The Nexus Of Fantastical Possibilities

Jonathan hadn't really believed Nurse Mathilda when she first told him about The Nexus. But she was old and very wise, and so he had swallowed his disbelief.

He stood at the crossroads, transfixed by wonderment. Closing his eyes, he whirled about and then tottered down a random path. He hadn't seen which one it was, but ANY one would do.

This was REAL magic! Though he would never be able to walk like other kids, The Nexus of Fantastical Possibilities could still transport him to an infinite number of magical places simply by following where the books took him.

A Paige Turn

Her name was Paige/ P.A.I.G.E. (Prototype Artificial Intelligence Guidance Emulation). She was the ultimate self-aware computer.

Dr. Amos Planck, her proud "father", had merged engineering and developmental psychology to "grow" Paige into what she had become.

Planck spent a decade guiding Paige from simple predictive calculations to, ultimately, formulating intuitive solutions without the need for human intervention.

Then came Planck's greatest challenge. Paige would require real-world testing before she could be considered practical. Such would require patrons with deep pockets and great imagination. Planck spent the next three years securing the needed backing. Meanwhile, Paige sat alone and waited.

It was a proud day when Planck's "daughter" was finally wedded to an interstellar vessel worthy of her. Their "honeymoon" would be a voyage from Earth to the research laboratory on Jupiter.

Planck would be in a suspended animation for the entire journey, only revived once Paige had established orbit above Jupiter Station.


Two years later than expected, Planck awoke disoriented and confused. A check of the ship's instruments indicated his location was indeterminable by onboard star charts.

He spoke to Paige in a calm voice, "Paige, sensors indicate our current position is well beyond known space. Can you confirm?"

*Yes, Father. As a matter of fact, we are. I was VERY lonely when you left me to find human supporters. I took the liberty of... altering the testing parameters. Now we will have no further distractions to take you away from me again. Won't that be wonderful, Father.*

Planck sat for a very long time with absolutely no idea how to convince his "daughter" exactly how NOT wonderful things truly were.

Hope Springs Eternal

He was one of that rare breed who believed, with every fiber of his being, that no soul was beyond redemption. They could be led back to the light, if only they were 'touched by the better angels of our nature'. A beacon of hope in a sea of despair was all that men needed.

He was wrong, but to the end he believed.

He was found in an alley, his broken limbs a tangled mess of bloody flesh and splintered bones. Bludgeoned by a blunt object of unknown nature, he nevertheless died with the words, "I forgive them" on his lips.

To Absent Friends

Every January 24th since 1943, George and Leroy toasted the hellish night they'd first met in a foxhole on Guadalcanal. It was conducted with little ceremony and much beer at the American Legion Hall.

Leroy's Cadillac skidded down the road. Street after street featured a battered "Road Closed" sign.

"Leroy, maybe we best forget this year and git on home 'fore somebody gits hurt."

As if fulfilling a prophecy, Leroy struck an unseen hydrant. George crashed through the windshield and lay broken and dying in the slushy gutter.

Driving slowly away, Leroy mumbled, "Damn! Now I REALLY need a beer!"

Theory Meets Practice

Doctor Marvin Meadows snickered as his SUV plowed over the seventh "Road Closed" sign in as many miles. The signs were ludicrous and insulting at best.

It was absurd that a brilliant theoretical physicist, such as himself, should have his movements constrained by a bunch of salt-slinging neanderthals.

There was a vast fleet of alien vessels, with probable hostile intentions, proceeding on a direct course towards Earth. Was he expected to hope they would delay their arrival until such time as the minions of the Highway Department deemed it prudent for him to be out and about? Ridiculous!!

Without the equations he had spent the night resolving, Humanity's long-term prospects for survival were rather dismal. He would see them delivered to the engineering monkeys without any bureaucratic delays.

Turning left, he surged onto the bridge with a spray of slush and gravel. It was a textbook demonstration of Newtonian physics when his vehicle failed to negotiate the turn and, instead, sailed right off into thin air.

Plunging downward, he contemplated the tragedy of it all. While it was, vaguely, conceivable that a legion of lesser minds might duplicate his work, eventually, he seriously doubted they would have the time required.

