Paying The Piper

It was NEVER wise to miss a payment to Babs "Grandma Babsy" Malone. She was THE most brutal and effective collector in all of book-making history.

He hadn't wanted to skip a payment, but it was that or lose his car. Having done so, he now knew what Babs motto, "Pay me or face the Piper", meant.

The Piper was 14 inches of varnished ironwood, roughly phallic-shaped, of tremendous girth. She'd abused him with it mercilessly. Horribly, rippingly painful at first, it left him bloody and with glazed eyes.

Limping and shamed, he readily agreed to pay her double next Friday.

Toasting The Unexpected

The fuel cells were at 17 percent and failing rapidly. The environmental scrubbers had gone offline in the night. Food and water were long gone. Jaled drank more Theloskan brandy, saluting the Universe for its infinite capacity to twist Fate.

As a cosmic volcanologist he'd evaded many fiery, molten deaths. How ironic then the asteroid impact that hammered Tralonkus IV out of its orbit and placed it on the fast track to a perpetual ice age.

With no relief ship near, Jaled's end was certain. His blueing lips offered a final bitter toast to the unexpected.

The Ring of Deception

Melanie was a devoted "picker". Estate sales, auctions, salvage liquidations were all prime opportunities.

For 250 dollars, she purchased a "blind" crate. It might contain priceless collectibles or complete rubbish. Nearing the bottom of the box, Melanie was considering finding a new hobby.

Some tortoise shell combs and a small broach were the only prizes. With luck, she MIGHT recoup her investment. Then, she found the small velvet box. She dusted it off gingerly. Obviously old, reminiscent of bygone days.

The ring inside the box was stunning! Nearly one half-inch wide, it was disproportionately heavy. Of a shiny metal she believed was platinum, it was traced with a fine filligree of yellow gold. It was the most striking piece of men's jewelry she'd ever seen.

Imagine her surprise at the missive she found beneath the box. It was on vellum, supple yet browned with age. Her eyes goggled as she read:

Fiona,
I return this gaudy thing to you with my full contempt and disgust. I am a consummate professional but can only bear so much in the name of scientific discovery. Two years my consciousness resided in the shell you know as Trevor. For the cause of xenobiology, two years of enduring the sight, the sound, the SMELL of you! To marry you...to continue this experiment is beyond my tolerance. I return to my beloved home with only vile memories of my time amongst you.

Calistorna Vox, Xenobiologist
Xangaran Science Academy

Melanie sold the ring the very next morning and never picked EVER again.

Joy Is Fleeting

Lacey pirouetted about the room, giggling with the unbridled enthusiasm unique to young children.

Evelyn was scarcely less bubbly than her daughter. She hugged
Robert enthusiastically. New dance shoes JUST in time for the recital? She was delighted he’d found money for them. Lacey leaped herself giddy as his wife kissed him warmly. It was a good day.

The dying light of the fall sunshine cast errant beams about Robert's heart sank as the clock showed him the audit would now be done. This happy day would end badly. Everyone would soon know where he’d “found” the money for those shoes.

Vengeful Spirits

El Festivo Food and Spirits never had a chance at success. The critics from The Globe had been exceptionally brutal.

The cuisine was declared: "uninspiring and pedestrian"”. The lounge was derided as: "on par with any motor lodge but with lower-grade beverages".

Clyde begged them to give him a second chance. That chance was tonight. As they entered, he offered an array of exotic and colorful cocktails. The critics and their entourage couldn’t get enough of the delicious alcoholic masterpieces.

Clyde smiled, wondering how they would feel later when the toxins he’d blended into the aperatifs had done their damage?

Humanity Seeking Home

Pilgrim VII took a geosynchronous orbit about the planet without incident. This was the last suitability survey the crew could do before they returned home. This was a "Gilded Monkey" hunt...strike it rich or return home in disgrace.

Failure was NOT an option. The Zherzh Hegemony delivered the ultimatum in no uncertain terms. Humanity would relinquish the reborn green lushness of the Homeworld or be extinguished.

