u/VerdantVoidling

Once upon a time, we were outside playing fetch. It was a sunny day, but the wind was cold. Sadie was a good girl. She sleeped in my bed, and we were best friends. Mama used to say that Sadie was an angel God sent down for us after daddy passed.

The backyard is big but I can't throw very far. Sadie didn't mind. We hanged out back there for hours sometimes after school. I was out there throwing the stick and I threw it as hard as I could, and the wind came blowing through like I never seen before. The wind must have been picking up storm clouds that day. It brung something black like smoke. The smoke was thick and it looked like it had lightning in it. It grabbed up my stick after I threw it and took it super far into the air.

The stick flew away, and Sadie bolted off to catch it. She ran toward the old creaky gate that mama doesn't let me go by. The one that leads out into the front yard. She says it's bound to fall over any day now, it isn't safe. Sadie ran toward the gate and then something really weird happened. It looked like there was a man made of the same smoke that was taking my stick away on the other side of the gate. His face was a shadow. I couldn't see his eyes, but I felt like he was looking at me. He seemed excited. I heard a sound that sounded like somebody chuckling, and the gate swung open on its own.

Sadie ran for the stick, but it just kept going. I was yelling for her to stop. It was like she couldn't hear me. It flew higher than Mr. Brady's old oak tree. Eventually the stick made it out over the street, and Sadie was right behind it. She ran out into the road. She didn't look both ways and a fast car came by and gobbled her up. The car was a shade of green that made me feel like I did when mommy and daddy would fight about him drinking.

Mama says that isn't what happened. But she didn't see it like I did. The front part of the car dropped to the ground as it passed. It had one of those scoop thingies that daddy had on his car before the accident, and it scooped Sadie up under her legs. She tumbled after the hit. The car was moving really really fast, so I only saw its mouth for a second as she disappeared into its teeth. There was so many. The car didn't even slow down. One second she was there, and the next she was gone.

Mama says it was just an accident. She says people's pets get hit by cars all the time. But if Sadie really just got hit by a car, then why can't they find her body?

There was a time I thought that I was being carried to my bed by ghosts, and in a way I was right; they just weren't ghosts yet.

The night upon which my godless efforts came to fruition was terribly dark; vast and odious like the ramifications of my own success. Years of effort culminated there, on the thin slab of steel suspended high over my laboratory. The lightning bolt crashed down from heaven, blazing with the radiant light of false promise. Cast in that light, I felt inspiration flooding through me. I decided then that I'd invite the greatest scientific minds from around the world to behold my creation.

My days in university had led me to rubbing shoulders with many of them already, so it was no great feat to convince a few men to come and bear withess to my creation. It took several weeks for them to arrive. I made use of that time by beginning to teach my monster.

He stood nearly seven feet tall, with brawny shoulders and hands the size of dinner plates. Strawberry blonde curls framed his pale visage, with bloodshot sapphires for eyes. Tall, lithe, and muscular, yet looking for all the world like death warmed over. I could forgive him his morbid comport, for the man had been dead before the lightning struck. Rather, I should say that the men had been dead.

With the nature of decomposition being such as it is, viable parts were something of a rare commodity. I'd been forced to scavenge through the graves of Schwanzburg, cobbling together what I'd found, and expending a great deal of effort in ensuring that the body held itself to natural law when it came to his proportions. In my mind, it would be impossible to mimic God's creation without adhering to His design.

Even walking eluded him in his first days, though he took to it quickly. By the time my peers arrived he was capable of dressing himself, and using utensils at the dinner table. Speech, however, was proving more difficult. Jonah, the man whose larynx I'd used for my design, had been hanged for murder. It was a choice made in desperation. His had been the only one remotely suitable across the entire graveyard.

Muhammad Al-Alami was the first of my cohort to arrive, with Lars Krüger and Alfred Pratchett arriving in short succession. I gathered them into my dining hall. The man I'd made delivered the food out onto the table, silent and discreet. His eyes held a gleam of mischief.

While his speech faced difficulties, his comprehension hadn't suffered. He played the role so perfectly that the men around the table had no suspicion of him whatsoever. After pudding, Krüger spoke up.

"Doctor, thank you for the spectacular meal. Truly, it has been a delight, but I must presume you invited us here for something more than a roast pig."

"Yes," Al-Alami agreed, "you were quite vague in your letter. I admit the curiosity has eaten me in these past weeks."

"Gentleman," I shouted, clapping my hands soundly together, "my latest creation is in fact already in this room with us."

"So it was the ham then," quipped Mr. Pratchet.

"No no no! In fact, it is the very same man who has served you this meal."

"The sickly looking fellow?" Asked Al-Alami.

"Yes, that one."

"And you've what, devised an effective method of lobotomy to induce subservience?"

"No, Mr. Krüger, it is the man himself which I have created."

"Created a man? Don't be ridiculous. The power of creation is not for man to hold."

"And yet I have seized it anyway."

I took great pleasure in the fear and awe which bloomed in their eyes. To have men of such renown looking upon my works as such, it felt like the purest validation.

"Come," I said "let us adjourn to my laboratory for an explanation. Come, Lionel."

That was the first time I had referred to the monster with a name. Sometimes I think this is where my folly began. Perhaps in allowing the monster to see himself as human, I also allowed him to see the injustices visited upon him.

Lionel was compliant as I helped him remove his clothing. He climbed willingly onto the table and smiled as I chained tight the straps which would hold him.

"Gentlemen!" My voice echoed off the high ceiling in my laboratory, deftly weaving through a tangled mess of chains and abandoned wires. "This, is Lionel."

I stepped firmly on a small switch embedded in the floor. As I continued to speak, Lionel was raised and tilted so as to be facing our guests directly.

"Now, being men of education and esteem we are, no doubt, all aware of the recent experiments with galvanism."

"Ah yes, the potential use of electricity to resurrect the dead. Fascinating stuff, why I know a man in Kent who-"

"I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Pratchett but please allow me to finish."