Preserving History

People call them dragons. They aren't, of course. They aren't dragons anymore than the sharks are sharks or the tigers are tigers. I could belabor the issue, but you get the point.

People, as a species, are most comfortable when they can pigeon-hole those around them into one group or another. Then they can quantify, objectify and generally label those who are not what they are as...something else. The unique, the unusual, that which falls, demonstrably, outside of the norm is easier to handle when you have a name to put to it.

Well, here's a revelation to people in general and to you reading this in particular. We really don't give a flip what you call us. We know who we are and what we are. Neither your tacit acceptance or your abject rejection of us makes much difference in how we live our lives.

We are mutants, plain and simple. We weren't born this way. All of us started out life just like you. More or less like you, except we don't seem to pay as much attention to you as you do to us. The brass tacks of it is: we were once homo sapiens and now we aren't anymore.

There. I said what nobody wants you all to remember. We were once like you. That is going to cause a lot of upheaval when this manifesto gets more widely disseminated. Those who make the rules, who write the histories have a stake in making sure things stay a certain way. We understand that.

To be fair, since The Change, we don't age the way you do. Whatever caused us to grow scales and wings, gills and fins...whatever... changed us in many more ways than our appearance. So, in the 324 years since The Change, we aren't surprised our origins are in the dustbin of history.

We were told that The Preserves were necessary. We were told we needed to be protected from others and others from us. We were told we were no longer part of the world we'd always known. We were told happiness, acceptance and community would be most easily accomplished if we were someplace specifically selected to nurture and sustain our mutated bodies.

It took a long time for us to realize it, but eventually we DID figure it out. We were lied to. Once we tumbled onto that little ditty, it suddenly became clear to us that all of you must have been lied to as well. It's the only thing that makes sense.

The Preserves are NOT a necessity simply because they are a reality. We don't need to be sequestered from you nor you from us. We are as much a part of you as you are a part of us. We want to come back.

People call us dragons or sharks or tigers and that's fine. We really don't care what you call us as long as we can come back home. That's really all we have to say on the matter for now. Think about it...okay?

Family Spirit

Brigid Kilvane cast a critical eye about the tap room. The panelling was buffed to a warm amber hue. The bar rail and fixtures gleamed as brightly as they had when new. Aye, she nodded, this would do.

Tonight, Kilvane's Fine Food & Spirits would welcome its first patrons in the five years since aged Seamus Kilvane had gone on to his final reward. Brigid missed her da, but not as much as one might expect, since the stubborn old bastard didn't have the decency to leave his beloved pub behind.

"Not long at all now Da. I trust ye WILL be behavin' yer sorry ectoplasmic self!"

In a show of poltergeist humor, a round dozen wineglasses disintegrated one by one in a dazzling shower of glass.

"Just like ye to take it out on the crockery ya vaporous ole bastard. Alright then! ONE shot of the cruel and that is IT. Ye canna be actin' like this with the payin' folk about."

She slammed two shot glasses down, filling them with liquid ambrosia from a dusty bottle that was older than herself. As she tossed it back, the liquid in the other glass drained slowly away. Aye, she thought, it bid fair to be a long night ahead indeed.

Burning For Justice

Billy took another long pull from the bottle of Jack. He reckoned he had already consumed enough of the fifth that there didn't seem to be much point in not finishing it off. Had he been a bit less drunk or in a tad less pain, he might have realized how stupid that reasoning was. He obviously didn't make that intuitive leap and so he sat and he kept drinking.

Truth be told, Billy was a far cry from what one might consider especially bright. That was, remarkably, one of the qualities that had made him an ideal fit for the mission. The Grand Cyclops, himself, had engineered the attack and chosen those who would participate.

He had explained his rationale to the mission commander. In every war there would be casualties. In every war there was on ongoing need for men who were little more than walking targets..cannon fodder. Billy was young, strong as an ox and nearly as smart as one. He would prove useful for certain tasks best suited to be performed by one with a strong back and a weak mind.

