Empty Tank, Empty Streets

If there was a worse place to run out of gas, Gina wasn’t aware of it. She had made the trip so many times before without stopping; something must be wrong with the car. Now, she found herself in a gritty neighborhood looking for a gas station and nothing else. She fumbled for her cell- dead battery.

The chill of the night air and the loneliness of the 3am streets made her uneasy, to say the least. All she could see was a combination laundromat and liquor store, and a chain-link fence with barbed wire that contained... maybe an elementary school? 

She jumped as she heard a voice behind her call out. 

“You need a hand, missy?”

A slim, short man with a nice suit and fedora walked over to her. He wore a charming smile, which Gina did not appreciate. 

“Um, I- no. I mean, yes. Can I use your phone?”

The man shook his head. 

“Don’t have one. Got a car, though, if you need a ride somewhere.”

He stepped in closer to Gina, close enough for her to smell the foulness of his breath, like he’d been eating tar.

“No thanks. I just need to find a gas station. Do you know where one is?”

“Not one for a dozen blocks or so. And I wouldn’t try and walk there. A bunch of crazies live around here. No telling what might happen to you.”

Gina couldn’t think, instead too preoccupied with veiling her panic. She stammered something incomprehensible, followed by a jerk when she heard another man call out from the dark distance.

“See? The crazies will find you eventually. And this one- sometimes gets violent.”

Instinctively, Gina hid behind the man in the suit.

“Hey! Hey you!” barked the crazy, brushing his mangy hair from his face.

Suddenly, the crazy started sprinting towards them, still shouting. 

“You still want that ride, missy?”

She didn’t have to say anything, but just followed the man as he ran to an old Caddy. She flung open the door, leapt inside, and the man locked the doors. Breathing heavily from the adrenaline, she lunged backwards as the man arrived at the car and pounded on her window, screaming for her to get out.

“Let’s get out of here, missy, ok?”

Gina nodded as the man turned the ignition. 

“Get out! (pound) He ate my dog!”

He put the car into gear.

“That man! (pound) Ate! (pound) My DOG!”

The tires squealed as they sped away. Taking some deep breaths and returning to her seat, Gina started crying, then burst into laughter. 

“How far until the gas station?”

The man said nothing, just smiling that smile. She tried to unlock her door. It didn’t budge.

“The lock is sticky,” he finally said. “And... I don’t think I can wait until the gas station. Your panic so whetted my appetite that I’m voracious.”

Feast of Jubilance Assignments

So it's just the four of us:
Dante, Travis, Andrew, and myself.
By random number selection, the draws have been created.

I am working on Dante's story.
Dante is working on Andrew's story.
Andrew is working on Travis' story.
Travis working on Dan's story.

You've got a week- remember, you can make any type of accompanying story: alternate perspective, alternate ending, prequel, sequel, parallel universe, etc.

When you're done, include the label "Reboot".

Let's do it!

Dan

Royal Decree #1

Dearest subjects of the story league-

I hereby proclaim a feast of jubilance. May there be merriment and frivolity abounding!

For this feast, every subject (including myself) shall designate his favorite tale which he hath writ, and by random selection, another subject shall produce an accompanying piece (of which the same rules apply- 500 words or less), whether it be prequel, sequel, alternate ending, alternate universe, or opposite point of view. The most noble of these shall be awarded knighthood.

So:
1) Pick your favorite story that you wrote.
2) Add the label "Feast of Jubilance" to it (you should have this done by Easter Sunday).
3) On Easter, you will be assigned a story to adapt in the aforementioned ways.
4) Voting for the adaptations will be from 4/7 to 4/9.

Let the feast commence!

King Daniel the Observant

Admin: ALL HAIL KING DAN!

the first world league bowl championship 

throne goes to DAN. 

He is your rightful leader henceforth.

So, your high winness, what do we do now?

Only you hold the keys to the storyleague kingdom. Show us the way forward.

Signed,
dante stack
(former instigator of storyleague and finder of the first true champion {may he reign forever})

The Relentless Pursuit of a Breakthrough

Somewhere between Spock and Einstein, Garrett became convinced it was possible; between The Doctor and Rufus he so romanticized it that the pursuit possessed him. An early draft of his wish list read: Dinosaurs, Pythagoras, Jesus? Of course, now that he’d passed puberty and plunged into R&D, the list had changed. 

Garrett had intrigued a wealthy senior executive who hoped for one more dance with his wife. So, funding was a non-issue. He started small, sending egg timers a few seconds back, tuning it to go longer each time. He also devised a component to return to the present. A nagging problem was destination; each subject had to be sent to a receiver. All appearances suggested no dates prior to his having built it. 

Upon successfully sending back a live rat, he conditioned it to engage the return device. Then, he built a sort of time-travel 3D printer; once tests on that had supported life, he sent back the rat and the return device to a month before Garrett had come to the building. He began the sequence, then the rat was gone. Before a full minute, the rat returned and Garrett’s heart jumped to hyperdrive. 