His eyebrows raised before settling. He was silent.

Thank you, now most experiments to date have dealt with reptiles, amphibians, and other base creatures. I've often thought of what might happen if a more complex form were subjected to these experiments."

"It would be a desecration, the grandest form of sacrilege."

"And in that sacrilege I have found my success, Krüger. I realized over time, as my experiments progressed, the electrical current is too easily dispersed when the body is completely homogenous. In order to provide the energy enough time to revive the cells, it must be slowed by a confused physiology."

"And what does that mean, doctor?" Al-Alami asked with an edge of suspicion.

"It means, my friend, that I have specifically sought each individual component of Lionel. His arms came from a farmhand who drowned two weeks ago. His legs from a young Greek man, from what I'm told he was quite the runner."

"Fascinating." Said Krüger.

"Extraordinary," said Al-Alami as he gently prodded Lionel's meaty arm.

"Why did you give him such a big dick?" Asked Mr. Pratchett.

I was taken aback. I hadn't expected anybody to care about the size of his genitalia.

"I can assure you that was the last thing on my mind, sir. I'm pretty sure the penis simply came along with the pelvis. I would implore you, sir, to stay focused. I have created LIFE. I have dragged man back through the veil."

"... it's got a stitch at the base."

"IT WAS DAMAGED, OKAY?!"

The words left my mouth more forcefully than I intended. I feel my face flush. Al-Alami and Krüger regard me with suspicion now. At that moment, a tangle of chains unfurls from the ceiling. A set of restraints drops down in front of Lionel, perfectly framing his beefcake body.

"This is grotesque." Says Krüger, rising from his chair to leave.

"Yes, I think I've seen enough." Says Al-Alami. "Repent, doctor."

"No, wait! Please you don't understand. That penis was the only suitable one I could find."

Across the room, Pratchett clears his throat before rapping twice on a cupboard with his cane. The cabinets swing open, revealing dozens of jars with embalmbed penises. Big ones, small ones, all shapes and sizes.

"Quite right," Pratchett says with a smile. "I'll be taking my leave now."

I beg and cry as they make their way to the village below. Within the hour, I see a dozen tiny points of torchlight approaching. The mob pounds at my door, screaming my name.

"Doctor," Lionel begins to speak for the very first time "I gotta admit, it is kinda weird to give me such a huge dick."

The night upon which my godless efforts came to fruition was terribly dark; vast and odious like the ramifications of my own success. Years of effort culminated there, on the thin slab of steel suspended high over my laboratory. The lightning bolt crashed down from heaven, blazing with the radiant light of false promise. Cast in that light, I felt inspiration flooding through me. I decided then that I'd invite the greatest scientific minds from around the world to behold my creation.

My days in university had led me to rubbing shoulders with many of them already, so it was no great feat to convince a few men to come and bear withess to my creation. It took several weeks for them to arrive. I made use of that time by beginning to teach my monster.

He stood nearly seven feet tall, with brawny shoulders and hands the size of dinner plates. Strawberry blonde curls framed his pale visage, with bloodshot sapphires for eyes. Tall, lithe, and muscular, yet looking for all the world like death warmed over. I could forgive him his morbid comport, for the man had been dead before the lightning struck. Rather, I should say that the men had been dead.

With the nature of decomposition being such as it is, viable parts were something of a rare commodity. I'd been forced to scavenge through the graves of Schwanzburg, cobbling together what I'd found, and expending a great deal of effort in ensuring that the body held itself to natural law when it came to his proportions. In my mind, it would be impossible to mimic God's creation without adhering to His design.

Even walking eluded him in his first days, though he took to it quickly. By the time my peers arrived he was capable of dressing himself, and using utensils at the dinner table. Speech, however, was proving more difficult. Jonah, the man whose larynx I'd used for my design, had been hanged for murder. It was a choice made in desperation. His had been the only one remotely suitable across the entire graveyard.

Muhammad Al-Alami was the first of my cohort to arrive, with Lars Krüger and Alfred Pratchett arriving in short succession. I gathered them into my dining hall. The man I'd made delivered the food out onto the table, silent and discreet. His eyes held a gleam of mischief.

While his speech faced difficulties, his comprehension hadn't suffered. He played the role so perfectly that the men around the table had no suspicion of him whatsoever. After pudding, Krüger spoke up.

"Doctor, thank you for the spectacular meal. Truly, it has been a delight, but I must presume you invited us here for something more than a roast pig."

"Yes," Al-Alami agreed, "you were quite vague in your letter. I admit the curiosity has eaten me in these past weeks."

"Gentleman," I shouted, clapping my hands soundly together, "my latest creation is in fact already in this room with us."

"So it was the ham then," quipped Mr. Pratchet.

"No no no! In fact, it is the very same man who has served you this meal."

"The sickly looking fellow?" Asked Al-Alami.

"Yes, that one."

"And you've what, devised an effective method of lobotomy to induce subservience?"

"No, Mr. Krüger, it is the man himself which I have created."

"Created a man? Don't be ridiculous. The power of creation is not for man to hold."

"And yet I have seized it anyway."

I took great pleasure in the fear and awe which bloomed in their eyes. To have men of such renown looking upon my works as such, it felt like the purest validation.

"Come," I said "let us adjourn to my laboratory for an explanation. Come, Lionel."

That was the first time I had referred to the monster with a name. Sometimes I think this is where my folly began. Perhaps in allowing the monster to see himself as human, I also allowed him to see the injustices visited upon him.

Lionel was compliant as I helped him remove his clothing. He climbed willingly onto the table and smiled as I chained tight the straps which would hold him.

"Gentlemen!" My voice echoed off the high ceiling in my laboratory, deftly weaving through a tangled mess of chains and abandoned wires. "This, is Lionel."

I stepped firmly on a small switch embedded in the floor. As I continued to speak, Lionel was raised and tilted so as to be facing our guests directly.

"Now, being men of education and esteem we are, no doubt, all aware of the recent experiments with galvanism."