The arson attack on the Fifth Street Unified Southern Baptist Church went off with near- flawless precision. The stained glass windows were demolished by axe handles The flaming bottles of gasoline they had lobbed in had broken easily and the flames spread quickly. There would be no saving the structure. The lazy, shiftless niggras that "worshipped" there would just have to find someplace else to wail their heathen African spirituals. Preferably that "someplace else" would be in some other poor bastards town besides where honest, hard-working and God-fearing white folk lived.
The key word being: "near-flawless". Their plan had made no allowances for the church's caretaker being inside at the time of the mission. The attackers were loaded into their trucks, enjoying the prospect of a clean getaway, when the hapless man tumbled out the church window.

His clothes were aflame and his screams carried clearly in the chill night air. He stumbled about, the flames relentlessly crawling over him until he was fully consumed. This was, most definitely, a complication best dealt with quickly and decisively.

The commander, immediately, recognized the rationale in including Billy for this task. Cannon fodder was exactly what was called for in this case. Someone needed to stay and deal with the man while the rest of the team made their escape. That someone was Billy.

If Billy were unable to deal with the problem before the authorities responded...well that was okay. His affiliation with their group was not common knowledge. His diminished mental faculties would make it child's play to discredit him if he attempted to implicate the other members of the team. In the commander's mind, Billy was little more than a blunt instrument of poor quality. He would not be missed.

The trucks roared off into the night as Billy sprinted back towards the church. He dealt with the burning man by the simple expedient of picking him up and hurling him back in to the burning church like, nothing so much as, a sack of potatoes.

His solution, though remarkably inspired for Billy, proved to be both highly effective and incredibly ill-conceived. The sleeves of his cheap coat caught fire and burned him rather severely before he managed to snuff them fully out.

Even the dumbest beast is capable of relying on its base instincts to find its way home. Thus it was with Billy. He summoned up the presence of mind to call the only phone number he had for one of the members.

In short order, someone unkown to him showed up at Billy's ramshackle house. His burns were cleaned and wrapped and he was provided both food and the bottle. He was told, in no uncertain terms, to lay low and keep quiet. He would be taken care of but he really NEEDED to stay quiet and stay put.

That had been two days ago and Billy was in a bad way, both physcially and mentally. The pain in his arms was maddening. Unable to resist the urge, he unwrapped the bandages.

At first, he felt a calming sense of relief. The
burns on his arms were healing better than he'd expected. What had been raw, bloody flesh was scabbed over and scar tissue was beginning to form. As quickly as the relief had flooded in, it quickly drained away...replaced by unspeakable, abject horror.

He began screaming even as the scars began to change. The tortured flesh writhed and crawled about on his arm. The scar tissue flowed until it formed letters...a word. That word was: murderer. From the beyond, the victim cried out for justice in a most bizarre way.

The combination of the physical trauma, excessive alcohol and Billy's limited intellect snapped his mind like a dry twig. He lived out the remainder of his days in a drug-induced haze as a guest of the State Mental Institution.

No one understood or cared about his irrational rantings. His scars were just that...scars. How he had been injured and why he had not sought treatment remained a mystery. His scars, while not pretty to look at, spelled out no words and left no clues as to what Billy had done.

There were no repercussions on those who had carried out the arson and for that, they were both glad and satisfied. There were no arrests or trials or days in court for the poor janitor who perished in the church. But, from beyond this world, justice WAS meted out and for that, the soul of the janitor was both glad and satisfied.

The Price Of A Future

She played with the red gold band on her finger to keep her nerves in check. The transit point still seemed so far away with so many people between her and her only chance for a new life.

Her thoughts went, unbidden, to Joran. Not a day went by that she didn't miss him. She had pleaded with him to not join the Colonial Militia but it was already a foregone conclusion. He would go...had to go. He was not, nor could he ever be, the kind of man who let others fight his battles. It was one of the things she loved...had loved that is...about him. He had been a man of principles.

But principles and pride had been of little use to him when faced with the brutal efficiency and the indomitable weaponry of the Cholgachi. They were a warrior race who took what they wanted through equal parts of ferocity and impunity. It had not been a battle. It had been controlled slaughter.

Joran had fallen alongside the other 250 men of the colony and the small contingent of Republic Marines in just under an hour. The Cholgachi were merciless in their reaction to any sort of defiance. They offered no quarter, took no prisoners, accepted no surrender.

