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I was awake, and I needed to pee. I tucked my chin deeper into the sleeping bag and rolled over. There must be some way I could lie that would make the need go away, and let me sleep again. But my traitor brain wouldn’t shut up. I needed to pee. The thought rattled around the insides of my skull, and kept up an unignorable pressure down below. Fine. I dragged an arm out of my sleeping bag, and felt around for the fluffy fleece I’d been wearing round the barbecue – when it had been pleasant-evening-by-the-fire chilly. That had been then. The message came back from the end of my fingers: the temperature was now very much cold-dark-and-miserable-outside-a-sleeping-bag-fecking freezing. The funny thing about the bladder, which they never seem to cover in biology class, is its affinity for the cold. I’d not even found the fleece, and already signals were jangling up and down my spine, setting up for a party. There. My fingers found the fleece, shuffled down the side of the tent as

The first few pops and bangs went unnoticed. Azena mumbled incantations over the bubbling pot. Summoning always made her nervous. There were some things that just didn’t want to be summoned and they didn’t take kindly to it either. Her familiar, Xio, was standing across from her, holding open the spell book. (One of these days she really needed to buy a book stand.) Xio heard the first big explosion and cocked his head. Azena was deep into the spell, eyes closed as the blue smoke began to rise. Then a second and a third bomb went off outside. Azena dropped the whole vial into the cauldron. It quickly went from pale blue to deep black, then the smoke vanished completely. “What the fuck was that?!” She asked. “You ruined the spell when you-“ “Not that.” Azena jumped as the next explosion popped right over the house. “That!” Xio paused thoughtfully. “From my experience, I can only conclude the humans are at war.” He said calmly. “War? Here? We’re in the suburbs. I thought they were

This story involves a certain cow owned by one Anthony Blackburn. This cow was a fine milker, one that had given farmer Blackburn no cause for complaint, even if her left horn was strangely upturned. She had given a fair measure of milk each day, and proved a capable mother to the healthy calves she produced. One day though, given to the mysteries that only cows know, she lay down and would not rise. Nothing Blackburn did would budge her. She was happy to eat whatever fodder was placed before her, but had no interest in strolling about as was her usual habit. This was the situation that I entered into, when I arrived at the farm offering my veterinary services. Farmer Blackburn was glad to have my help as few things furrow a dairyman’s brow more than a cow that is not producing milk. He took me to the byre to see the patient, and there I found her, placidly chewing her cud, seeming to be enjoying life, just not on her four feet. “She hasn’t so much as stirred a hock since

He was born under a dark star, with nothing to his name but a mother’s tangled love. “Kill it.” The King whispered, unable to look upon his son. But the Queen begged for mercy. And so instead they took him, and hid him in a cage without walls. Wordless, voiceless, he wept inside his lonely prison. But all they heard outside the labyrinth were the roars of a monster. “Death would have been better.” Whack, went the old man’s stick. “Never say such things! As long as there’s life, there’s hope. So stop being bull-headed and learn.” “Should’ve killed you like the others.” He grumbled, scrawling another childish letter with hands not made for human words. “Clumsy. Stupid!” He roared, flinging the precious chalk to the floor. “Try again,” the old man said. “We’re all clumsy at first.” When the old man died he was alone again, but for the heroes they sent into his prison to rend, and to kill. By the time Theseus came, he’d had enough of living. Broken, bleeding, left for

The blue of the sea. The sun, turning it into crystal. (Somewhere at the bottom is sand. Somewhere at the bottom is mud. Somewhere at the bottom the light fades out to nothing but that is not here, that is not now.) And the summer gathers seagulls in the air, it gathers them like flies— She is riding the wave and salt is sparkling in the air, stinging her cheeks just as surely as snow. She is what is alive and she is here, belonging somehow to the world in which she cannot breathe, to water more than ground, to the sun reflecting with a desire to do no less than peel her skin off in rhythms, to leave it salted like food for these thousands of birds—she could drown here, she could drown any day— But not today, she thinks, and the wave crests her and her stomach rises as if singing in exultation. And then something else rises. Somewhere at the bottom— Where the light fades to nothing— The shadows have form and the shadows have shape and the shadows have song, and such is the

It was something cold that brought you to life. But that’s okay. The scent ripped through you like metal. Almost like burning. But the opposite. Inside the nostrils. Frost enough to rip out skin cells. You coughed it up: the dirt as dusty as cinnamon powder. What was left of what you once were. Expelled from your lungs. But that’s alright, it’s alright. You needed to remove it like so many pounds of self. Shed something. Left behind. You stood then, deep in the mud. Not frozen, that mud. No, that was only you, your very insides. Touched like by a live coil. Brought. To. Life. Well. Back to life. Rot beneath your feet. Long-dead leaves unraveling into acid, floating to the surface, bubbling smells that made you cough again. A different cough. A better cough. A low fog scattered the light into something grey. Unlike your skin. Your perfect blushing skin, as far from grey as possible. You bit your lip until it gave a drop of blood. And when it fell to the peat, the hungry moss