The clash between the United Space Fleet and the Hegemony had been a rank failure for Humanity. The Fleet was plucked, stuffed and served up like a turkey symbolizing abject failure. And yet, Humanity MUST survive!

Mission Failure

Zhergh reviewed the parameters: Infiltrate in disembodied mode. Transfer consciousness into common object. Conduct reconnaisance. Exfiltrate.

His essence soared into the atmosphere, meeting resistance.The difference between a “proper” planet and one with so much oxygen about, he supposed.

His choice of a trash receptacle was inspired. The things were ubiquitous. Using astral force he transported it to a prime vantage point.

That vantage point was, unfortunately, the passing lane of Interstate 64. The semi struck Zhergh with tremendous force.

He lay on the grassy median… broken, dying and frozen in his
assumed form. “How embarassing!” were his final words.

Nowhere Left To Hide

The shock troops of the Jheldana Hegemony were simply too powerful for Khelassa Naldur. Her meager powers failed to protect her three fragile wards.

When they had fled the home world, Naldur had warned Shellesa, Trionfa and Pelianda that their old life was gone. The fuel cells of the tiny craft could only take them so far. They would still likely be found eventually.
“
Eventually” came today. Crushing psionic energy hammered the woman to the floor. She watched through tears and pain as her beloved trio were seized and drawn upwards to the waiting cruiser…and to their doom.

The Cerulean Blossom of Death, Pt. II

Fewer than a handful of Traelwyn's most adept Guild thieves knew anything about the Cerulean Blossom of Death. Pudge was unequivocally NOT numbered amongst those Master Thieves. To put a fine point on it, Pudge was not even a member of the Traelwyn Thieves Guild. This was not so much from a lack of trying but, more specifically, from a lack of succeeding.

On eight separate occasions, once yearly as allowed, Pudge had undertaken the Guild's Rites of Admission. In Pudge's defense, it was a very demanding challenge. The Guild had maintained impressively high standards for nearly a millennium with no variation. Three out of every five supplicants failed to gain their Thieves' Ring on the first try.

Pudge held a rather dubious honor amongst the ranks of Guild hopefuls. He was the only individual to have failed at every single skill tested on each of his eight embarassingly dismal attempts. Pudge suspected the only reason the Masters continued allowing him to try was for his demonstrated ability to provide guaranteed comedic entertainment.

Though this was a bitter pill to swallow, Pudge was, inconceivably, undaunted in his commitment to become a Guild thief. He currently made his living, albeit a rather squalid and unprofitable one, as a freelance thief. To do such a thing was, normally, unheard of.

To work in ANY Guild town, let alone in the very shadow of the Guild's home tower, without credentials was to establish a true barrier to a long and happy life. It could only result in a slow, messy and painful death of nearly legendary gruesomeness. Guild Enforcers were not known for their kind or gentle nature.

Pudge owed his continued existence to the careful choice of which jobs he undertook. You see, Pudge only accepted contracts that absolutely NO Guild thief could or would take under any circumstances....EVER. He was, quite simply, the Thief of Last Resort in Traelwyn.

The Guild leaders saw no need to task an Enforcer to neutralize Pudge. If he were more skilled or more often successful, then he might constitue a threat to them. As was, his activities were more likely to see him in the hands of the City Guard or killed by a disgruntled client. Either eventuality was acceptable to the Masters.

Crouched in the bushes and shivering, Pudge suspected things were about to go very badly for him. The Cerulean Blossom of Death?!? He had NO idea what such a thing could be used for but it certainly didn't sound benign. I mean, he wasn't being asked to steal the Cerulean Blossom of Sunshine and Lollypops was he?

He was realistic enough to know that he was far too commited to this job to just quit. The mage had made it abundantly clear that failure was NOT an option. Pudge was not convinced that the consequences of success were likely much better.