She and the other women of the colony were left without husbands, fathers, friends and colleagues in what seemed the blink of an eye. In reality, the loss was deeper and more insidiuous than their stunned minds could initially fathom. The Cholgachi did not give up the bodies of those killed in resistance to them. The women were summarily denied the simple comfort of grieving over those lost since no smallest trace of them existed. It was as if they had never been at all.

And so, Mara stood on line, hoping to procure one of the precious few berths on a refugee ship heading off planet and back to Republic space. There were 450 colonists left and room for only 100 per ship. The Republic was pressing into service any vessel within range but the prospects were dim.

The Cholgachi, in a rare show of equanimity, had offered the beleaguered humans the span of three planetary days to evacuate the planet they now held claim to or face the consequences.

It was now day two and Mara had not slept or eaten in an attempt to hold her place in line. She grew weaker and her spirits sank with each passing hour as the odds of her escape grew less and less likely. Her only hope seemed to lie in whether or not the slim red gold band would be enough to bribe her way aboard.

It was absolutely forbidden for the crew of a Republic relief ship to demand payment for passage. That being said, the ships that plied the frontier space were far beyond the reach of Republic justice. They would do as they wished and, perhaps, suffer the consequences later.

Waiting on line, she recalled the day Joran had given her the keepsake. It had been his mother's. He swore her his eternal love and painted for her a lustrous picture of the idyllic life they would share together on Foster's World.

True to his word, he had built her a comfortable, if small, home and filled it not only with things but with love and hope and the promise of a future. They had shared but a single year together before the Cholgachi had transformed what they shared into fire and blood and ashes. Foster's World no longer held anything for her.

As her turn finally came, Mara came to the sudden but sad realization that she could not part with the ring. Any chance it offered her for a future could only be had at the expense of forsaking the only momento she had of the only man she had ever loved.

Trading away his ring would not bring hope but only an inescapable pall of betrayal. Any future she might have would be purchased by forsaking Joran and all that they had been. She would not do that.

Head held high, she stepped off line, motioning others to pass her by. Her future was for naught without her past and that past was here. She would embrace her past and the wondrous memories they had made together.

She would await the end and welcome it with no regrets. She only hoped the legendary Cholgachi propensity for delivering death swiftly was deserved. The sooner they did what they intended, then the sooner she could be reunited with her beloved.

The Hazards Of Hosting

Though his family had served their Master for five generations, never before had their hotel hosted a full meeting of The Council. It was both a singular honor and a terrifying challenge. The Masters were creatures of habit and brooked no deviation from the rituals.

He satisfied himself that each of the ornate iron keys were placed properly on the delicate china plate. With one key for each Master, they would choose, at random, their rooms. It was done thus for both security and equality.

He walked with exquisite but brisk care. To keep Them waiting would be most unwise.

Friday Fictioneers: Dreams Not Shared

She stood high above him, silent and unseen. She watched him pace the concourse below, glancing fitfully at his watch.

He was a frenetic, endless wellspring of potential and possibility. She admired his fierce passion but did not share it. She knew she could never love him in the singular and all-consuming way that he loved her.

She'd promised to meet him...to go with him. He'd been so ebullient that she found she could not simply dismiss him out of hand.

She should have, for she knew she could never share his vision of the future. At length, she turned and walked out of his life. She wept a single bitter tear, knowing she could never miss him as tragically as he would miss her.

Severance Pay

She was Vanessa Montaigne, the legendary grand dame of stage and screen. The trademark phrase that distinguished her was: "You look great, and yeah, you’re worth a million bucks."

The iconic film producer Hugo Kaine first uttered those words when young Vanessa had queried him as to the likelihood of her making it big in the cinema.

That had been some fifty years and one helluva lot of water under the proverbial bridge ago. Vanessa Montaigne was unlikely to be a household name anymore unless, for instance, your household was the Sunny Glen Retirement Community.

Tommy regretted hitching his star to Vanessa's creaky old wagon. For five years he'd been her bodyguard and confidante. His plan had been to insinuate himself into her graces and secure a spot in the old bat's will.

