.

I followed her out to the car. She was always so beautiful when she became upset, perhaps even more so than when she smiled. There, I saw her unlock the door and slide inside, taking off her heels so that she could press the pedals. But she didn't leave immediately; instead, she stayed there and sobbed her heart out, overcome by hopelessness, oblivious to all else.

Oblivious to me.

I stayed and watched her there until she finally worked up the willpower to leave the parking lot. Afterward, I wanted to be alone, so I traveled to the middle of Libya, to the desert. Golden sands surrounded me, and I could see every grain, discern every tiny detail, every nook and cranny and flaw. Each one, so unique. I came here often to reflect on things. Not just here, though, but to any desert: Arizona, Mexico, China, Saudi Arabia, the Moon, Mars, planets and satellites that have no name, no scientific label, just rocks and dust floating in the deep vastness of space... I've seen them all, explored every inch, every nanometer, every atom. The desert must be the second most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Second only to her.

I wish I could tell her how much I feel for her. How much I've always wanted to wrap my arms around her and just feel that sense of closeness, only for a little while. I've seen all that this universe has to offer, seen colors and shapes and heard sounds that no other man will ever see, learned every language and read every novel and history of man and a thousand thousand other sentient races. Some would consider me lucky, if they only knew. Others would think me damned. I still haven't a clue what the difference is; in fact, I suspect that they might mean the same thing in most cases.

I still watch her sometimes as she grows older. Every time I see her, new lines appear on her face, her veins become a tiny bit more prominent, and her voice grows ever more feeble. And I will watch her waste away, and die, and then I will be alone. My mother. Gone. And I will finally be alone. How ironic is it that one such as I should be alone? If evolution, or God, or a random roll of the dice provided me with these tools, then why can I not use them?

Perhaps, however, this is the way that it was meant to be. No single man should see what I have seen and feel nothing, no touch of a woman or embrace of a mother, the feel of a baseball or a fork or a computer mouse or a book in my hand, anything that would make me human, anything more than an all-seeing phantom, a sage and a cripple, a god without hands.

Because The Plane Crashed

My job had called me away to the other side of the state when the plane hit my house. It was a Boeing 747, a gigantic thing of steel and wires, and my house - a flimsy construction made mostly of drywall - could not stand against it. A failure in two of the engines, I later found out, had caused it to drop out of the sky en route to Oklahoma City. The pilot, copilot, crew - they could do nothing but watch as the ground rushed up to meet them.

I sometimes think about what went through their minds in those final minutes. Every last one of them must have known that their time had come. I imagine mothers clutching children in tears, husbands dialing their wives frantically on their expensive cell phones, crew members scrambling to keep order. But they could only watch as a tiny dot on the vast, verdant landscape below slowly gained detail, becoming a square, still insignificant, but focusing, now they could see a chimney, a driveway, an acre or two of grass, perhaps they saw the neighbors mowing the lawn or my dog prancing about in the back yard, chasing a small animal or looking for a place to defecate, or-

And then it was over. Just like that.

Of course those weren't the first thoughts that occurred to me. I first heard about the crash via a phone call while I was attending an important sales meeting. Two prestigious clients, one from a high-powered law firm, the other representing a biotech conglomerate. I stood to make several hundred thousand in sales. Thus, we wined and dined at a fancy pan-European restaurant headed by a semi-famous chef, whose attractive blue-eyed waitress served us bottles of sauvignon blanc and merlot, entrees of duck confit and choice ribeye, all supplemented with a generous portion of cloying smiles and deceptively kind words.

Thus it came to be that we were discussing the logistics of implementing my software database system when my cell phone rang. With an embarrassed look, I excused myself and unfolded it.

"Hello?"

"Mister Collins? This is Officer Parkreiner of the Fayette County Police."

"Yes, what can I do for you?" I replied hesitantly.

"Well, Mister Collins... this isn't easy to say, but..." The cop let out an audible sigh. I glanced at my clients on the other side of the table. They looked restless.

"...it's your house. It's badly damaged."

"What??" I exclaimed. A few nearby diners turned their heads for a moment, and a momentary silence fell over the room before the usual din of conversation returned.

"It's been hit, Mister Collins," the officer continued. "By a plane."