It was, on nights just such as this, that Pudge seriously considered moving back home to his parents. Suddenly, the life of an apprentice confectioner didn't sounds so bad. Truth be told, he seemed to be physically predisposed to such a career. After all, It wasn't as if he was known as "Pudge" for his trim and muscular physique.

For now, his exit strategy and his career planning were in Limbo. There was still the matter of a certain Cerulean Blossom of Death to be dealt with.

He Was Nobody: A Night Out.

The Trilogy Bar and Grill on the Upper West Side was perfect. It was a haven for bored Yuppies to drink, dance and party with others of their vapid kind.

He would be invisible to them. The socialite he'd lured out of the club
would, certainly, not live long enough to form memories of him.

He removed her matching brassiere, panties and suspender belt from necessity. The electrodes on her nipples, vaginal lips and such required direct contact with skin to deliver a satisfactory shock.

He had such truly delightful mayhem planned for her before she died that night!

The Cerulean Blossom of Death

Pudge mentally reminded himself of the first two Rules of Thievery. Never steal anything FROM a wizard and Never steal anything FOR a wizard. Was there a Rule: Never steal something called the Cerulean Blossom of Death?

The payoff was irresistably high. The mage told him to find a flower with a fibrous stem and chromatic, hastate leaves. The flower would have shimmering argent and cerulean-tinted petals.

Although Pudge didn't know what most of those words meant, how hard could it be to locate one flower in an enchanted greenhouse? He was about to find out.

Imagination Lost

Jeremiah had a very active imagination. He craved adventure, excitement and things impossible.

Jeremiah indulged his need for adventure quite differently than his friends. No Cowboys and Indians or playing Soldier. Instead, his heroes all sprang from the pages of...books.

For Jeremiah it was more than just reading. He'd learned if he concentrated very, VERY hard, he could summon forth those characters as actual living people!

Today, the park was his land of make believe. THERE it was! It took the eye of a true adventurer to spot it. A broken swing...wrapped and dangling from its frame? Oh no, it MUST be more than THAT.

Who best to help him puzzle it out? Nancy Drew? No...she was a GIRL! The Hardy Boys were total geeks. Then he realized....THE detective...Sherlock Holmes would solve this mystery in no time!

He summoned Holmes as he had before, but this time the sleuth was angry. Before Jeremiah could fully explain, Holmes snarled that sometimes a broken swing was JUST a broken swing. Then he vanished.

That day a terrible thing happened. Jeremiah ceased to believe. No longer did characters come to him. From that fateful day on, Jeremiah NEVER believed in anything again.

Out In Rain

Before moving out, Zed took a moment to orient himself and took a general bearing from the stars. There was no moon tonight and so the stars seemed especially bright. He was far away from the encroachments of the civilized world. For that reson, Zed appreciated, all the more, the purity of a night sky untainted by the residual glow of artificial lighting.

His path decided upon, Zed moved out....it was show time. Before he had gone more than a few steps, Zed was nearly overwhelmed by the sensory smorgasbord the jungle offered up to him. He hadn't realized just how deadened his senses had been back in the "real" world.

The sponginess of the ground beneath his boots, mingled with the twin scents of both decay and growth. The night breeze had not only a different sound but even a residual taste to it. It tasted of leaf mold, of the pungent reek of animal droppings, of things both primal and elemental.

The sights, the sounds, the feels, the smells and tastes of the night all enfolded and enlivened Zed like the nearly-forgotten embrace of a man's first lover. It was sensual and seductive and thoroughly irresistable to him. And he was liable to get his sorry ass in a bag with a tag if he kept letting his mind wander! Zed mentally bitch-slapped himself back to the business at hand.

He moved through the jungle as effortlessly as most would walking down a city sidewalk. Hanging vines did not entangle him. Fronds and branches did not snag on his clothing or gear. Unseen roots and the slippery wetness of rotting plant life did not trip or delay him. THIS was his neighborhood. THESE were his sidewalks and his mean streets.