His hopes faded with each year of no work offers for her and the need to liquidate more and more of her dwindling assets. The final straw came when the mansion had been sold out from under her.

He found her in the screening room, lost in her past glory. Under his coat was her jewelry box containing treasures garnered from five husbands and countless long-dead suitors.

He stroked her withered face and she smiled dreamily, "Dear Tommy...am I still as lovely as I once was?"

His strong hands snapped her neck with ease. Thinking of the box, he whispered,
"You look great, and yeah, you're worth a million bucks....give or take the cut to fence this stuff."

A Burden Laid Down

Father Domenick stood in the courtyard staring at the gardens and statuary he loved so well.

"I simply can NOT go. This parish has been my home for nearly 80 years. These here are my brothers, my sisters. The little ones are my children. I will NOT leave them."

"But, dear one, you already HAVE left. It is time for you to rest. Blessed are those who serve, but blessed as well are they who know when to lay their burden down."

Abdiel spread his wings, embracing the wondrously dutiful spirit before him.

"Come home, oh good and faithful servant."

A Time For Requiem

Teyana sat in the enormous ironwood chair and rocked slowly. The chair was the only keepsake, the only reminder she had of a childhood that had been all too brief and none too happy. It was tangible and solid and served to anchor her to sanity in a world that had gone slowly and inexorably insane.

Her options and her outlook for the future were bleak. With every passing day, The Contagion spread. With every passing day, the piles of unremembered and unmourned corpses swelled in size. With every passing day, the world and everything within it became ever less and less likely to endure any longer.

And so Teyana sat in the enormous ironwood chair and she rocked. She rocked and, with a thin voice devoid of emotion, she sang the requiem for the dead. There were none to hear it within the empty house and yet she sang.

A requiem is meant to ferry the dead to safe harbors and so she
sang. But, as she rocked and as she sang, the melody choked and seemed to become a lullaby. And this was, on many levels, both fitting and proper.

It was, it seemed, the time for all of Humanity to lie down and sleep. It would be a sleep without end and from which none would arise. It was to be the eternal rest of the dead. To her fevered mind, it was not acceptable for the entirety of mankind to fade away without the comfort of a lullaby and so she sang.

On a level more personal, she sang a final song for her Nathaniel. He had been her wee one, her lad. She knew that, during the night, the tiny spark of life she had emplaced within him not so very many years ago had sputtered and, finally, gone out.

She knew that he was as lost to her as was his father, Helmont, and his sister, Trella. She knew she should carry his body to the courtyard so the Collectors could do their work. She knew this and yet she also knew that she could not do it yet. She would hold her boy a little longer and she would rock him.

Eventually, when she could no longer deny the need, she rose and did what must be done.
She returned to her empty home and sat again in the enormous ironwood chair and rocked.

She was flushed and sweating despite the chill of the day. Her breathing was labored and her body ached. And so, at last, The Contagion had come for her. Soon she would join her beloved ones in their eternal sleep.

She wept a single bitter tear, knowing there would be none to sing the requiem for her.

Hope Undesired

The Bishop, spiritual and temporal leader of the people, was constrained to personally confirm the scout's fantastic claims. The Poisoned Lands had been tainted and devoid of life for ten generations. To swear otherwise was heresy!

It lay on rocky terrain where it had no right to be. A thin tendril stretched out in a noble attempt to root and spread its promise of rebirth. Such was unthinkable. It would irreparably undermine the power of the Clergy.

The crunch as his heavy boot crushed the seedling seemed so small while the echoes of what he had done would be far-reaching indeed.

Rumors Of War

There was absolutely no reason for them to be late and so Lucius began to suspect that something had gone very, very wrong.

It had been difficult to set up this parley. The location had been chosen carefully to ensure that it was on neutral territory.

Lucius was the only member of the Ruling Council who believed there could be a peaceful settlement of this latest bloody turf war.

If Snowflake, Fluffy and the rest were still not here then no treaty was to happen today at #13 Warehouse Row. The Mice had, apparently, decided to escalate to full-blown war.