"Ah yes, the potential use of electricity to resurrect the dead. Fascinating stuff, why I know a man in Kent who-"

"I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Pratchett but please allow me to finish."

His eyebrows raised before settling. He was silent.

"Thank you, now most experiments to date have dealt with reptiles, amphibians, and other base creatures. I've often thought of what might happen if a more complex form were subjected to these experiments."

"It would be a desecration, the grandest form of sacrilege."

"And in that sacrilege I have found my success, Krüger. I realized over time, as my experiments progressed, the electrical current is too easily dispersed when the body is completely homogenous. In order to provide the energy enough time to revive the cells, they must be slowed by a confused physiology."

"And what does that mean, doctor?" Al-Alami asked with an edge of suspicion.

"It means, my friend, that I have specifically sought each individual component of Lionel. His arms came from a farmhand who drowned two weeks ago. His legs from a young Greek man, from what I'm told he was quite the runner."

"Fascinating." Said Krüger.

"Extraordinary," said Al-Alami as he gently prodded Lionel's meaty arm.

"Why did you give him such a big dick?" Asked Mr. Pratchett.

I was taken aback. I hadn't expected anybody to care about the size of his genitalia.

"I can assure you that was the last thing on my mind, sir. I'm pretty sure the penis simply came along with the pelvis. I would implore you, sir, to stay focused. I have created LIFE. I have dragged man back through the veil."

"... it's got a stitch at the base."

"IT WAS DAMAGED, OKAY?!"

The words left my mouth more forcefully than I intended. I feel my face flush. Al-Alami and Krüger regard me with suspicion now. At that moment, a tangle of chains unfurls from the ceiling. A set of restraints drops down in front of Lionel, perfectly framing his beefcake body.

"This is grotesque." Says Krüger, rising from his chair to leave.

"Yes, I think I've seen enough." Says Al-Alami. "Repent, doctor."

"No, wait! Please you don't understand. That penis was the only suitable one I could find."

Across the room, Pratchett clears his throat before rapping twice on a cupboard with his cane. The cabinets swing open, revealing dozens of jars with embalmbed penises. Big ones, small ones, all shapes and sizes.

"Quite right," Pratchett says with a smile. "I'll be taking my leave now."

I beg and cry as they make their way to the village below. Within the hour, I see a dozen tiny points of torchlight approaching. The mob pounds at my door, screaming my name.

"Doctor," Lionel begins to speak for the very first time "I gotta admit, it is kinda weird to give me such a huge dick."

In our world there do exist archetypal creatures, more ancient than both the pyramids and the stones of which they are comprised. They are the rubric through which all other life takes its form.

​

The first of these beings was largely mindless. Little more than a manifestation of the urge toward self-preservation, and the continuation of lineage. As time progressed, and Life on Earth learned to adapt, new beings were formed, growing more and more complex.

​

Of these, we will briefly discuss: The Wolf, The Swan, and the Australopithicines.

​

The world, in that time, was full of lush fields and wild green forests. The lower animals of the earth would viciously drag each other into the cycle of life. Predator pursuing prey. Prey eating vegetation. Vegetation feeding from the remains of each. The Archetypes knew no such violence, as they had no need for it. Together the Wolf and Swan made their way to the ancient plains of Africa, having heard rumor of the Ape's kin descending from their trees. Such an upheaval in survival strategy typically brought another to their number.

​

As the amber grasses danced dreamily in spiraling winds, the Wolf's keen eye spotted something unprecedented among their kind. This creature posessed two heads.

​

The silhouette stood in the middle of the field, grasses laid down in a wide circle around the point of its formation. Crimson light pulsed through the shadowy outline.

​

The Swan stared quizically, one beady eye fixed on the amber irises of the Wolf. The look given in response was flat, and unreactive. The Swan flew away, hoping to spread fresh gossip among the great spirits. The Wolf remained there, observing the birth taking place.

​

For a million years the spirits of the Australopithicines developed under the watchful gaze of the Wolf. As more details came into focus, the Wolf began to understand the nature of what was before him. The Swan, for her part, had long since lost interest, preferring to spend her days counting the eggs of her descendants.

​

The hands were first to form, fingers interlocked, gentle squeezes feeling the warmth and solidity of one another as they took form. It was foreign to the Wolf. Though its descendants knew care and affection among their packs, the Wolf had been born into loneliness; the same as all Archetypes. It wasn't until their formation was nearly complete that the Wolf began to believe what it had been suspecting. The One who formed there was two.

​

Bodies distinct, yet voluntarily joined together. Inseparable through choice. His emerald eyes locked for an eternity on Her own jewels before they ever began to take shape. Two halves of one whole, born to seek each other. Envy coursed like fire through the Wolf's heart.

​

It continued to stalk them as they moved through the plains, exploring the bounty of the world together, though they couldn't partake of it. There were times when He led Her, and times where She led Him, but always they walked together. Contentment and companionship reigned between them for millenia, until ambition reared its head.

​

He was no longer satisfied in simply wandering the world. He wanted to reach out and grasp it, and to hand it over to Her. Together they began to analyze the world around them more deeply. They knelt down at each plant, every insect, checking if there were any way to interact with anything outside themselves. They searched far beyond the realm of their own kind.

​

Eventually, after wandering for another ten thousand years, they discovered something. A stone, crimson red and shining from within. Both solid and fluid at the same time. She reached a slender, hairy hand out and prodded the substance. It moved in response, the force of her motion carrying through the stone and causing it to bend.

​

They learned to use the stone to manipulate the world, carrying ingredients to the correct places and carving cauldrons in the earth. Before long, they had figured out how to isolate a single shining point from the substance, and how to hang them against the evening sky as stars.

​

A hundred thousand years more passed, experimentation consuming every day. The Wolf watched with horrified fascination as the Two made progress toward their goal. It had existed, isolated and alone, for millenia. Why should these Two be allowed not only to have companionship, but to touch the world which all others had been denied? The envy it had carried all these years ignited into hatred.