Zed made good time. His pocket GPS told him he had covered nearly the entire distance to the target location in just under two hours. Considering he had spent almost a year incarcerated, he hadn't been sure how much his stamina and endurance might have suffered. It seemed not nearly to the degree he had feared.

It didn't hurt matters that Chance seemed to be favoring Zed's mission. He had seen the sat photos of the makeshift compound where the engineers were being kept. Sloppy attempts had been made to conceal the structures but they were very inadequate. Zed agreed with the "experts" belief that he would find crude roads leading to the site. He had found just such with relative ease.

He wasn't so out of the game as to actually use the road. He WAS smart enough to remain a few hundred meters inside the bush and travel on a parallel course though. It made orienteering unnecessary and speed of travel was insured. Yes, Chance was favoring him but, as he had learned long ago, Chance favors the prepared mind. Thus, Zed had curried that favor by being mentally prepared for nearly any eventuality.

To that end, he halted approximately three clicks from his target and waited. He sat cross-legged in the shelter of a particularly dense cluster of brush. About him, gauzy spiderwebs draped the hanging liana vines thickly. The webs were dotted liberally with condensation. Zed smiled with satisfaction when the webs confirmed what he already sensed. Rain was coming and it was coming soon.

Predicting rain in the jungle was precisely as exact a science as was predicting a drive-by shooting in East L.A. You knew that it was going to happen eventually but that when it did it would be sudden and with little real warning. As was the case in the urban jungle, one relied on subtle indications and one's "gut" to know what was coming and when.

Zed had trusted HIS gut when he told Command he would infiltrate tonight. He sensed the rain was coming. He didn't NEED the rain for his mission to succeed. It would, most definitely, increase his odds of success though.

Rain made stealth nearly unnecessary. A bull moose could charge full tilt through a jungle downpour and not be heard. Rain made sentries cold, listless and less attentive. Rain washed away tracks and made the use of tracking dogs problematic. Rain would be more helpful to him than any weaponry, gadgets or gear Command could provide.

So, Zed sat and waited for the rain to come. The ozone smell, the prickling of the hairs on his neck told him that it was near...very near. And with that, the first heavy drops began to fall. Slowly and randomly at first, they struck with definable separate sounds of impact.

As the rainstorm grew in intensity, the drops fell with a staccato pounding rhythm. Zed turned his face to the sky and let the rain sluice down over him. It was tailor-made for his needs. He rose nimbly to his feet and began to cover the remaining distance to his objective.

Along the way, the earlier poem came unbidden to Zed's mind. The verse seemed oddly prophetic but also rather comforting. "I have walked out in rain and back in rain." And so Zed walked and the rain rained.

Temporal Vacation Services

As he stepped onto the transit pad, Jarvak Khelda wondered, not for the first time, if this vacation was such a wise choice. Everyone he worked with, everyone with the means to do so had already done it. He was just experiencing pre-transit jitters.

Granted, there was some risk involved but it was minimal. At least the agent who had booked his trip maintained so. Khelda had no reason to believe otherwise. It HAD to be safe or the Central Government wouldn't allow it, right? As a dutiful Citizen should, Khelda trusted the Government implicitly. To do otherwise was foolish.

Temporal Vacation Services (TVS) had full Governmental clearance to offer Time Trips. He had read their brochures and promotional literature extensively before deciding on taking his first Trip. TVS guaranteed an authentic, unique, paradox-free experience.

Paradox had been elminated as a concern within a year or two after the science of temporal travel had been perfected. TVS researchers had proceeded with caution and foresight. They had chosen the destinations and eras with a clear eye to potential problems. Their careful probes almso entirely revolutionized man's understanding of the true nature of time.

Khelda, as had nearly every person on the planet, had been glued to his vidscreen for the TVS research press conferences. It was very technical stuff and Khelda would have been lying if he didn't admit that most of it was WAY over his head. The scientists had done their best to "dumb it down" but it was still some pretty complex stuff.