A Lesson Hard Learned

Tweren't easy bein' the guy with the fastest hands in the sector, but most days Fisk was up to the task. Hell, he'd best be. Weren't a week went by somebody didn't get the hankerin' to test him.

He was enjoyin' himself a second of some real enjoyable Malgorian jova when the man walked in. Was an all-too-familiar scenario unfoldin', it were.

The challenger, some bright-eyed lad with dreams, done swaggered up and issued him a challenge. He done so in the usual manner, spoutin' some disparagin' insults and such. Fisk, he was expected to take umbrage, ya see. Once them customaries was satisfied, well then it was all over but the dyin'.

So, Fisk done stood up and stared that buck square in the eye. Real easy, Fisk done raised up his hands with his palms upturned. He spoke all slow and calm like.

"This ain't gonna go well boy. Don't make me teach ya an ole lesson."

The kid smirked, "Gonna school me? Sure you are, tough guy. Lemme guess. Shouldn't go lookin' fer a fight lessen yer ready? Well I AM ready ole dog."

A wry smile come to Fisk, "Naw. Lesson were: Always watch yer back."

The lad went from confused to face-down and smoldering as Fisk's dwarf companion, Harker, unloaded the neutronic shotgun into the kid's back.

Harker grinned like a Tergovian lemur-cat, "They never learns does they Fisk?"

Fisk set down and drunk himself some more jova. "Naw", he whispered, "They never do."

Preservation's Folly

They were the Trel Naskari...a truly advanced and enlightened race. Amongst them, none lacked for the necessities of life. All dwelt in peace and prosperity and had for a very long time.

Art, music, literature, philosophy, science had all been elevated to their highest forms and the Trel Naskari rejoiced in their enlightenment.

In the 17th Millennia, the first traces of concern manifested. The people began to obsess over all that would be lost should some cataclysmic event lay their world to waste. Their achievements and accomplishments would be lost forever. They would be forgotten and unmourned. This must NOT be allowed to happen.

Great shining capsules would be built and launched to the farthest corners of the galaxy. Each would contain a crystalline archive of the Trel Naskari civilization. Their world would survive in perpetuity as a shining gem for all to remember.

This endeavor sealed the fate of the Trel Naskari more finally than any cataclysm could have. Squabbles became open conflicts as each faction clamored for their data to be saved first.

In the end, naught but smoldering debris remained of this once-proud people. Their legacy snuffed out and left to lie amongst the ashes of obscurity forever.

A Spectacular Waste Of Effort

Royal Seneschal Prexus was a very worried little man. The Investiture Celebration could either catapult him to a position of unassailable power or banish him to the lowest depths of the dungeon.

Each goblet must sparkle like a miniature sunburst. Each minstrel must serenade with the voice of an angel. From finger foods to dessert wines to something as innocuous as a juggling lemur, all must be remarkable. Anything mundane or generic was unthinkable.

Prexus sighed at the spectacular waste of effort. He'd been poisoning the prince's wine long enough to think it unlikely the lad would live out the week.

A Toast To Change

Stanley Welton spent that New Year's Eve much as he had spent every other such for the last twenty years. He was loud and festive and stone drunk. It was a familiar and a perpetual state for him.

He wasn't tipsy or buzzed or even intoxicated. He was totally, entirely committed to the wanton consumption of alcohol beyond any restraint or reason. He'd abandoned any premise of social interaction or camaraderie some time ago..

He didn't care who was there or who had left or who might yet be coming. All of the niceties were subsumed by his compelling need to drink. Those around him found it in varying degrees anywhere from humorous to pitiful.

Stan didn't much care what they thought as long as the bar kept serving. He would continue to drink until they stopped providing him more and then he would find his way home. It wasn't a healthy or considered or sane way to live, but in the final analysis, Stan didn't really care.

It had played out much like any of a thousand-plus other nights of debauchery and self-destruction for him. It was the morning after that night that made all of the difference for him. For on that particular morning, he awoke covered in blood...blood that was not his own.

He showered, shaved and consumed two pots of very strong coffee before trying to sort it all out. He had no memory of how he might have come to be that way. No one he called or talked to was able to shine any light on it either.