"A plane?? How on earth..." Just then, I realized how loud my voice had become. "How did that happen?" I continued in a lower tone.

"I'll fill you in later. Listen," the officer said, "You should come home as soon as you can. There's going to be paperwork and-"

"Yeah," I said. "Listen, I'll catch a red-eye home and call the precinct when I get in."

"All right. Listen, Mister Collins, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad new-"

"Right," I said. "Talk to you later." I closed my phone with a snap and stuffed it away in my pocket. "So," I said, addressing my clients, "uh... where were we?"

They decided to leave shortly afterward. I didn't make either sale, either. Fate can be a bitch sometimes.

So it came to be that I found myself back in town, earlier than I had expected, staring at the flaming wreckage of what was once the northeast corner of my house. The nose of the plane had embedded itself in the wall, tearing a hole big enough to fit the Colossus of Rhodes, or perhaps a rampaging army of Vandals, through. Behind it, in the open cornfields that lay to the building's rear, the thing had cut a broad swath of dirt and debris as far as I could see.

"Chris?"

A voice echoed behind me. I stood on a hilltop overlooking the scene, still in the same garb that I had worn to the dinner - a dark gray jacket and slacks, burgundy shirt, patterned tie, black leather shoes. Very few things catch me off guard these days. The crash did - thus why I had not a spare moment to change. And so did that voice.

Twice in one night. Not a good sign at all.

I turned around. A tiny woman, no more than five feet tall, of Indian descent half-stumbled up the slope before me, her scarlet dress billowing in the summer breeze. Hair the color of the night sky flew in a cascade across her face.

"Melody?" I said. Her features began to resolve in the pale moonlight as she plodded closer. The dress clung to her thin frame, outlining slight, youthful curves. Her lips, parting with every breath, were the color of blood. And her eyes... always so sad, but now so full of sorrow that I could barely stand to meet them.

"Chris! I just... just heard..." she said between breaths as she rounded the top of the hill. "They say that they'll probably have to tear the place down. Oh, Chris, I'm so sorry..."

She wrapped her arms around me, then, and squeezed me as though I were the most precious thing on Earth.

"I just couldn't bear to leave you alone tonight... I'm so sorry for coming." She turned her head upward. Her eyes met mine for a moment, and I had to look away.

"Chris...?" she whispered. A hint of fear crept into her voice in that single word.

I focused on the wreck before me. In several places, debris still burned defiantly against the cool night air.

"Do you know what the odds are of this happening?" I said. My voice sounded detached in my head, and it probably sounded more so to anyone within earshot.

Melody fell silent for several seconds, her arms relaxing around my waist. Finally, she spoke in a hushed whisper reminiscent of a gentle breeze through the cornfields. "No... I-I don't. What are they?"

"I called my accountant this morning," I said. "Had him run some numbers. He's an incredibly bright guy, you know. I saw potential in him from the first time I met him in Princeton. He has a head for numbers like no other..."

I coughed. Melody's hands slid out from around my waist and clasped behind hers. Her breathing began to slow.

"...one in two hundred seventy million," I said. "Give or take a few hundred thou. I'm not sure how he figured that out, but he said something about factoring in every variable." I sighed. "Fuck, I'd have a better chance of winning the goddamn lottery."

Melody glanced over at the wreckage. Firemen were sifting through it, trying to find any signs of the deceased. Every now and then, I caught the glint of a flashlight or the firelight reflecting off of their clothing.

"Chris... do you know why I came?" she said, her voice heavy with something unseen.

"No," I said. "The last time I saw you was right after..."

Melody shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her shoes made a shuffling sound on the bare grass. "...that was three months ago," she said. "I wanted to... to see you. Just see you. I thought you could use the company." She offered me a shy smile.

I shrugged. "You were the one that left me, Mel. I didn't exactly have a say in the matter."

Melody stepped back. Her face took on a pained look. "But, you..."

"She was my secretary," I said. "Emphasis on the 'was.' I hired another... some old woman, been married thirty years. It was a one-time thing, Mel."