When all was said and done, it was a fairly basic thing though. Time, TVS asserted, was essentially immutable and self-repairing. Except in a handful of VERY specific circumstances, it simply was not possible for the actions of a single individual to have any measurable negative effects. Thus, the Trips they offered were entirely vetted to be non-paradoxical.

All that really meant was that a one-on-one encounter with a notable figure of the past was STRCTLY prohibited. However, attending a Roman gladiatorial games or sitting in the stands for a classical concert by Bach was perfectly safe. One participant more or less at an event with such a wide attendance had no potential for a temporal mishap. That seemed to put everyone at ease on the paradox issues.

Khelda, like most first-time Trippers had been thoroughly overwhelmed by the number of temporal offerings available. The only thing he had decided on for sure was that he did NOT want some boring, stodgy destination. He hungered for excitement, for an exceptional vacation. Given what this was costing, he owed himself

He had finally settled on a Trip to the mid-18th century. The booking agent confirmed it was a seldom-selected venue. That had sealed the decision in Khelda's mind. It was bound to be something pretty special!

He hadn't done more than skim the first few paragraphs of the thick orientation packet she gave him. There didn't seem any need to. First off, he WANTED the fun of experiencing the past on the fly. It would ruin the whole thing if there were no surprises awaiting him.

Secondly, TVS would handle the tedious bits. At the moment of transit he would be hypno-implanted with absolutely everything he needed to know and know how to do to fit seamlessly into his chosen event. That was good enough for him.

So, he stood on the pad and waited for the final equipment checks before transit. He was certain a lot of his trepidation had to do with his unusual garb. It was very disconcerting to be clad, head-to-toe, in entirely organic clothing. To be wearing nothing synthetic seemed scandalous.

The tunic and trousers he wore were of something called "wool". His shirt, socks and undergarments were fashioned of "homespun cotten". He was terribly amused to discover that his footwear and several other items were actually made from the hides of...animals. Scandalous indeed!

The most bizarre accoutrement was slung over Khelda's shoulder. If he had understood the staff properly it was called a "Brown Bess musket". What an odd name for a thing! Khelda was led to believe that it was intended to be a weapon of some sort. A weapon? Seriously?? It seemed to be inordinately heavy, cumbersome and terribly crude for anyone to carry about. He doubted very seriously that he would find any conceivable reason to use the silly thing. Khelda was quite convinced it must be some incongruous sort of ceremonial or decorative accessory rather than serving any actual purpose.

After all, how much need for a weapon could there be in a place with such a quaint name as Antietam, Maryland?? With a scintillating shimmer of light, Jarvak Khelda began his first, and most certainly last, expedition through Temporal Vacation Services.

Acquainted With The Night

Zed leaned his back against the trunk of the enormous tree and smiled. He was about ten clicks west of Firebase Tango. He was deep inside the thick jungle cover. In a word, he was home.

He reached into his field pack and retrieved a Ranger bar. He savored the thick, chewy sweetness of it...oatmeal, molasses, raisins, berries and nuts. It was maximum energy in a minimal form. He had forgotten just how good it tasted. Now that he was home again, he would enjoy it much more often.

It was very dark this deep under the canopy. Zed didn't mind. He belonged in the dark. It was his place...his comfort zone. Special Ops was a big community with a lot of citizens. But as in any community, some of its members were better known than others. Zed was one of the upper crust operators.

Some did their thing urban, some were mountain goats. Some took to water like fish and some were barely evolved beyond the apes. Zed was one of those apes. He understood the jungle on a primal level unlike "normal" people. He liked to think that the jungle understood him too.

Taking the last bite of the bar, he washed it down with a full canteen of water. Zed wasn't especially thirsty but he did observe a cardinal rule of the field. The only time a canteen didn't slosh was either when it was completely full or completely empty. With the river so close by, better to be fully hydrated. And he would be damned if his epitaph read, "The bad guys found him when they heard his canteen slosh." The little things DID matter.