Garrett awoke on the roof as the sun rose. He checked his timer: He’d been out two minutes. He stood and made his way to the fire ladder, following the meticulously-planned route he had traced before making the jump. Once on the ground, he pulled out his recorder.

“Possible neuropathy in extremities; feet and hand sensations diminished.”

A newspaper on the sidewalk confirmed the date. He had really done it.

It was only a short walk to Rutherford High. Garrett slipped in among the students and headed for the quad. If anyone asked, he was trying to find a cousin who forgot his homework. No one asked.

It certainly was a bizarro yearbook. As he scanned the crowd, he’d see a face– then two, then three– that instantly brought back memories. Every clique was exactly where it usually was.

Then Garrett spotted himself, sitting on the lawn with Shane. Judging by their motions, they were still talking about the fantasy movie they were going to make together. Yes, this was probably the day. Garrett checked his coat pocket, making sure the letter was still there. Next to him was Ian, a kid in his class.

“Can you give this letter to Garrett Morse?”

The sophomore didn’t seem to notice. Garrett tapped his shoulder.

“Hey! Hey kid!” 

Nothing. 

“Can anyone hear me?”

Nobody.

“I have a bomb!”

No.

Garrett sank to the ground and wept bitterly. He tore up the letter, which had read:

Garrett–

It’s your future self. Password: Flagellate. 

URGENT: Before I tell you anything else, Shane needs you today. He’s going through rough times, and you will mock him today because the popular kids are starting to like you, but not him. If you fail, he will hang himself tonight and you will never forget it.

Bad Brother

       He was terrible until the day he died. Every time we got together he would spend most of the day describing how great his new job at the marshmallow factory was or how many donuts he could do around the buoys at the lake before vomiting. Six. It was no mystery that some of it was going to come up free marshmallows. I'd often think that maybe I'm the jerk for not being happier for him. Maybe it was just because I was so miserable that his news would always come across as arrogance. Which ever it was, he had no idea how much I'd always wanted to be him. And he was painfully unaware that I'd been on unemployment since I was laid off from my entry-level position at the sanitation department. You'd think trash-picking would be one industry untouched by the recession.

The day he died I was especially depressed after my cat was found by my neighbor at the bottom of their pool. I sat there wondering how I was supposed to dispose of my soggy friend when a knock brought me to the front door. A man in a trench coat was there facing the other way. Who does that? He didn't turn around until after l said hello and I recognized him as my brother's friend Douglas. Douglas was a weirdo. He was a bad influence on my brother I thought, or maybe it was the other way around. Either way I was not excited to see him or welcome him in to my death odorous home.

"What died in here?" he said.

"My cat. Well, it died next door. In the pool." I replied.

He got all serious after that, asking about my criminal record and when was the last time I traveled abroad. I told him as little as possible but my life had been so boring for the last couple months I went along with his strange questions longer than I'd like to admit. At a certain point though I excused myself to use the toilet and from there called my brother to see why Douglas had paid me an unwanted visit. He answered by telling me a story about a witch that cursed a small village in Norway.

"That village was racist." I said.

He agreed and told me that the meaning of this story was all that kept him from certain death. I didn't understand but my brother only lies in person so I knew it was true. Six hours later we met in the woods behind an abandoned bank our mother used to pay "outrageous fees" to years ago.

"It's definitely mafia but I'm bad with accents so I don't know." he said.

We rented a car and I drove all day trying to understand their stupid riddle while he slept for the first time in days. We had some great conversations on that trip before they caught up with us. After all these years I thought, finally a fond memory.

ADMIN: WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP BOWL!!!

HERE WE GO. IT ALL COMES DOWN TO THIS.

STORYLEAGUE PRESENTS:

THE 

WORLD

CHAMPIONSHIP 

BOWL 

AARON VS  DAN

LIVE AT THE THUNDERDOME!!!

(ALL THIS WEEK)

The Severance (Too Jung to Die: The Conclusion)

Nheshe's right hand instinctively raised as the gun fired.*

*Since its social mechanisms were still infantile, not having matured beyond that of a toddler, the betrayal of the androgyn's assumptive notion that it could trust this person made its pale pink blood boil. It wasn't Nheshe's fault...feelings were neither good not bad, they were just feelings (as Father Renfield would have consolingly declared).

The raised right hand (skin protected by an organic de-magnetic epidermis) deflected the bullet, and despite the frantic inaccuracy with which the shot was fired, the deflection sounded out a perfect, dreadfully harmonious “wheeessshhh”, sending the bullet into a perfect ricochet, which one might argue appeared to be an immaculately orchestrated piercing of Andrew's heart (no metaphor here).