Before the sneeze Umbra was tiny chips of shining light swarming around a Core Titan’s cranium. Her sparks danced away from hazards, scanned the Titan’s inner world. Surprisingly the thoughts tasted of lemon, copper and charcoal. Even a transdimensional, planet squatting super-being has limits to what it will put up with. A braincase invasion was unconscionable, requiring a spasmic response. The ejection moved Umbra back to the glutinuum where she became a viridian glitter horde; congealing into a symbolically powerful form. A psyche matching avatar.

Bzzz went my phone. Immediately, I grabbed it and swiped open my notifications bar. Another pool party! But… how deep is the water? I thought about how I’d isolate myself as everyone else splashed in the deep end, already having been fully acquainted with the water years ago. I wasn’t like them. I couldn’t swim.

Zith grumbled to himself as he made his way down the tunnel. The goblin scouts didn't report back and the now disgruntled bugbear pulled the short straw on who would go find them and bring them back. That, or beat the goblins senseless if they didn't come willingly. After walking for about an hour, Zith came upon some arrows and a small scimitar, but none of their goblin owners. Curious, Zith pushed further down the tunnel until he came to a cavernous chamber. Usually, no one would come this far into the tunnel as this chamber led to the Underdark and the many horrors that called it home. As Zith cautiously crept through the chamber, a small creature appeared at the edge of his vision. It was too dark to see any color, but the bugbear knew from the creature's size and ears that it was a goblin. Inching closer, he noticed three other goblins next to the one he first saw. "Oi, you there!" Zith called out. "Quit yer lollygaggin' an' get back to camp!" The goblins didn't

Henry Lynch is not a good man. At least, not according to the little kids who are often the receiving end of his unexplainable tantrums. Not even the old man himself can tell what will set him off on any particular day. Mostly when the desert feels especially hot, he will curse the rocks for taking up a shaded spot, or when he’s had an uneventful visit at the town’s saloon, he will fling empty bottles at the first kid who runs past his porch. The day is almost ended, but it’s not too hot and his most recent foray into the cantina had been quite pleasant. Henry has left the bushes alone today and hasn’t scared off any child. In other words, it’s an exceptionally good day. Living alone has taken its toll on him. Even after two years, he still finds himself accidentally cooking breakfast for two and tiptoeing out of the bedroom at sunrise so as to not disturb his wife, who has always loved sleeping through the rooster’s crow. It breaks him each time he remembers that the house is no

“Leave me alone!” he shouted at the door to his tiny apartment. “Did you see his little smirk at the TED Talk?” snickered someone standing just outside. “Yeah, he kept using it between pauses. Like it was supposed to mean something,” giggled the other. “Please… leave…” he begged and fell to his knees, his hands cradling his face. “Do you really think you can just eliminate immigration? Just like that?” “I just wanted everyone to stay home. After all, there’s a reason we live there, isn’t it?” “But the world is a big place, and even now, with the population approaching 8 billion, there’s still quite a bit of room for everyone. Sir, you did it all wrong. You’re nothing more than a bully and a stupid one at that.” “We don’t need to expand! Did you pay attention to nothing I said?” his anger was rising much like it had at the TED Talk. “Oh, we listened and that’s why we’re laughing at you. You know no one took you seriously right?” “Don’t be ridiculous! You should see the comment

This isn’t my body. My reflection in the glassy pond is a stranger, with dark eyes and darker hair. Next to me, Midas touches his face like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. He turns to the witch and asks, “What have you done to us?” His voice echoes strangely against the cave walls. The witch doesn’t say anything. He just points to two slumped figures below the dias. Midas’ eyes widen when he sees the gold and black robes on the figures. I can barely hide my own surprise. We run to the figures and I push aside the black robes on one body. I yelp and stumble back - my own face gazes at me, empty. This means the one in gold robes must be Midas’ body. “What is this?” Midas demands. “This isn’t what we asked for!” “Isn’t it?” The witch responds. “To be free of the curse that is your touch, is that not what you asked for?” He points again, this time to our horses. “Lay your hands on your beasts and you will see that your wishes have indeed been granted.” A shiver runs down my