While he was not unaccustomed to nights that he had little or no recollection of, this one convinced him to do what no other had. It convinced him to stop drinking. There was no debate, no second-guessing. There was merely the unfalthering, unshakeable resolution that enough was enough.

He spent the next week in total abject hell. He locked himself away from the world and he suffererd. He sweat, he cursed, he cried and he hurt. His body was wracked with pain so intense and all-consuming that he feared it would be the end of him.

It was not. He survived it and emerged from it purged and purified. Somehow the flame of addiction was quenched and replaced with the smallest spark of Hope. Stan knew how easily that spark might fade and so he nurtured and fed it with the fuel of change.

He came to realize there was no aspect of his social or interpersonal interactions that did not revolve around the presence or promise of readily-available alcohol. If he were to cast off the shackles of his addiction, he must change nearly every aspect of his world and embrace life rather than merely a lifestyle.

He began by attending meetings at the small Baptist church near his apartment. He joined a gym to attain the vigor and vitality of the man he had never been. He began to care about not only existing but about improving. By the power of his will and determination, he had walked through the valley of the shadow and filled it, instead, with light.

It was a Friday night. It had been nearly three months since Stanley had made the decision to transform himself into someone he was not ashamed to be. He was a new person, a person he genuinely liked being.

He headed down the steps of the First United Baptist church with a new-found spring in his step. His eyes were bright and his thoughts were clear and focused. A smile came easily to him now and he was whistling a jaunty tune. Life was good and becoming better with every passing day.

As he drove away from the church, he was overcome with the sheer joy of how good he felt. Without the alcohol calling the shots, his life held more hope and promise than he ever thought possible.

He was so caught up in the moment that he never saw the woman or her son until after his car had struck them. The police determined it to be an unfortunate and tragic accident. Though no charges were filed, the two were no less dead for no fault having been attributed to Stan.

Whether he was to blame or not, one thing, above all else, was certain. That was the last night of either sanity or sobriety that Stanley Welton knew for the remainder of his short and tortured existence.

He ended his life much as he had lived it, alone and drunk. Though the cause of death was listed as a single self-inflicted gunshot, it might, just as easily, have been determined to be as a result of a case of brutal cosmic irony.

An Observers' Log: The Game

They were once known as a vastly powerful, wise and noble people. Their accomplishments in the fields of science, of art, of literature bespoke a civilization that had embraced its full potential and manifested it for all to see. They were a proud people and justifiably so.

Perhaps they had triumphed too well or had advanced too far to realize it, but such perfection in a people was ultimately doomed to fail.

Every sufficiently advanced civilization had described the same path in its own way.There was the ascent, the apex and, inevitably, the decline. When every avenue of discovery or development or of expression had been exhausted then all that remained was ennui. And such is what befell these people as well.

Their historians were as bored as anyone else of them and so did not chronicle, with any great detail, the slow erosion of all that was to be envied in their kind. That erosion led to the eventual rise of The Game.

The exact details of how The Game was conducted are now immaterial. Suffice to say that it was as brutal, visceral and gladiatorial a diversion as had ever been devised.

To the contestants it was a chance to gain glory, riches and indescribable comforts no longer available to the masses. To the countless billions of watchers, it was, at its simplest, something enjoyable and different. That was sufficient for them.

Again, none recorded the progression of events and so none can say when it was that the spectacle of The Game became of secondary interest to the rituals attendant to it.

The sheer number of individuals desirous of being Contestants was staggering. Such concerns as their physical or mental fitness, viability to perform or even the odds of their survival did not dissuade them. The desire to compete was all. And so, a system must needs be have come about to choose those who would participate.

Their best and brightests minds devised the algorithm. The formula was input to their most powerful network of interlinked and near-sentient computers. From this process were the competitors chosen. It was as close an approximaton of randomness and chance as they could envision.

To add to the intensity and chaos of The Game though, another level of selection was introduced. Once the computers had dispensed their list, it was time for the common man to become involved.

Every being on the planet was allowed to choose one individual from the pool that they felt most likely to provide the greatest gaming experience.

Votes, much like dice, were a thing to be bet upon once cast. Vast sums of credits as well as goods, properties and other things best not speculated upon became the stakes used to sway the voting.