Andrew sunk back into his recliner, and focused all of his shock-laden adrenaline on breathing steadily as he felt numbness begin to envelop his body.

Nheshe's left hand dropped the telephone as it began to weep acidic tears almost immediately. It knew there was nothing it could do to save the poor young man, since, in its current state of non-completion, super-humanoid development was still shy of any applicable medical knowledge or ability.

It emphatically apologized, and began to feel a harrowing new wave of a negative emotion it was unfamiliar with.

Nheshe's mind was racing as it frantically thought of anything it could do to remedy the situation. There was one particular skill it had going for it: its reading skills were far superior to any other known physical being, since it could blow through an entire book in a matter of minutes (often seconds), retaining at least a good 90% of the material in its memory.

Upon a careful scan, Nheshe recognized most of the books on Andrew's shelf (mostly theoretical metaphysics or fantastical fiction)...but there was a particular one it wasn't familiar with.

“What's this one, sir?”

Andrew looked up and saw Nheshe holding a Bible.

“Don't...that...won't help you...”

Nheshe's detected a hesitant modesty in the dying man's voice. It flipped through (/read) the entire thing from cover-to-cover in 94 seconds flat. A deeper, more overwhelming sense of guilt washed over it.**

Nheshe ran to the kitchen and grabbed a large knife (Andrew, though baffled, didn't have the energy to panic at the sight of this). Nheshe gripped the knife with its left hand, raising it high above its head as it placed its right hand on the counter. The knife came down quick and hard, penetrating the creature's thick skin, and severing Nheshe's hand from its body.

** “And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body go into hell.” Matthew 5:30

As his physical senses were reaching their full diminishment, Andrew expected to feel the shedding of some final tears...but apparently they were all getting hogged by that damned alien.

THE END

Julian and the Bodily Fluids

“Oh, Julian,” Katie sang from the kitchen. 

“Yes, my love,” he replied, springing up from his chair. “Oh, you’re all wet.”

“Yeah, my water broke,” like it were a daily occurrence. 

“Oh.” Julian turned to find a towel, but it finally registered. “Oh!” Then it really registered, and Julian turned to stone. His hands slowly proceeded up to his head to keep his thoughts from rocketing out of his skull.

‘Oh-my-goodness-we’re-having-a-baby-and-it’s-coming-now-RIGHT-now-’

“Julian? Do you want to take me to the hospital?” She was so calm.

“Um, yes, dear. Let me find my keys.”

“They’re in the key bowl.”

“Got it.”

“And can you get my overnight bag?”

“Your-”

“It’s by the door.”

“Ok.”

“Julian?”

“Yes?”

“Breathe. And maybe I should drive.”

“No, no, I can get it. I got it. The hospital. Keys. Bag. Anything else?”

“Let’s start with those.”

When Julian was done loading up the car, he looked at his wife. She was so serene, even as her labor started to pick up. Julian, on the other hand, was a frantic squiggle of anxiety. He missed all the birthing classes, because the plan had been for Katie’s sister Emily to be in the room when -it- happened. Julian wasn’t indifferent to the momentous event, but he had the propensity to either faint or vomit in the presence of bodily fluids. However, Emily had the gall to get bronchitis two days prior and would have to settle for facebook pictures.

“Julian, the hospital is the other direction.”

“Oh, right. I’ll make a U-turn.”

When they made it to the hospital, Julian dropped Katie off and parked, only to get flummoxed at all the possible directions his bursting wife could have gone. Upon reaching the delivery unit, the clerk recognized his panicked demeanor from Katie’s description and told him that his wife was in room 303. 

Ten minutes later, Katie was being wheeled into the delivery room. Julian kissed her sweaty forehead as she left, then felt a slight surge of acid in his throat, not due to the thought of what would soon happen in and out of the southern region of Katie’s anatomy, but because he was about to miss his child’s first breath on this planet. He was a man, after all, and heaven help him if he didn’t even try.

He leapt up and ran after Katie’s gurney.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!”

Katie pushed for 92 minutes. Julian kept himself vertical for 82. Sitting in the corner with his head between his knees, he finally heard his daughter’s first cry. Something shifted in his head. He was a new man. He rose. Katie, red-faced and out of breath, smiled at the baby, then at Julian. Julian went over to kiss his wife and look at their child. 

Her tiny face grimacing, tiny lungs stretching, tiny fingers clutching his, Julian’s hearing fading, room darkening, floor advancing toward him...

Dante Defeats Truman

      It was a colder morning than usual in Los Angeles and Dante felt every shiver of it. His well worn jacket was worthless in the wind and all of the good spots were taken while he made his way back hours later than usual to the familiar neighborhood of stone and glass. He'd spent the last month in and out of the Korean church on the corner of 4th and New Hampshire and though he couldn't understand a word that was said he liked the music so much he knew the drinking had to stop. Dante would sit quietly in the back away from everyone else so as not to offend their sense of smell and from there saw time after time how Jack and Johnny would coax his friends to be a distraction to the congregation. More than once he aided the staff in ejecting the troublemakers when it was time and even Pastor Nam began to recognize Dante as part of their body.