​

It decided to wait outside of the cavern they had made their home. Violence was as foreign to the Wolf as was affection. It had seen predation in the animals of the Earth, even in its own kin, but it had not the instincts. It leapt on Her as they went, untested teeth and nervous jaws prolonging the kill. She gasped for air, her neck spilling starlight onto the ground. He screamed, cried, pleaded, but the Wolf would not stop. The sound of her sucking for air was agonizing to the Wolf. It felt itself being desecrated by the depravity of its own actions. Jaws began to snap more quickly, desperate for the crying to stop. Imprecise and brutal bites rained down, and the Wolf began to cry as it ripped the last of life from her.

​

It raised its head, amber liquid dripping from its jaws and locked eyes with Him. The rage seen by the Wolf there, in the emerald jewels which had once held so much contentment, terrified it into fleeing.

​

Millenia passed, with the Australopithecus never abandoning his quest to touch the world. Instead He redoubled his efforts, directing its kin on how best to slaughter and subjugate that of the Wolf, but before any of that, he hung his love among the stars.

​

Ash of sapling, light of dawn, and water from a spring newly sprung. He brought these things together, crushing them into a fine paste of a pale orange, but there was one more thing he needed. A life yet lived. He stole a swan's egg from a nearby pond, and dropped it into the cauldron.

​

He brought her body in, and gently lay Her in the cauldron before heaving what remained of the stone into the mixture. He reached an arm down into the bowl, stirring the substance until the whole thing glowed brightly. The stone had grown pale as bone, and the light it shone with held an edge of cold. He carried Her outside and spoke forgotten words as he set Her high among the stars, where she shines to this day.

​

The Swan, affronted at the theft of the egg, did not deign to confront Him directly. Instead, she chose to fly always high above His head. Casting Him forever in shadow, and denying Him the light of his love.

and a damn good one. The love he had for his master, a man by the name of Montanus, was evident in every moment of his second chance at life.

See, Johnny was one of those unfortunate souls who graduate from high school and find themselves on the wrong end of a heroin-filled syringe for ten years. Thinking back on the circumstances from which he was rescued brought him a great deal of shame.

Johnny had been found unconscious behind an Arby's after sucking a guy off for money to buy, can you guess it? More heroin. Montanus had been hitting the drive thru with his, at the time, small following of eight men when they spotted Johnny tucked away by the dumpster. His followers told him not to intervene, that Johnny could be a dangerous addict, but he would not listen. He opened the door of what they called The Compound, and stalked towards the vulnerable, unconscious form.

Montanus had been born with a number of genetic defects which caused him to take on an unusual appearance. His eyelids were fused to the skin surrounding the eye socket, and his ears lay completely flat against his skull. His knees had gradually twisted through his adolescence, rotating a full 180° by the time of his first meeting with poor Johnny.

He had adapted well to moving on his godless legs, clearing the space between them in a matter of moments. He reached out gently and shook Johnny, causing him to slump forward and reveal the small trail of blood flowing from the back of his head.

The Compound was a Winnebago adorned with an admittedly pretty sick mural of Montanus leaping into the sky to spear a massive golden dragon. Montanus barked out to his followers in a voice that sounded like a horse trying to imitate a dog.

"Patrick, bring this man aboard. Bring King to help you."

Patrick was a chubby Midwestern man who had turned to Montanus' Cult of the True Path after a messy divorce from his wife, Sheila. King, which was not his birth name, was young and strong. Six feet tall, with jet black hair and emerald eyes, he styled himself after the men of the antebellum south. They brought Johnny into The Compound, proceeded to the pick up window for their order, and drove off into the night.

Montanus had spoken at length with Johnny about the nature of addiction, and the way it deprives one of their own will. He spoke to him in absurd parables which, while completely unintelligible to you or I, resonated strongly with our protagonist. Over time, as the Hell of withdrawal subsided, Johnny grew to admire the twisted man. The powerful magnetism of his charisma, and the rigid structure he demanded for his flock, led Johnny to quickly forget what it meant to live outside of his presence. He gave his life to serving his new master. Starting with doing laundry and cooking dinner, graduating to raising goats for sacrifice and, eventually, organizing political rallies.

He had found belonging in the cult. Gregory and Jason, two of the original ten, had become like brothers to him. They knew everything about him, and he thought he knew everything about them. Cooking dinners with Samuel and Barry had been some of his favorite moments from when they were just starting out.

Johnny was proud to be fighting the good fight with his friends. When he saw Montanus declaring himself a god and demanding all people divest themselves of worldly pleasures during the Idahoan gubernatorial debate, he knew he had chosen the right man to follow. He cheered along with two of his compatriots, Jeremy and Anderson.

After the debate, Johnny searched anxiously for his beloved leader. He knew that Montanus would be hosting his opponent, incumbent Governor Scott David, in the spacious new home which his cult had afforded him, but he had yet to find any sign of either man. In fact he couldn't find any member of the inner circle. He continued throughout Montanus' spacious new home until his search led him outside, where he caught sight of The Compound rocking gently in the night.

Johnny approached slowly, and as he grew nearer he could hear more and more clearly the pained groans and shouts of ecstatic joy emerging from The Compound. He thought that it must be some new ritual his leader had devised. He crept silently across the Bermuda grass and peeked into the window.

Montanus stood propped against the wall, screaming with mad joy as he watched a writhing ball of twisted flesh slowly uncoil to reveal something which shook Johnny to his core. It was an orgy. A churning frenzy of the same carnal pleasure Montanus bid others to forsake, and Johnny's shock was doubled when he spotted Governor David in the mix. The men were on each other like flies on shit. Patrick was fucking Jason, Gregory fucking Barry, and David fucking King.

Johnny was rooted to the spot in a mixture of shock and morbid fascination, broken loose of his stupor only when he noticed how Montanus stared back directly at him. He wouldn't have told anybody, but it didn't matter. It broke the cult leader's heart to order his execution, but he felt that he had to. Gregory invited Johnny out on a deep sea fishing trip. Johnny, having chosen to forgive and forget, thought nothing of it.