“What were they digging for out here anyway?” Xenia asked, kicking a clump of muddy soil into the pit below. They’d locked the malfunctioning constructs back in their box, while Farrow went back to the refectory to comb over the site logs. But so far no dice. Reznik could still hear their voices chanting in the back of his mind, like a litany, or some dark promise. This isn’t my body, this isn’t my body, this isn’t my— “Fucked if I know.” Reznik said, craning his neck to try and see whatever was at the bottom of the hole. When he looked up, Xenia was still staring at him, with that little tell-tale crease between her brows that always meant trouble. “Seriously, Xenia! I don’t know shit. Do you honestly think that corporate would tell me anything? I’m just the hired gun. Dumb muscle. Remember?” He said, lifting his rifle to drive home the point. Xenia chewed it over for a minute, then shrugged, breaking their eye-lock. “Guess not.” She said at last, and Reznik had to physically bite

This isn’t my body, I think to myself, after yet another seizure. My body doesn’t fail like this. My body doesn’t rebel against me, and ensure that I collapse in a heap, shaking violently. Eventually I am well enough to stand, and I grab my crutches. I need to be alone. Somewhere… anywhere but here. I leave the house then. My brother is downstairs, working, and my father was already gone at some event or other. My movements are slow, precise. In order to be precise I need to be slow. But I am lucky. It is the end of the day and no one is in the gym, though I can hear the click of the computer keys in my brothers office. I open the door, and slowly make my way up, and up. Soon I find myself on the roof. I curl up there, and I start to sob. It is nearly an hour before someone joins me. To my surprise it is my Uncle Adam. He carefully sits down next to me. For the longest time he says nothing, merely content to sit next to me. Finally he holds an arm out in invitation and I leap

“This isn’t my body,” the king said, reflectively tracing the lacework of golden veins visible in the ceramic skin of his forearm. I glanced up, started, and for a moment believed he was talking to me – a menial gem polisher at work smoothing sand from the crystal joints of his feet. He twisted his hand in the lamplight marvelling at the play of light on gold. “It belongs to the kingdom. From the wizard who directed its building, to every smith and crater, to the miners and the sifters, the potters and he polishers who had a hand in its construction, to the memory of the scribes and scholars long gone who captured the knowledge used in its making.” He was talking to himself then. I returned to my work. No matter how clean the halls were swept, or how often the rugs were beaten, dust still worked its way into the crevices of his toes. Dust, which marred the perfect crystal sheen, and if left alone, would scour away his ceramic limbs. “No, it isn’t my both. It’s ours.” His

The room had been painted a warm, sunny yellow long before they knew if it was a boy or girl. His wife had picked the color, painted the whole room, and picked out every decoration. When they found out they were having a girl, she put up sunflower decals on the wall and worked hard for several days using every technique to get them to stick to the supposedly “lightly” textured walls. Now they looked painted on and had the same bumpy, rough texture as the wall. Those flowers were never coming off again, he’d long concluded. She’d bought fake sunflowers and lavender to decorate, then used a little essential oils to add the smell of lavender to the room. It was an odd mix with the now smelly diapers in the pail and the scent of the newborn in his arms as he rocked her and she slept. Orange light filtered in through the lavender curtains, creating an off pastel brown color in the room. Hints of the smokey scent from outside filtered in even though all the windows and doors in the house

They sat on the old stone bridge passing a bottle of some red wine back and forth. Their legs dangled over the river and she kicked hers back and forth. She smiled a bit when one of her shoes fell off and landed with a soft splash some time later. He brushed an auburn curl back behind her ear. “I hope you don’t plan on following your shoe soon.” “Might still.” She accepted the bottle from the blond and knocked back another gulp, eying her uniformed drinking partner. “There’s not a lot keeping me here.” “There might be more things than you realize. I should know. There’s quite a bit worth living for even if it doesn’t seem so right now.” “Is that so? Would you keep me here?” She opened her legs a bit to get more comfortable and to give an invitation, if he noticed it. Perhaps the wine he’d talked her into allowing him to fetch was working a little too well. He glanced, what young serviceman wouldn’t? He made it as covert as possible though. He did have the ways his mother raised

There are many types of dragons in the world. Big dragons that breath fire, lightning, water, or poisonous gas who feed on whole towns. True menaces to the world of man. Medium sized dragons that work with people or eat them. They are friend or foe depending on what strikes their mood. Then there are the small fairy types. Sometimes friend, but more often than not, greedy little tricksters looking for a quick laugh at the expense of others. However, few have ever taken notice of the tiny snail dragon. Where, when, or even how it arose is unknown, and since it’s recent discovery, few can believe such a creature is real. How could a dragon cross with a snail? Why would a dragon cross with a snail. It boggles the mind. None the less, the snail dragon is both real and a threat. True, it is small, only slightly larger than a common garden snail, and true it is a slow moving creature. That does not mean it is not capable of great damage. It’s appetite for crops is massive and a single