A sharply dressed usher came up to him after and thanked him for his service.

"Please feel welcome here. We have a food share program you may benefit from." he said.

Dante could not understand his english and responded in Slovene.

"Ubil sem zlobenega moža." 

Months ago it wouldn't have mattered. He could've done the thing and forgotten it before morning. But months ago maybe he wouldn't have done it at all. He had the benefit of a clearer mind now and though the years of abuse had taken their toll on his once stalwart body his mind bounced back with stirring agility. He had regrets and fears that hadn't plagued him since Detroit and the summer his wife left him. The world he'd stacked up only to see it fall at his own hand was again visible through the glaze of addiction that banished him to the streets sixteen years ago. 

This was it! he thought. My villain. Satan my Satan. But there was a window of course, he could not hold out forever to find a replacement. The medication was so effective that he'd previously doubted anything else could take it's place, but Pastor Nam would know.

For the first time in his life Dante entered the church with a goal in mind. He must find a replacement for the alcohol. The police would find him someday. He would be punished and rightfully so. He'd done the deed in cold blood and left behind a footprint to prove it. Until they could catch him he would share the love he'd found in Christ and while he knew he could not stop the evil of this world he could participate in the redemption of it.

"Prayer." said Nam.

Dante knew this word. He didn't understand it but if he ever learned English he would understand it less. Nam prayed with him for forgiveness, not because he knew what Dante had done but because Nam was a killer too.

Kikero

Watergate was ruining my life. I was tired of writing about it, and more tired that I wasn’t the one who broke the story. I was a small fish stuck in smallish Omaha. I was desperate for any carrot attached to a stick. That’s when I got the call and met Kikero.

     A small town some distance outside of Omaha, I’d rather not say which, had recently forced their mayor to resign, mob elected a nobody, and allowed that nobody to run the town under martial law.

What was going on? This sounded like the story that would catapult me to prime time. Afterwards, Kikero told me that the less I was to speak of this, the easier my days would go. I’m at the end of my life now, and God made me to be a journalist… so at last I’m journaling. Damn the consequences.

     I drove into the town. It seemed nice enough. I pulled up to a gas station to ask the owner how I could get in touch with this new mayor. The owner was sobbing as he gave me directions.

     

I found Kikero at his desk, rather violently scribbling notes on some old scroll-like page. When I caught his eyes he stood and shook my hand like a gentleman. I noticed how short he was then; must’ve been five foot even. He tip his cowboy cap at me as he introduced himself. Kikero. I told him I was from the daily over in Omaha. He asked how I heard about him. I lied smiling.

     He told me, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you the whole truth, far more than you need or want. In return for that knowledge you won’t report this story.”

     I lied.  He replied, “Walk with me.”

     We walked. 

“A long time ago I made the worst decision someone like me could make. I chose the wrong side. I knew it as soon as I’d done it. Sometime later I heard a rumor that at the end of my time there was a chance, the smallest chance imaginable, but a chance nonetheless, that I would be forgiven.” Kikero smiled at me as he looked up into my eyes. “So, since then I’ve been taking odd jobs all over the world waiting for the end; for grace.”

     We entered a barn. Inside were thousands of glass vials filled with what looked like water. “There are only so many tears allowed in the world at one time. Problem is, as soon as they hit the ground they don’t count anymore. So I’ve been holding onto them, in this barn. Trying to limit the circulation.” He sighed, “Last week someone snuck in and broke many years worth of progress. I’ve been working hard to get things back to the way they were; scratching that number back down.” Tears began pouring down my face. Kikero snatched an empty glass from his pockets and held it under my cheek. 

     

“Thanks. This will help.”

ADMIN: DIVISION CHAMPIONSHIPS!

Alright folks, it looks like the As have it! Aaron edges Mitchell, and Andrew beats Jonathan!

Now, a sad song for our fallen comrades: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Am1kJM823Vk

RED DIVISION CHAMPIONSHIP
Andrew VS Dan

WHITE DIVISION CHAMPIONSHIP
Aaron VS Dante

Black

"You choose."

I am looking down at the two daggers displayed in front of me - one with an ornately carved handle and one black as onyx and my feeling of dread grows.

I can't remember how I have come to enter this old curio shop.  I had turned left down the Piazzale Roma, when I should have gone right and, at the end of a crooked alleyway, some glint of light had caused me to bow into a thatched doorway our of mere curiosity. A flailing misadventure through a tapestry showroom had led me here, amid dusty stacks of cracked parchment and antiquity, face to face with a scowling Italian dwarf offering me a gilded chest.