When they reached their usual spot several miles off the coast of Florida, Johnny turned to ask his friend if they should get the gear out, only to be met with the barrel of a loaded gun. The shot rang out, with the sound quickly lost among the rolling waves and screaming gulls. The bullet tore through Johnny's brain, and he dropped where he stood. Gregory hoisted his body over the boat's edge into the sea, and as Johnny sank further and further down into the depths, he found himself wondering:

"Why am I not dying?"

The Japanese say every human has three faces.

One for the public.

One for close relations.

And one shown to nobody, not even the self.

That night, we each donned a fourth. All except Alice.

The strings were coarse, and brittle, woven from wild grasses. They held the mask I'd crudely torn from notebook paper tightly to my face.

None of us wanted to hurt her. We gave her a head start.

Or at least, we were supposed to.

Ricky took off at 5. I'd seen the shiftiness in his eyes, the hunger raging beneath the exhaustion. He was on her before anybody said 6.

He grabbed a rock, and held it high up over his head. Alice was screaming, pleading, but nobody moved to intervene.

That's when I saw. Ricky's third face, the one never meant to be seen, was shining out brightly from behind the hoodie he'd cut eyeholes into.

I took a look around as Ricky brought the stone down on her skull. Blow after blow resounded off the impossibly tall pines. We just stood there, with everybody's true face on display thanks to the masks we wore.

And each bore a smile.

The trees here stand tall, twisted up like tangled wire against the rose colored sky. Gnarled, angry branches are suffused with crimson light, standing stark against the profoundly grey clouds which linger ever at the horizon. The storm makes attempts to invade, only finding success in isolated areas. Modest colonies of aether dump black water over young saplings at the furthest edge; their glow slowly subsumed by an oily sheen of ichor.

I stumble through razor sharp grasses. My feet move independently of my will as I approach the nearest tree. I reach out a hand and press my palm against the trunk. The tree reacts.

Branches contract, coiling at first, before coalescing and compressing into a single, fleshy orb. The air shifts. It smells of cinnamon. I feel warmth in my heart. I feel laughter, joy, togetherness, but all I see is the tree in front of me. All I hear is the cold wind.

The orb unfurls as I pull my hand away, and the tree's limbs reassume their prior arrangement. I stare for a time, following each branch and looking for any change. There is none. Rather, none that I can perceive by sight, yet I can feel it there, in the sinking of my stomach. I move along, knowing there is nothing I can do.

Days pass, hunger never rearing its head. Birds flit between the innumerable branches interwoven in the high canopy. Their calls fly past, carried away by the persistent wind.

Happy birthday

Congratulations

Why are you like this

I love you

You're the problem

The forest grows darker as I move away from its center. Dull, black foliage crowns robust birch trees. The onyx leaves burst with rainbow hues when struck by the faint rays of light which manage to pierce the canopy. Flashes of color dance through the dark. All my life I've been told not to look. Now they light my path.

A journey meant to take three days stretches out into weeks, months, years. I wander there in darkness, until at last the light returns. The trees grow scarce, and the canopy above evaporates. I emerge from the forest.

Ahead of me there is a soaring wall of porous, white stone. I use the plentiful pockmarks along the wall's face to gain purchase, and begin to climb. The wind whips and whistles, threatening to throw me down to the ground below. I'm hundreds of feet up when the rain comes.

Gentle, and golden like Spring, the rains fall against my skin like the lips of a lover long forgotten. Ecstasy floods throughout my being. I cling to the wall. My body writhes with a pleasure purely physiological. The pulse quickens, muscles spasm. I feel my heartbeat pulsing through my fingers as I hold on. By the time the rains pass, the stone has cut into the skin.

Splashes of scarlet mark the alabaster stone where my fingers fall. I continue the climb despite the agony, eventually reaching a large alcove in the cliff's face. By the time I reach my destination, I've shredded the tips of my fingers away. I can see bone beneath the mangled flesh, stark white like the stone I stand on.

I look out over the valley. I can see everything from here. The tops of the tallest trees, the infinite expanse of the bone-white walls enclosing this place. There is so much beauty here. I turn my back to all of it, and enter the cave. She is waiting for me there.

"You've decided?"

"I have."

A being coalesces from shadow at the heart of the cave's darkness. Pointed ears and an elongated snout, powerful and full of teeth. The wind stirs the black mist which makes the creature's form.

"Then let us not waste any more time. Eternity may yet grow fleeting."

A rough sound resembling a laugh escapes the being's throat. It leads me back out to the mouth of the alcove, and lets out a howl. The sound echoes across the land, laced with reverence and mourning. By the time the wolfsong reaches its end, I feel tears stinging my eyes. The wolf turns to leave, making its way back into the cave. I call out to her.

"Thank you."

"Oh, you're welcome. I'd wish you luck, but there's only ever one outcome for your kind."

"The Raven?"

"Annihilation, child. I call to the one named Nevermore. Who comes to answer is not mine to decide."

The Wolf saunters back into her cave, leaving me there amid the howling winds. It's cold. The air feels thin in my lungs, yet heavy against my skin. It seems to weigh me down. Hours of waiting pass before I'm forced to sit, and hours more before I hear a calamitous racket from on high; the clacking of bone against bone, muffled by a veneer of dessicated flesh. A shadow falls over me, the sun obscured behind a dozen outstretched wings.

I scurry backward as the bird lands. It stands tall and regal as it folds its many wings. The feathers overlap at their edges, encircling the winged beast from the neck down.

The air in my lungs abandons me as I stare at its quaking, motley plumage. Short feathers, tall feathers. Old feathers, new feathers. Their variety stands nearly as stark as the similarity which binds them. No matter what difference may exist from one feather to the next, every one of them was human.

Their feet were shoved crudely into his quills, the blood pooling in their heads as they hung upside down, congealing into a black mass beneath pale skin.