And waltz with us who guard the forest. Join us here in the moonlit glade as white dresses trail through the shadows, like an Elysian dove perching above the pits of hell. Feel the damp earth beneath your bare feet, where autumn leaves have lodged to sleep. When you smell the cold, let it come. Let the breeze entice your skin until it touches the core of your bones. When you taste ecstasy, swallow it whole. It is sweet, like pink cotton candy from the fairground, and it is bitter, like the lingering flavor of that first time someone dropped your heart. But don’t let that drive you home. Stay with us, and take these silken hands, and become one with the night as you traipse these holy lands. You can’t hear the music, but you shall feel it. The silence, like a weighted blanket, envelopes us all, yet the melody is inscribed in your very soul. It is there on the rugged barks, in the bare branches, in the whisper of our names. Wait, hark our secrets. Sing in the language of the trees

“GRAND OPENING” read the sign. “Now or Never” was the name we gave the bakery. This was our Magnum Opus. Pastries would pour out of the ovens each morning and the customers would pour out of the front doors, pastries in hand. Word would spread and we would finally win. Why “Now or Never?” Simple: there was a picture of the Doomsday clock across the street. It seemed fitting. It’s been a year since we opened and every day is the same. Flour, mix, roll, bake. Day in, day out. My elbows are aching and my hands are sore, but this is our magnum opals? Opus. Did the doomsday clock across the street just move? More flour, more mixing, more rolling and more baking. Ovens, ovens, ovens. Hot, hot, hot. Fresh and hot. Hot and fresh. Magnetic opals…hmmm. “FOR LEASE” read the sign. 360-555-5309 was the number we gave the realtor. This was supposed to be our Magnum Opus. Pastries no longer poured out of the ovens because the place was stripped bare. We bid the real estate agent good luck with

You can’t breathe. You’re dying; there’s no other explanation. Your chest is collapsing like a neutron star and soon the pain will be the least of your problems. No, wait, what did the doctor say? It’s a panic attack. And what are you supposed to do during a panic attack? Focus on details. Ok. Focus on details. You remember the exercise, don’t you? Yes, yes you do. Come on then, let’s start. Five things you can see. You see the yellow seat so close to yours you can barely fit your knees. You see the other passengers covering their children’s eyes. Out of the window – no, don’t look out of the window. Focus. You see a blue shoe on the floor. You see the legs of the hostess, unconscious right next to you. You see vomit, green vomit smeared on the bathroom door. Four things you can hear. You hear screams. God, that’s all you hear; how are you supposed to find another three? No, wait. You hear the moans of the creatures on the landing runway. You hear gunshots. You hear you own

The Tumbler had busted through many barriers, in his goal to achieve the ultimate form. He was always good at crushing concrete with his bare hands, and making new doors when there were none. His problem now was that his foe was too fast. He was also being very bizarre. Pogo Paul was bouncing on the sidewalk, with a bag of stolen jewelry. "You can't catch me!" Pogo Paul sang. "Haha, slowpoke." "Slowpole?" The Tumbler skidded to a halt. "Let's see about that." He smashed his fists into the sidewalk. They made ripples through the concrete, and sent torn rock flying. One rammed into Pogo Paul and knocked him flat on his back. Several civilians stood, askance. One was a mom with a stroller, and a squealling baby. "Nice going, Tumbler," sidekick Rocksalt called. She was waiting in line to get some coffee at a nearby food truck. "Um, I'll pay for that," The Tumbler said as he approached the fallen foe.

Resa stood at the edge of the Ghost Wood. She leaned her staff over the edge and it rattled gently in the wind that could not enter the forest. A shadow approached from behind, thrown long by the firelight further in the woods. The head acolyte came up to her and bowed, “The wards are ready, Chief.” Resa instructed, “Bring them to me.” The head acolyte bowed again and went to collect the captives. The air was swollen with power from the wards. Resa sucked in a breath, filling her lungs with the deep petrichor of the Ghost Wood. She exhaled in a long hiss and whispered, “Almost.” It had taken them ten years, but they were finally going to cleanse their land of the Ghost Wood. No more would her people suffer the plight of the dead. She ground her fingers against her staff, feeling the hundred small runes carved into its body - one for each life they’d lost in the struggle. The head acolyte returned and offered the captive warlocks to her. Resa took the three turquoise tokens into

There once was a kingdom that fell to ruin. A warlord launched a crusade against it, the kingdom’s allies would not come to its aid, and as the dead lay in the streets a miasma fell across the land. The tyrant razed every building to the ground, and in but a year there was almost no trace that such a place had ever been: its tragic fate was remembered, for a time, but not recorded. The neighbours who had turned away in its time of need regarded its legacy with similar indifference. But though the kingdom lay in ruins, two of its heirs survived to take flight: a prince and a princess escaped the warlord’s domination, displaced but not defeated. They made their way into the wilderness, renouncing the pantheon that had failed to spare them from such violence and instead trusting their own strength to secure revenge against every traitor that had stood by when the tyrant came, as cold and uncaring as those stone gods. The young siblings soon found that life in the wilds of the world was