I am acutely aware that Julia has sent me on a fool's errand.  As the cruise ship docked in Venice, there was some twittering about a birthday gift needed for a great-nephew - one that she had neglected to purchase in Ravenna.  Only one of us had accumulated two passing semesters in Intermediate Italian, she reasoned, and, besides, she wasn't feeling well. So, of course, like a good fiancee, I went.

The musty room of mottled wood was set up more like a storeroom and less like a shop, but a little man with a waxy mustache accosted me as I bumbled forth into blackness.  His suspicious gaze told me that he had already pegged me as a gawdy American tourist.

I somehow felt the burden to speak first.  "I need to buy a gift."

As the dwarf bent down to rummage behind a desk, I had realized that we were not alone in the close quarters of the shop. Bulky forms stirred in the darkness and I could hear the clink of glasses and see the reflection of a gold tooth.  Strange that I hadn't noticed this before.

Now here I am, facing the miniature Italian, himself almost overshadowed by the ornate chest he has cradled in both arms.  Inside the chest are the two weapons, accompanied with those ominous words.  "You choose."

I hesitate.  It occurs to me that maybe Julia hadn't really been seasick - that maybe her haste to get me off the boat and into the bowels of Venice had more to do with the recent quarrels we have been having.

A larger man, burly and muscular, lurches forward from the black and snatches up the onyx dagger.  The second rapier is being urgently forced into my fingers.  Rustles of paper and the glint of a monocle pierce the surrounding gloom.

The dwarf grins and it is the most horrible grin I have ever seen.  "É un duello."

My Italian is failing me.  I realize that my phrasebook is back on the boat, and now I am being forced into the center of the room.

Are those coins jingling in the background?

The larger man aims the onyx dagger.  The dwarf cackles and he won't stop repeating those words, "É un duello."  "É un duello."

What is happening?

On the Rocks

Roughly 2,000 years after the Tower of Babel Incident.

The waters resembled dark blue mashed potatoes being sloppily piled on an upturned electric fan by an angry drunkard with his bare hands. It was thick and it was warm and the black sky seemed impossibly close to the rest of the world. It was a dark and angry soup and the little boat was a tortured oyster cracker growing soggier and soggier.

Across the choppy, black sea advanced a thing. "A thing!" James cried. Was this torrential hell haunted? The crew of twelve began to panic. Much girly screaming could be heard between deafening thunder claps.

"Do not be afraid. I am not a thing," the thing said, "I am Jesus."  And sure enough it was.

"What are you doing out there on the water, Jesus?" called a nervous Judas. "Tell me to come out there if it really is you," Peter shouted.

Jesus rolled his eyes and waved his hand, beckoning the disciple hither. Peter stepped onto the steps of boiling liquid. The sea greedily gobbled up Peter's right foot, but fearing Jesus would think him a coward he proceeded with his left. The water lapped up his ankles and then angrily splashed his knees like a low-browed pubescent ginger in a public pool.

"Oh, you of little faith," started Jesus.

"It's cool!" Peter hollered excitedly. He began to jump up and down as if the waters were a discount inflatable bouncy castle rented to entertain the younger kids at a quinceañera.

The Messiah opened his eyes. "Wait. What?"

Despite the raging storm the boat was soon emptied of its formerly terrified occupants. They ran, skipped, bounced, and laughed like absurd marionettes. The sea had transmogrified from a menacing nightmare into a large and inviting bowl of jello.

"Boingy! Boingy!" jubilantly exlaimed Simon the Zealot.

"Stop that." Jesus muttered sternly, but they were all having too much fun with this newfound phenomenon to notice Jesus standing alone in the dark distance. The violent waves seemed to be even pushing the two disconnected parties further and further apart. How far away the merry disciples and the boat seemed to be now. Thadeus and Matthew were tossing a giggling Timothy into the air.

It was July 21, 1969. Earth time. God woke up. His Rocky and Bullwinkle alarm clock had yet to go off, but His dream had given Him a jolt. Groggily He folded his arms and blinked whilst nodding his head---à la "I Dream of Jeannie." A Washington Post appeared in His hands. "The Eagle Has Landed---Two Men Walk on the Moon."

Nheshe (Too Jung to Die, Part II)

*KNOCK...KNOCK...KNOCK*

Andrew finally worked up enough courage to peek through the window.

Outside stood an androgynous looking man that appeared to have just been through a plastic surgery nightmare.

“Sir? Sir? Can you please open up? I know it's very late and I may look strange, but please, please give me a chance to speak with you. It's important...I honestly mean you no harm.”

Given the desert atmosphere he lived in and the fact that he'd already crossed the threshold of showing his visible presence, Andrew had no choice but to open the door.

“Oh, sir! Thank you, thank you sir!”

The “man”'s voice had a strange echo, as though his twin vocal cords were individually battling to be heard, each in their own distinct tone.