"I know, Chris... I know." Melody's eyes closed tight. She never liked to cry in front of people. "I just... well, Mother was free for a few days, so she offered to take care of the kids, and I thought we could..." She swallowed hard. "I thought we could talk-"

"What's there to talk about??" I snapped. Melody gasped and held out her hands, as though trying to fend off an assailant. I took a deep breath and lowered my voice. "I'm... I'm sorry, Mel. It's just... your leaving, and taking the kids... it was so sudden. I... I went a little crazy is all."

Melody winced as she took a step backwards. "I should go... the kids are..."

"No! I m-, I mean..." I stuttered. "Hell, I don't know what I mean. You can go if you want. I'm just going to stand here and admire the gaping hole in my half-million-dollar house. You go get the kids." I turned away from her to face the wreckage. "I don't care anymore."

Melody began to turn around, but half way through the motion, she stopped. Turning her head to me, she said, "Don't you love me anymore, Chris?"

And at those few words, my vision flashed red. "Mel," I said in the direction of the wreckage. "That's... a harder question than you make it sound. I mean, you and I, we-"

"No, it's not," Melody said, her voice betraying the fact that she was on the edge of tears. "It's a simple question. Yes or no."

"-We've been through a lot lately, and the dynamics between us have changed-"

"Yes or no??" she said, her voice echoing in the darkness.

"I don't know!!" I nearly shouted. "I... don't know anymore."

"Right," Melody said. "I see what's going on here." She turned back around to face me, her dress making a swishing sound as it billowed out around her.

"Do you? Then what's-"

"We've been together ten years, Chris," she said. "Ten years, and had two beautiful children together. You spoke of odds earlier - well, what are the odds of that? How many people find that sort of happiness?"

"Lots of people get married," I replied sternly. "And even more get divorced. This-"

"Divorced?! Do you mean..." Mel took a step toward me. "Do you mean you want..."

"No! I mean..." I sighed. "I don't know what I mean. I don't know anything right now. Look, today's been really hard on me, and I haven't had a good night's sleep in a long while. Let's just talk about this some other time, all right?"

But Melody said nothing. She just stood there.

"Mel... is that all right?" I repeated.

She left, then. Right then and there, without even a single word of farewell, she just turned and walked away, fists clenched, her sobs echoing up the hill as she stumbled down, nearly tripping over herself several times. I watched her shape slowly melt into the darkness of the field beyond, her outline growing smaller and fainter until it transcended the night, becoming one with all around it. I would have stood there all night, I think, were it not for the sounds that began to drift upward from the other side of the hill.

I began to turn, first my head, then the rest of me, feet shuffling across the grass as though it were sandpaper. It was so difficult to move. I wanted to keep my eyes on that spot where she disappeared forever, burn it into my mind so that it - she - might never leave. But something drew me there, to that graveyard of metal and flesh, to the shouts of the firemen which might as well have been the cries of the dead.

I squinted, and realized that I could see outlines among the wreckage. Rescuers in luminescent suits sifted through a pile of steel, and one sizable chunk currently had their attention. One of the men shouted orders to the others, who gathered around and hoisted various sides and corners of the piece of debris. With a combined effort, they shunted it aside and reached into the opening below.


[To be concluded]

Nightmare - A 100 Word Story

The cat stared blankly at me, its emerald eyes unblinking.

“Do you know what reality is?” she said.

“No,” I replied. “I don’t know anymore.”

The feline stood up, stretching with a yawn. She grinned, revealing pointed teeth. “Good.”

I blinked. The walls flashed green, violet, deep scarlet. A drumming began to sound in my ears.

I refocused on the cat. Except she wasn’t a cat any longer. One of her… things… reached out toward me, caressed my cheek almost lovingly.

“Now,” the thing standing in her place said, but a moment before the pain began. “Now you are mine.”

Melt

Crystal lanterns empty soft ambrosia
Bringing feeling back into my bones
Awash in lifeless, salty seas and oceans
We danced the stars away beneath that drape
Of plaster, moment's energy, and motion
Twisted 'twixt our bodies, one, alone.

Feeling our enchantments more than this
Glow might manifest in dulled relays
'Til sunlight burned a crust between caress
And pillow talk and lies, spurning release
When moonless, full, and cool affairs redressed
Another night away from my malaise.

So close you lie, your breath still echoes here
When notes decant from vessels nestled far
"Your deluge lies forever dammed," I hear,
"For we lay never one, and one you are."