As he finished off the sticky goodness, he allowed himself a soft sigh of satisfaction. That would normally be operational suicide, but he knew there was no one near to hear it.

The only thing more delicious to Zed right now than his treat was the irony of him being here at all. He had been cooling his heels in confinement for breaking the jaw of a staff weenie in Gitmo. The circumstances of why he had done it were moot. The two years hard time he got for it was not. Zed didn't really care much. Some things just needed to be done.

Last Thursday seemed destined to be like every other day...until. The SOCOM major who showed up at the detention facility brought two items with him. The first was a mission dossier. The second was his release papers. Zed had no doubt that one was directly connected to the other. Sometimes he really hated when he was right.

He had several possible scenarios in mind. The reality of it wound up being scenario number two. Three petrochemical engineers in country ....communist guerillas...kidnapping...ransom. It read like the plot of a bad made-for-TV action flick. Trouble with it was, it wasn't a script...it was real. Zed was beginning to regret having woken up this morning.

When all was said and done, he signed on for the mission. There hadn't been any doubt in either his mind or the major's that he would. Something in the major's eyes told Zed he had been there and done that himself once upon a time. They were two souls kindred enough to know how galling confinement could be to a man used to being on the prowl somewhere.

The mission was almost too straightforward. Zed was to insert by parachute drop. He would make his way to the coordinates where the engineers were believed to be being held. He was to confirm their presence and obtain proof of life if possible. He would then make his way to the extraction point for a helo pickup. A strike team would then be inserted for the actual rescue.

The major had been VERY insistent. Zed's task was strictly covert. He was NOT to act, he was NOT to engage the captors. His mission was for intel only. Zed had some difficulty convincing them that he would operate within the parameters specified. To be fair Zed admitted to himself, he DID have something of a rep for going weapons free when ordered to do otherwise.

He had no doubt this was his only ticket back to the free world. He knew he either did this job right or they would find a much deeper and darker hole to drop him down for...well, for a VERY long time. The thought of that scared him more than any hazard the mission might pose.

So, here he was. In the dark, on unfriendly terrain with an unknown number of hostiles between him and success...he was where he deserved to be. This was what he lived for. This was his place in the universe.

Silently, he rose to his feet. With exquisite slowness, he went through a series of stretches to limber him back up from his rest. Having no need to consult a time piece, he KNEW it was time to move out.

As he instinctively checked and tightened his gear, a line from an old and beloved poem came to Zed's mind. "I have been one acquainted with the night." With a grin and with footsteps as light as the beat of a butterfly's wings, Zed slipped away to reacquaint himself with an old friend, the night.

The Last Spark

He was emaciated, sick and so very tired. It was hardly miraculous, that the Cong didn't care. They continued to torture him long after he had nothing more to give them.

He'd known their intent when they brought the bucket of tar to his cell...was far too weak to resist.

Through a veil of pain, he watched the blade rise and fall. He saw the blood spurt and knew his choice...tar or death. They could not break him. They could not stomp out the last spark of life within him so easily. He plunged his arm into the bucket.

A Sense Of Purpose

Crenshaw settled in on the moonlit balcony. It was an absolutely perfect vantage point. He wondered when anyone would find the bodies of the couple who owned the home to which this perfect balcony connected.

He assembled the rifle expertly in the darkness. His pulse quickened and he felt more alive than at any other time. A sense of purpose began to evervesce up from within him like bubbles in champagne.

He sighted down into the gathering. He didn't really care WHY someone wanted such a darling little girl dead. As she blew out her candles, Crenshaw blew out her brains.

He Was Nobody: The Hunt

He was nobody. He was an unremarkable man worthy of
little notice. He did not exist for all intents and
purposes. Tonight, say what you want, that was decidedly to his advantage. Camoflague was an essential element of success when hunting.