As the strange person swiftly pushed his way through the front door and gently shut it behind him, he burst forth a sigh (practically a gasp) of relief.

“I truly apologize for barging in here, but I'm afraid I didn't have much of a choice...”

The static of Art Bell's radio program fizzled out as Andrew's trembling hand made a (failed) nonchalant attempt to turn the volume knob to minimum during his strategic backsteps towards the recliner. “...what is this?!” he squawked.

“Oh my, you've been listening to Mr. Bell's program, haven't you?”

“What do you care?”

“That means you must have heard that desperate rant from my father.”

“Your...father?”

“Well, he's not a 'father' in the sense that you know the term...but he made me. And as it so happens, he ran off before I was finished.”

“Would you mind explaining...”

“My name is Nheshe. Regrettably I don't know too many details about how it all works, since I'm theoretically little more than a child, but I am what you would call a “work in progress.” My father, Dr. Renfield, was working on what they call a “Cook” of me before he was let go. However, before withdrawing he set me free, even though I had no desire to leave. He betrayed me...left me incomplete...I had so much yet to learn, and see...my skin isn't even done!”

Peach-colored residue dripped from Nheshe's hand as he held it out. Andrew also noticed that the creature's oddly placed eyebrows seemed to be gradually sinking beneath its moist skin.

“Now please, if I could only use your telephone...”

Nheshe frantically turned his gaze in every-which direction, before landing his glowing eyes on what appeared to be a phone-set on the kitchen counter. He approached it with modest urgency.

Andrew statuesquely stood by his recliner, as though his feet were nailed to the floor. The deteriorating atrocity before him was too much to behold. He discreetly inched his left fingers through the ajar drawer in his tea table, grabbing his pistol.

He pointed it towards the greasy, nervous entity, clenching his teeth as he fired.

Nheshe looked furious.

TO BE CONCLUDED...

Traffic Is Getting Worse

      The smell of gasoline filled his lungs as he sat in traffic on the ten. There was a brief moment when he considered shifting into neutral and cutting the motor so he could climb down and step off the highway for a breath of fresh air. The honking behind was no match anymore for his throbbing left leg so he did throw it in neutral and relaxed long enough to let the 14 passenger van merge. When their racket finally compelled him to lean back on the clutch and fill the gap he'd brought the line forward by six feet.

The next thing he could remember was walking down a broken sidewalk in the quaint downtown Riverside in search of a record store. A beautiful woman walked a skinny rat dog in his direction and he asked her if he could buy the animal.

"Excuse me?" she said.

"How much do you want for the dog?"

She scooped the ragged mutt into her arms and he could see their hairs stand up unattractively backlit in the sun. It was important for him to recognize ugliness in something beautiful. This restrained his predatory desires.

"I don't have cash though."

"I can't sell Rascal." she cooed.

He reached forward slowly to take the dog and she responded by carefully placing it in his hands.

"Do you know a place that will take a card?" he said.

They walked toward the main strip and passed an old fountain that had long since dried up. He asked her about the town and if they were having an election any time soon. She seemed to be foolishly entertained by his non-sequitur line of questioning and what woman wouldn't be  intrigued by the mystery of a man who withheld any personal details?

"Do you live around here?" she asked as they passed a modern fountain full of water and stamped from a factory mold.

"I've been thinking about moving here." he said.

He sat down with the dog on the edge of the fountain and playfully held it over the water.

"He could use a bath." he said.

She reached for the bony animal and he brought it back from the edge as she laughed so naively it almost broke his heart.

Then it was morning and he could hear her in the shower. He could never relate to the characters in movies who had the discipline to wake before their partner and sneak out without them noticing so this was the alternative. He climbed down steps forgotten in the drunken daze of the previous night and found his way for the first time to the building's exit. Rascal didn't say a word the whole time and it wasn't until they climbed on the bus that he began to bark.

He didn't know where it was going but at this point was more curious how long it would take his actions to yield some consequence. He couldn't bear to do any real cruelty or truly criminal mischief but he had no intention of returning the fleabag or claiming his abandoned vehicle.

ADMIN: Regular Season Over

Alright, folks, the tallies are in...

Good sportmanship awards to Glen and Travis, who were the only ones who didn't make the playoffs who posted a story this week. Cudos to you two!

Now, here's how we proceed:

Myself and Dan get the week off since we got the #1 seeds.

In Red Division:
JONATHAN vs. ANDREW

In White Division:
AARON vs. MITCHELL

Let's open voting up for anyone who's not in the playoffs. For those of us in the playoffs, we can vote on games not in our division like usual.
Nevertheless, please keep voting everybody!

It's the final countdown.

& then...

He'd crossed a line that he thought was impossible for him to cross. He wasn't sure there was any going back. He was so distraught that he'd forgotten. 