It hops closer, craning its spindly neck toward me. The feathers rattle against one another. Weak, muffled groans escape them as they collide, but there's an air of disinterest in the sound. Tears cloud my vision.

The Vulture keeps its many eyes locked on me. I press myself against the rock face, praying for the Wolf to return. She does not come. The great scavenger extends a wing, and reaches with its gnarled beak to pluck a feather free. It lays the woman on the ground before me. She is old. Withered and dry, like tall grasses in Autumn. Her face is gaunt. In a condition such as this, one ought to be dead, but her eyes scream. They scream with so much life, so much pain and regret. They tell me to flee. To escape or die trying. I obey.

I move to dash past the Vulture. My hope is that I might throw myself from the ledge, but I don't reach it. The bird pins me with a single jagged talon through the shoulder. It grabs me with its beak, rough and careless. The tip of the beak punctures my stomach. Blood and bile spill out of me. The pain is excruciating. The air won't reach my lungs, no matter how I gasp.

The Vulture raises me to the position from where it'd plucked the old woman, and sets me in her place. I'm hanging from my feet, hundreds of others all around. The feather to my left is a fat young man, the ones on my right a pair of elderly women. They are all alive. We are all aware. I flail against the thick blanket of bodies which has incorporated me into itself. It is of no use.

The Vulture sits for hours, letting my sobbing echo over the valley. It waits until I've gone quiet before taking flight. I'm able to watch the valley drop away as we begin to soar, and we gracefully evade the gales along the Night's plutonian shore.

Condemned to spend eternity a feather

Evermore.

Once upon a time, we were outside playing fetch. Sadie was a good girl. She sleeped in my bed, and we were best friends. Mama used to say that Sadie was an angel God sent down for us after daddy passed.

The backyard is very big but I can't throw very far. Sadie didn't mind. We hanged out back there for hours sometimes after school was over. I was out there throwing the stick and I threw it as hard as I could, and the wind came blowing through like I never seen before. The wind must have been picking up storm clouds that day. It brung something black like smoke. The smoke was very thick and it looked like it had lightning in it. The smoke grabbed up my stick after I threw it and took it super far into the air.

The stick flew through the sky, and Sadie bolted off to catch it. She ran toward the old creaky gate that mama doesn't let me go by. The one that leads out into the front yard. She says it's bound to fall over any day now, it isn't safe. Sadie ran toward the gate and then something really weird happened. It looked like there was a man made of the same smoke that was taking my stick away on the other side of the gate. His face was a shadow. I couldn't see his eyes, but I felt like he was looking at me. He seemed excited. I heard a sound that sounded like somebody chuckling, and the gate swung open on its own.

Sadie was charging for the stick, but it just kept going. It flew higher than Mr. Brady's old oak tree. Eventually the stick made it out over the street, and Sadie was right behind it. She ran out into the road. She didn't look both ways first, and a fast car came by and gobbled her up.

Mama says that isn't what happened. But she didn't see it like I did. The front part of the car dropped to the ground as it passed. It had one of those scoop thingies that daddy had on his car before the accident, and it scooped Sadie up under her legs. She tumbled after the hit. The car was moving really really fast, so I only saw its mouth for a second as she disappeared into its teeth. There was so many. The car didn't even slow down. One second she was there, and the next she was gone.

Mama says it was just an accident. She says people's pets get hit by cars all the time. But if Sadie really just got hit by a car, then why can't they find her anywhere?

Gardening is perceived rather oddly by many people. It's seen as a gentle, peaceful hobby; beautiful and serene, but look to the core of it. We wreak havoc over the life which has wrought itself through whatever ground we choose to work with. All but the deepest roots are ripped away and shredded as we till the earth. Then, once unwanted life has been eradicated, the real work begins. Our chosen specimens are placed carefully amid the devastation, and adorned with fertilizers pungent and brimming with bacteria and detritus alike.

Beneath all the blooming and the buzzing of bees, there is a violence; cruel and inexorable like winter's cold.

I hadn't taken up the hobby until some time in my late thirties. Outside of working, I'd never really done much else before then. I guess you could say I was a late bloomer. I was driving home from the Waltco Mart when I saw a series of signs on the roadside. Large red letters scrawled across plywood.

GREEN GREEN GREEN

NEW VITALITY

GROW A FLOWER

PABLO GARDENING SUPPLY

They were weird enough to spark my curiosity. Within fifteen minutes I was walking out with a bag full of seeds, bulbs, the works. I rented a tiller for the weekend, and set to the task as soon as I got home. Over the next few weeks I'd grab a pack of seeds from Waltco and other places. Soon enough my tiny backyard was bursting with vivacious blooms of infinite variety in the way of color and pattern. I'd swear every seedling had found success. All except the ones purchased from Pablo.

I couldn't figure it out. More water, less water. Fertilizer, liquid fertilizer, all sorts of shit. Nothing made a difference. Eventually I bit up the nerve to go back and confront him for selling me bunk seeds.

The store was brighter than I remembered. Decked out in a ridiculous shade of fluorescent yellow with rich, deep green tiles for its roof. Pablo, for his part, was exactly as I remembered him. His smile constant, with teeth so shiny that they took on a vague shade of green from the apron he wore.

"Hey man, I bought some seeds here a few months ago and none of them have grown."

"None at all?"

"Not one. So could you just refund me my-

No sir, no refunds," he interrupted "did you remember to use the fertilizer?"

"Yeah man, I've spent like two hundred dollars at Waltco on fer-

WALTCO?! Oh nonono. Did I not tell this to you before?"

"...no."

"This explains everything to me. My plants are all very special. You need a very special fertilizer for my plants."

He led me through hallways which seemed to go on far longer than they should. Eventually we arrived at an outdoor section fenced in with black chain link. It smelled terrible, like something died twice and then had vigorous, sweaty car sex with a chemical spill. The sky there was an eerie green color, similar to the skin of a pear. We walked over to a small display at the center of the area.