He wore his charcoal suit. It was his most stylish, yet least memorable. He drank sparingly and obscurely. He tipped acceptably but not lavishly. He sat and drank and waited for HER. She would be young, vapid and hopelessly self-absorbed. She would crave affirmation to feed her ego. She would be a nobody who dreamed of being somebody. Tonight he would grant her wish.

It was two hours before she approached him. His non-chalance ensnared her. She could not tolerate being snubbed. Knowing this would be so, he reeled her in until she was helpless to resist leaving with him. Her pride demanded it.

He dumped her lifeless body out the back of his van and onto the sidewalk...her legs dangling off. He found the irony of her tattoo risible. Vive Libre...Live Free. She may have lived free but she died securely bound and screaming. Tonight she was nobody, but tomorrow she would be somebody...The Butcher's tenth victim.

A Novel Approach

Mathias had NO idea what he was going to do about tonight. He had nothing to share...nothing to contribute to the others. He was seriously beginning to regret ever having joined the group in the first place.

He could see them all in his mind's eye and it was a vision that left him with a sour taste in the back of his throat. They would all have made so much progress and he would be the odd man out...again...still.

In his defense, Creative Writing was his minor, NOT the driving reason that he was here in the first place. Electrical Engineering was to be his focus. When your father was a graduate of the most prestigious engineering school on the East Coast, great things were expected of you.

Mathias had a definite talent for the intricacies of engineering. He had talent for it but little passion. What he DID have passion for was writing. He enjoyed the visceral, tactile sense of putting pen to paper and creating something unique and personal.

Engineering did not feed that hunger in him. Engineering was all about foundation. It was about taking the lessons of the past and applying them to the present. It was solid, consistent, established science. It required a certain degree of creativity, no doubt. But the bottom line was that it was all about taking the new and resolving it with the old. It was about applying tested existing solutions to new problems.

Mathias needed more and he had pursued it with his father's grudging support. He could imagine the cynical pleasure his father would take in hearing that the boy was finally going to give up his "scribbling". It was time for his son to pursue "real" learning. Mathias' cheeks burned red with shame.

Two days ago, his faculty advisor had implied that, perhaps, he take a semester off from his minor. She was quick to assert that he could always take it back up next year. Mathias knew it was a feeble attempt to not discourage him, but it did have an impact.

He KNEW he wasn't cutting it with his writing. Oh, he had completed all of his assignments but that was not the issue. His professor offered only lackluster feedback . He chided his student often about growing, expanding...about reaching deeper inside to tap his well of creativity.

Mathias had no explanation to give. He doubted the old coot could understand the pressure he was under. He was expected to not only perform, but to excel in his engineering courses. His inclusion in a summer internship at Macey Applied Technologies was his father's dream for him. Mathias own dreams were a secondary concern at best.

The members of the writing group were supportive of him. He couldn't make them understand how...galling that support was. Yes, he was thousands of words behind the rest of them on his novel, but that was okay, they maintained. Not everyone could be a prolific, dedicated writer all at once. He was doing VERY well for someone with so little writing experience.

He fumed thinking of the platitudes they trotted out so readily. He HAD ideas. He HAD plots and exposition and conflicts and all of the elements of a truly great novel. They were right there in his head. He just lacked the time to give them their due.

The hours of theorums and advanced mathematics and applied structural physics left him so very, very tired. His thoughts were disjointed, scrambled by the time he set it aside and tried to write. The story would not come. The creativity would not flow. By the time he stumbled to bed each night, his Great American Novel had only advanced by a paltry few hundred words. By the cold light of day, they seemed so lame they were scarce worth keeping.

It was 6:45. He needed to hurry if he was going to make it to Stamford Hall on time. The group had a dedicated study carol reserved for every Wednesday night at 7. Though he had written less than a single chapter since the previous week, he WOULD be there tonight. He had a surprise for his fellow writers...a most unexpected surprise.

He snatched his battered leather satchel and filled it with his notebooks, pens,and such. The last item he placed inside with gentle care. He had bought it awhile ago but had only decided today to share it with the group. Boy, would they be surprised!