Discovering El Rostro

     Pedro was six when he first believed in the Christ. His salvation was permanent and secret. Sister Rosa was more abusive than ever this time of year. He imagined she may have lost her own little one and put her grief into the strap that he and his brother Paco were at fault for straying beneath. When Paco died of cholera he was told this was God's punishment for a mischievous and seldom silent youth. Pedro was fortunate to determine this false, for he had made Rosa's lies a point of study and indeed the character of God was not consistent with such precision wrathfulness. 

    Another twelve kilometers and he might have spent a simple life amidst the loving family of sheep herders found in Jimenez del Teul. However he was a young boy with more instinct than intellect and his nose led him along a path less travelled. There were no phones and telegraph was reserved for important news, so after a short sweep of the grounds and a mile ride by Father Manuel he would be pursued no longer by any organized efforts.

    It was the holy scriptures of course that brought him safely along and demanded a boy of six be equipped to live in wilderness for the same number of months. He would read nightly by flint inspired candlelight the stories so mature and so earnest that he could only grow by decades no longer years. His focus became wisdom not the unproved wishing of a society forgetting its intentional purpose and the marks borne from creator's brand. 

    These Hebrews and their clear misbehaving he understood better than any child his age. His prayers became a chance for those who'd harmed him to find relief for their daily woes and for Pedro a days bite too for he had no reason to believe manna from heaven was a singular phenomenon.

    Soon Pedro came upon a man of sixty caught in wire, his own heart forcing death upon him as he bled a pool that muddied prison rags. Pedro's small hands and wise young mind were unskilled to respond to the unnatural trouble he'd stumbled into. Knowing no greater remedy to this man's wretched state he prayed for the family left fatherless and the poor shopkeeper who was led to thieving after the state claimed his every possession. 

    He hurried to this action he knew was now and would forever be man's greatest access to power. A single fervent request by Pedro was of course the most effective and suitable response to the deplorable condition and inconceivable depravity of this man's fate. Juan Carlos past fifteen minutes later into the arms of Christ where he knew the love of an eternal father and the significance of a God who can employ the lowly and diminished. Pedro lived only twelve years more but his wisdom and kindness taught many what a great privilege and responsibility it was for us all to bear the likeness of God.  

Ten Minutes

     I hold the cold metal detonator in my hand. It’s a simple device; two buttons, one to arm the bomb, and one to detonate it. I think back to the conversation with the man in the ghost-face mask. “Thieves and liars are the blood in the veins of our nation. And the vital organs are the buildings and monuments of this city.” He said that he had chosen me for my standing in the national “anonymous” organization: an organized league of anti-government hackers that plaster our propaganda onto the face of America in an attempt to rally the citizens of the country. We have drive but we never wanted to hurt anyone, especially the public. This masked man who told me to blow up this bomb had given me the choice between taking action with a detonator or to resume our hacking (which was a slow agonizing process, which is why this was tempting). This is going to kill more than politicians. It’s going kill innocents that are looking at the monuments. The explosions will cover not only the capitol, but also the Washington Monument, the World War II Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial. Sitting in my SUV I go over the proposed plan in my head. Detonate, drive away, collect ten thousand dollars. A seemingly small price for such a large feat, but my payment will be a revolution. At least that’s what the masked man has said. I arm the device and I detonate.

     Explosions rack the cityscape in front of me. I feel the shaking of the very foundation of the city. They last a full ten minutes. I hear the screams through the bedlam. I don’t notice the chopper heading toward me. I don’t notice the men with guns emerging from it. They rip me out of my car. They drag me to the chopper with more than half of their guns trained on me. I see them seizing the detonator, when it self destructs. I see a man being treated for burns.

     They take me to a prison that I’ve seen in every spy movie that I’ve ever watched. Concrete walls, concretes floors, and fluorescent lights throughout the entire facility. I tell them everything I know, which is little. They keep me on two meals a day in a room with no bed. One day they let me watch the five o’ clock news: headlines about the government abducting an innocent man, riots and protests, escalating violence, threats of terrorism. It comes together all the sudden. The masked man’s intentions had never been to ignite an army of sleeper agents; his plan had been to make a CPA from California a martyr--to make me a martyr. As if on cue, the men in suits explain it all to me and tell me how clever I am. They take me back to my cell and shove me in with a promise of an eventual execution. I’m happy though. I’ve done my duty.

     

By the Grace of Ba'al

-->

I work nights from my computer lab at home. I live alone with my dog Spudnik. We take a fifteen minute walk each work night at 3am. I find the deep night atmosphere peaceful. A week ago, I saw something that makes me fear the dark. Sputnik and I were rounding a corner on the far edge of the elementary school's field. Sput likes to do his business around there. I saw that night, in the deep distance, leaning between two buildings, something horrible. He wore a suit and tie, smoked a cigarette. But the form of his face was perverse to me. He looked to be a goat. Horns and all.