Pablo asked me to remind him how many plants I'd purchased, and when I told him he started throwing bags onto a cart. He walked me out to my car, and loaded it all up for me.

"My friend, I forgot to tell you about the fertilizer. For this, I give it to you at no charge."

I thanked him, a little too much probably, and drove home whistling. I was so elated that I didn't even mind the noxious smell emanating from the trunk. I laid the fertilizer down that afternoon before taking a shower. By the time I dried off and came back out, I was amazed to see sprouts already emerging where none had grown before.

Within a week their stalks had grown strong and sturdy, nearly as tall as I am. The wind would make a haunting, moaning sound when it blew through the thick growth. I was completely fascinated. The top of each stalk held a large, round bulb bigger than my head. Another week passed before they began to unfurl.

Spiraling petals unwrapped themselves from the structures at their center. I couldn't recognize them for what they were, with how thickly the pollen coated their features.

I was out watering on a day like any other. I tipped the can over Pablo's plants, and as soon as the first droplets made contact, emerald eyes flickered to life throughout the flowerbed. I recoiled, terrified as something utterly impossible revealed itself to me. Each flower held a human head at its center. Their beady yellow pupils locked slowly on me as they realized the water had stopped. A chorus of quiet, groaning pleas slithered through the space between us, just barely reaching my ear.

I was horrified, not wanting to believe what I was seeing. I grabbed a pair of garden shears from nearby and moved to eradicate the abominations, but after hearing how the first one had wailed, I quickly abandoned the task. The choked, gasping sobs and the crimson sap staining my hands. It was all too much.

Throughout the rest of that summer, they grew, and whispered terrible things as I watered the garden. They'd tell me of their time in Hell, and at times they spoke words which I couldn't hope to understand, yet their meaning was communicated by the plunging dread I felt as I listened. Eventually they all just disappeared. It was as if they'd sprouted legs and run off. I almost miss them.

Almost.

I. Interview

Fingers curled delicately against the mug's handle, wrapping their absurd length several times around the tiny bit of white porcelain, small tufts of long black hair sprouting from each fingertip. Kenneth Aery raised the cup to his quivering lips and attempted to drink some of the rich brown liquid within. His lower jaw was set too far forward, giving him a cartoonish underbite which allowed a few drops of the coffee to run down onto his blue button-up. 

"And what happened after you and Miss Eldridge left the home of Janice Whitaker?" 

Part of any interrogation is establishing a baseline for truthfulness. Detective Harlson was asking questions he already knew the answers to, hoping to ascertain a rough idea of what honesty looked like in a form so brutally distorted. 

"We were heading back to the church. Mrs. Whitaker was our final stop for the day, so we banked off of third street to cut across the woods." 

Discerning one syllable from the next was next to impossible, Mr. Aery's tongue was blatantly too large for his mouth, bumping clumsily against his teeth as he spoke. 

"We were almost out. I could see the streetlights of 6th shining through the treeline, and suddenly the ground was gone and I was falling. WE were falling." 

Kenneth found himself drawn back into the moment. The cool air rushing past his skin, faint twinkle of starlight through the canopy falling away from him. He could still see Julia in his mind. Fear and surprise contorting her face, her hair whipping wildly in a thousand different directions. Like a thousand threads beginning to unravel. He shook himself. 

"And then what happened?" 

A slimy teardrop ran down Kenneth's cheek, sliding almost without friction as it traversed the curve of his furry face, clinging to a wild strand of hair at the bottom of his chin before dropping onto the steel table. 

The interrogator was trying to keep the young man on track. Last time the tears started, Mr. Aery had needed seven doses of ketamine to calm down. They couldn't afford to lose that kind of time. 

"Kenneth. Julia might still be alive down there. I need you to focus." 

"I'm sorry I just- Oh god. We fell for a while. I can't say for sure how long, it felt like forever. I heard a horrible snap when we landed against the stone floor. I thought it came from me, at first. Then Julia started..." 

He trailed off, prompting Detective Harlson to snap his fingers in what could only be described as a rude attempt to keep his attention. 

"I'm sorry. The screaming wasn't her fault, but God damn it I wish she had managed to stay silent. Easier said than done with a shattered wrist, I guess." 

Kenneth fixed one of his oily eyes on the detective's face, as if trying to gauge how much he trusted him. The yellow irises floated in the center of each blackened eyeball, holding an appearance similar to the sun shining against the vacuum of space. He thought back to how the police had drawn their weapons on him, despite how he had been the one to call. It was easier to understand, now that he'd been given access to a mirror. 

"Julia started screaming, and these things. These things started pouring out of the walls. Tiny, fucking bugs or something. I felt them before I saw them. Thousands of little legs crawling over every inch of me. I grabbed my phone for a light. I was flailing, desperately batting at the tiny bugs with my free hand. The flashlight came on, and they scattered." 

Kenneth fought the urge to scratch at the phantom sensation the memory brought to bear against his skin. 

Harlson was pleased to be finally getting somewhere. In past interviews, Kenneth had broken down at this point,  sobbing and refusing to go any further into his story. As the detective watched intensely for any sign of deception in the young man's face, he noticed how the nose appeared to have been crumpled, fold lines standing clear like the creases of an accordion. 

"They stayed there on the wall for a while, and we tried screaming for help. After a few minutes, my phone hit low battery. We knew we had to do something, but I was terrified of getting more lost in trying to find a way out. I wanted to stay put, but Julia snatched my phone away and took off down a corridor." 

"You did the right thing. The further in you go, the less likely you are to ever come out."

"Does that mean... is she..."

"No, Kenneth. Now that we know she's in there her odds have improved dramatically. We will find her, but you have to tell us everything you can remember." 

Kenneth drew in a shaking breath. His lungs had been rearranged into a fringe around his throat, giving him an appearance similar to that of a frilled lizard when breathing deeply. He exhaled, the sacs dangling down to graze his shoulders as they deflated. Harlson did his best not to stare. 

"When Julia took the light off the bugs, they were glowing with a color I've never seen before. I can't describe it. It made me feel sick like I was when I heard that my mother passed."