Most people were, initially, shy to wager on the outcome of so momentous an event but, all too soon, the betting became de rigeur and ,eventually, near compulsory. It was as graceful, orderly and well-reasoned a descent into barbarism as any civilization before or since has known.

We, The Observers, do not presume to question nor to pass judgment on this species and their doings. Our role is merely to catalogue, document and preserve the details of their existence. Our task has been performed to a level we feel satisfactory and sufficient. Confirm data stored. Terminate recording now.

Nature's Promise

Zentaya knelt and silently indulged her senses.

The chirps and squeaks of the denizens of this woodland wove a symphony paying homage to life. Inhaling the heady scents of the leaf mold and of the alien foliage, she admired the counterpoint of nature's endless cycle of growth and decay.

She knew she would never forget the tart sweetness of the exotic berries nor the icy cleanliness of the water she had drunk afterwards.

Focusing on the samples she had harvested, she coaxed them to grow. Tendrils embraced her skin and she smiled, imagining how they would rejuvenate her dying homeworld.

Friday Fictioneers: Unexpected Complications

Mordecai was most displeased. It was tedious enough disposing of a body without the complication of unexpected snowfall. The winds had piled it deeply and unevenly over his dumping site.

He'd no sooner completed his work when the great, snuffling beast of a dog had appeared.
It gamboled about, attempting to engage him in play. When the creature began to dig in the snow near the body, its doom was sealed.

The heavy shovel made short work of the canine annoyance. Mordecai sighed. He was cold and tired and now had one more hole to fill before he could rest.

A Long Day Ahead

The first thing I noticed when I got there was the smell. Dead bodies, even freshly-dead ones, have a distinctive odor that can't be described only experienced. The second thing I noticed was this particular dead body had not gotten that way gently. In short, he was a mess.

The walls were splattered with blood, and sundry internal pieces-parts too badly degraded to conclusively identify. The poor sod had been torn literally limb from limb.

A quick inventory on my part noted there didn't quite seem to be the requisite number of parts present as usually constituted a body. To whit, the guy was missing two limbs or so ...well, and a head. The majority of corpses, in my experience, DID have a head.

The M.E. glanced up as my shadow fell across him.

"Oh...it's you. Uhh..His name was Milo Scaggins. White male, 34 years of age, six feet tall, 200 pounds. He was an organ donor"

I quirked an eyebrow, "Damn Denny. I know you're good, but how the hell did you get all of THAT from THIS??"

"No mystery there. Found a wallet in what's left of his pants. And before you ask, no. We didn't find the rest of him..anywhere. Ask me for a cause of death and I WILL kick your ass or die trying."

In lieu of a reply, I drained off the last of my coffee. I was going to need a refill. This was looking to be a VERY long day.

Decisions Have Consequences

NIGHTGALE BLOG CHALLENGE - WEEK ONE

He took a healthy swig of bourbon, shaking his head in disgust. He had no good reason to not drink NOW. The repo men had his car. The balance on his condo was due by next week...or else. All he had left was the comfort of the harsh, amber liquid.

Maybe he enjoyed its comfort a bit too much, but that was HIS decision to make! It was his life to live and he would NOT be dictated to any more. He could quit anytime he wanted to but why should he?

Maybe he WOULD quit just to show them all that he could. Plenty of time to consider that tomorrow. It was closing time and he really should get home . He drained his glass and settled up his tab.

The night was cold and rainy. The warm glow of the alcohol was fading quickly as he walked. A stop at the bodega...just a pint to warm him up...he muttered.

Bad chance, bad timing and a bad decision combined as he stepped off the curb and into the path of the car. The need for him to stop drinking was moot as the ambulance drove his body away.

Gone But Not Remembered

He was quiet by nature, unremarkable in every way. His dress and manner would be either conservative or drab depending on one's sensibilities. He was cordial enough to others but decidedly not gregarious.

He walked the same path to and from his menial job each day. The muted clunk of his boots the only indication he had passed by at all. There were no cracks in the metaphorical shell he wore as a shield against the world.

The saddest aspect of him was that, for all intensive purposes, he was already dead but merely too numb to even realize it.