I told myself I had imagined it, that somehow the angle of shadows caused me to see something that couldn't have been there. Still, Sputnik and I avoided the school entirely.

I couldn't sleep. Never. Every time I closed my eyes I saw it. Him.

We modern men don't believe in fear. We've all watched enough movies to think it hype. So I told myself I would bury this sleeples nightmare.

We found him last night just where he was last week. I tell you no lie. We approached him. As I neared I braved a whisper, “Who are you?”

He spit his cigarette out, answered, “I was a soldier in the Roman legion. We were set to smash Hannibal’s army. They were weak, having lost half their men crossing the alps. This we told ourselves. We formed a vertical front, ten men wide. Our line was incredible,100,000 long. We thought we would ram our enemy’s lines with so much momentum that nothing would stop us. We would roll right over them with all their elephant madness.

“We were wrong. Somehow, they devastated us. They let us keep our formation, but slaughtered the lines in front, one by one. We crept forward to our deaths. You could hear the gnashing sounds of our comrades meeting their end. They all screamed. What was it that was so terrible that caused these men of valor to scream like innocents? Who was this Hannibal? What sort of monstrous god is this Baal that leads him? And to what torment was he leading us?

“A rumor spread through our ranks that they were eating those in front: killing us by ripping our jugulars out with their teeth. My friend who stood beside me, began digging into the earth desperately with his bare hands. He was trying to dig a whole deep enough to cover his head. He chose suffocation over dreaded destiny.

“You ask me who I am? I am fear. And I never die, child. I wait for you.”

I bore all my courage to summon forth one more question, “Soldier, why have you become a goat?”

“I eat the world. Everything in it.”

I ran. I ran, but I did glance back. I saw him biting my Sputnik into pieces.

Too Jung to Die

(The following is based on true events and contains excerpts from an actual radio broadcast)

Date/Time: September 10^th, 1997, 11:47pm

Location: Desert residence, outskirts of Reno, Nevada

After the thunderstorm caused a power outage, Andrew passed his time in a fluffy recliner, soon dozing off to sleep with his left thumb securely bookmarking a pulpy paranoid sci-fi paperback. On the table next to him lay a battery-powered lamp, a his mom's old clock radio, and a copy of The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche (Carl Jung).

//BUZZ, CLICK!\\

The power popped back on around 1:15 am, jarringly waking Andrew from near-REM level sleep. The kitchen lights seemed far too bright, and the radio was tuned into Art Bell's Coast to Coast AM (one of Andrew's famous pastimes during his occasional bouts of insomnia).

Tonight's broadcast was something rather unforgettable indeed, since a very frantic caller fought through a mesh of powerful static:

"I don't have a whole lot of time...um...I was a former employee of Area 51...let go on medical discharge a week ago...and...(crying)...don't know WHERE to start...they'll triangulate on this position really soon...

What we're thinking of as Aliens ...they're EXTRA-DIMENSIONAL BEINGS...an earlier precursor of the SPACE PROGRAM MADE CONTACT WITH...uh...NOT what they claim to be...INFILTRATED...the MILITARY ESTABLISHMENT...DISASTERS that are coming...the GOVERNMENT knows about them....and there's...SAFE AREAS in this WORLD THAT THEY COULD BEGIN MOVING THE POPULATION TO...but they...THEY WANT THE MAJOR POPULATION CENTERS WIPED OUT SO THAT THE FEW THAT ARE LEFT WILL BE MORE EASILY CONTROLLABLE....(crying, breaking up more)...I started getting..."

Silence. The broadcast went dead. Andrew tried not to freak out, considering the storm...but he soon realized that the lights were all on...an insinuation that the electricity was fine.

He turned the radio to other stations, and none worked. Perhaps it was a short-circuit from a surge? He tested another radio in the bedroom, but it was also on the fritz.

After what felt like an eternal auditory blackout (though it was only two minutes), both radios simultaneously popped back on, and there was an echo of Art Bell apologizing for the radio silence, and a baffled attempt to explain what may have happened. (For some reason) Bell's conspiratorial ramblings this evening seemed all the more convincing.

*KNOCK...KNOCK...KNOCK*

It was 1:30 in the morning, in the middle of the desert, but those deafening knocks could have easily been confused for gunshots.

Andrew stared at the front door, which, at a mere 20 feet away, in that particular moment seemed larger and more ominous than any door he'd seen, or even imagined, in his life.

 *BANG!*
 Andrew was promptly jarred out of what one would assume to be pure catatonia by another tremendously loud noise.

He jumped back and looked down at the Jung book, which had just dropped and (perhaps mockingly) opened itself to the page he'd extensively highlighted earlier that evening regarding synchronicity, and the defeat of assumed coincidence.

Andrew shut his eyes tightly and prayed that this was a dream.  Just then, there were three longer, stronger knocks at the front door.

TO BE CONTINUED