His mind was cold, analytical and dedicated to the problem-solving skills of engineering. The whimsical, fictional make-believe were all banished and subsumed. This was a surprise that required careful planning.

The gun was a revolver...so only six rounds to work with. He reasoned that he would have no opportunity to reload...a valid premise. That meant six targets at most. He calculated the variables and postulated the element of surprise would be a favorable factor.

Six rounds and twelve group members...hmm. He contemplated his target priorities. Carol...definitely Carol. He smiled, picturing her head exploding in a cloud of blood and brain. Now THAT was more than dystopian enough to characterize the mewling cow's writing.

Sadie and Carl, of course. Through the ticker for her. He imagined the heavy slug would be a nice metaphor for those trashy bodice-rippers she obsessed on. Carl would, most likely, take one in the back while he tried to shield the others from harm. That would be fitting of the crappy cop thrillers he favored. How fitting indeed!

Mathias lamented he had not devoted more effort to this decision. He supposed the rest would come to him at the right time. After all, he WAS a very creative man if given half a chance.

He Was Nobody: Destiny Discovered

He was nobody. He was an unremarkable man worthy of little notice. He did not exist for all intents and purposes. This was how it had always been and how it must always be. He could not remember when he had wished it to be otherwise.

He had been the offspring of two gray people. They were naught more than two hapless souls destined to live out their pointless lives, dwelling in relative obscurity and total mundanity. For this reason alone, they deserved to die. In death, at least, they were worthy of the attention of others, if only for a brief time. Until the required forms were filled out and their bodies were disposed of...they mattered. Therefore, he had done them a favor. Because of him, they actually mattered to someone.

He stood in the shadows and watched intently as the emergency personnel arrived outside his building. He was quite moved to realize that this was all possible because of HIM. He had summoned them all here by dialing the magical numbers that he had learned in school. He was very careful to insure they had the correct address before hanging up the telephone and leaving the apartment.

As the neighborhood came to life, a small crowd gathered on the sidewalks. They were respectful and did not interfere with those he had summoned. He liked that. The croud was an unexpected surprise. He did not anticipate that he could generate that much interest in others. As he observed them all, he experienced a momentous epihany for one so young. It was very, very empowering to be able to assist others.

On that chilly morning, standing unobserved across the street from his former home, he knew. He knew, at the tender age of nine years old, what some never discovered during their entire lives. He knew his destiny. He knew what his purpose in life was to be. He just...KNEW.

He would always be as he was right now. Invisible...unseen...unremarkable. He was destined to labor behind the scenes, not to strut about on the stage. It would be his role, his task, his appointed duty to engineer the importance of others. He MUST make sure that they all mattered to someone...if only for the blink of an eye.

The world was a large and cold and unfriendly place. It was simply not possible to guarantee that anyone would matter for very long to those who had not known them. So, he must work all the harder to make them matter very, very much for what little time he could.

Eventually, all too soon he thought, the responders completed their efforts and departed. The small crowd dispersed quickly enough when the magic of the moment he had created was gone. Just that blithely, the world shrugged its mighty shoulders and focused on other concerns.

He stood for a long, long time in the cool shadows of anonymity, savoring the memory of the power that he was privileged to wield on that, otherwise, unremarkable day. Finally, with a soft sigh and a resolute nod, he went out into the world to embrace his destiny.

Tears of Shame

She waited in the office of The Euphoria Gambling Parlor....waited to pay on the marker against her home.

"Office" was a bit of a misnomer. The room held a couple of plastic lawn chairs, the hulks of gaming consoles and...an old stained mattress.

The room had a pervading feel of yellow...the yellow of faded paint, of nicotine and grease, of dim flourescent lights.

Immensely fat and sweating heavily, his skin had an unhealthy, jaundiced pallor reaffirming the yellow motif.

As they both began to disrobe, her colorless tears of shame took on a yellowish hue as well.