"The glowing?" 

"The color." 

"Right. Go on." 

"They took off from the wall. Some of them went after Julia, but most stayed and hovered around me. I stood up to run away." 

"And that's when they attacked you?" 

Kenneth swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing as if hung from rubber bands. 

"Yes. They started approaching me. They flew right through me, dragging parts of me with them and stretching them out. It hurt. Like freezing and melting all at the same time. There were so many. I tried to swat them away but that only made it worse." 

"Worse how?"

"It just made it all happen faster. They pulled me apart until I was as thin as thread. Then they dove back through the holes they'd made and wove me into...THIS" 

He slammed his swollen palms, the fingers easily spanning the width of the table and causing the greasy black hairs at their ends to brush against Harlson's face. The sound of the impact was a dull thud like the closing of a car door. 

"Next thing I knew I woke up at the entrance to the old coal mine. I don't know how I got there. I ran home, but my father wouldn't let me in. I went to the church, and they started shooting. I called you, and that's all I can remember before now." 

"Thank you, Kenneth. We'll keep you updated on the search." 

"Detective."

"Yes?" 

"What are they going to do with me?" 

Harlson was conflicted. He didn't believe in telling lies, even if they happened to be comforting ones. 

"The CDC is on their way to collect you, presumably for study. I can't offer legal advice, but I can encourage you to make good choices." 

Kenneth's eyes welled up with mucus which ran down in thick viscous sheets as he began to cry. Detective Harlson quietly excused himself. 

Everybody in town knew about the mine. In the two hundred years since it had ceased operation, nearly all of the missing person's cases in the small town had been blamed by rumor on some specter living there. 

II. Search 

Harlson met with officers Grey and Bordeaux at the mouth of the ancient coal mine. On his advice, they'd each brought two flashlights with fresh batteries. Kenneth had said that light affected these things. If they were going to walk in blind, they'd take any possible advantage they could. 

"Are we ready?" 

"As I'll ever be." said Bordeaux.

"Not fuckin really. You saw what happened to that kid. That could be us." said Grey. 

"That is true, it could be us, but right now whatever happened to Kenneth could be happening to somebody else. We can't leave her in there." 

"We can, actually! We could just go home and say we couldn't find her." Grey was always an asshole, but this was a new low. 

"Alright, dickhead, let's go." Bordeaux grabbed Grey by the back of his neck and dragged him toward the entrance. 

The men advanced slowly, vigilant for any sign of the insects described by Mr. Aery. Harlson became aware of a pressure against his eardrums as he strained to listen. He imagined how it would feel to suddenly hear the chittering of tiny wings, or a scream of holy terror from Julia. His gut curdled as they moved forward, and he prayed silently that he would be able to hold his resolve. 

Officer Bordeaux swept his flashlight from side to side with authority. A father to two young girls, he had been one of the first to volunteer. The coal mine around him reeked of sweat, blood, and a scent like rotting spinach lurking behind it all. He had told himself that joining the search party was what any good man would do. With the scene before them, Bordeaux began to question how good of a man he might actually be. 

Grey brought up the rear, sucking the fetid air in nervous gasps, the beam of his flashlight jittering wildly in his shaking hand. Joining the police force was a decision rich with irony for the middle-aged white man. Growing up in the inner city, corruption had meant survival, and the old habits had a hard time dying.

"Can we leave now?" Grey held mockery in his tone, as if daring Harlson to yield. 

"No. We continue."

"Agreed. If that was one of my girls down there I'd never forgive any sonofabitch who turned back."

"You guys are fuckin morons. We're gonna die down here." 

"Shut up." Harlson shoved Grey forward and silence reigned over the trio as they moved deeper. 

The tunnel split off into two paths. 

"Bordeaux. You and Grey go left. I'll continue forward." 

"You got it, boss." 

"I've got a better idea, you guys go that way and I'll go home." 

"Move your ass, Grey." 

"Good luck, Bordeaux." 

"Be smart." 

Officer Grey stared daggers into Bordeaux's back. He silently weighed his options. If he turned back now he could easily find his way out. He might face disciplinary action, might even lose his job, but to continue could mean losing so much more. He was afraid to go forward, and he was afraid to go back. Grey found some small solace in Bordeaux's presence, spiteful as he was. 

Harlson moved forward slowly, as if expecting the floor to drop out from beneath him. The smooth stone all around him tapered down to a point where every step was reduced to an awkward shuffle, then suddenly it opened up into a wide chamber. Harlson was distracted with the open space littered with glistening red spiderwebs and tumbled down a sudden drop off. 

Detective Harlson picked himself up off the ground, all at once becoming aware of a faint, chittering hiss deeper in the chamber. His flashlight had cracked in the fall, now only casting a faint half moon of yellow light. He grabbed the spare he'd brought. Using it to scan the room, he saw intricate carvings along each wall. Thousands upon thousands of tiny bore holes arranged into crude depictions of sunrises, storm clouds, and at the center of it all, man. A humanoid figure only maintaining the most vague impression of its shape, long shadows drawn out in wide arcs all around him. It was as if the man were being captured in a net woven from his own flesh. 

A clatter of rock skidding across stone came from the far side of the room, followed by the familiar voice of officer Grey. 

"AH! God, I stubbed the shit out of my fuckin toe." 

Harlson jumped slightly, the shout echoing far too loudly in the open chamber. Across the room, a dull clicking began to pulse from the darkest recess. Then another sound began, a thrumming deep and terrible. 

"Watch where you're going, dipshit, and keep your voice down for Pete's sake." Bordeaux snapped. 

Grey opened his mouth to snap back a reply, but fell silent as a great vibration buzzed the air around them. They both knew immediately. Wings. 

The two men took off in a sprint. The tunnel behind them glowed with a light increasingly bright as the swarm approached. For Bordeaux, something in the light felt like long nights in front of  the bathroom mirror staring at the unusual mole which had appeared on his left hip. By the time he'd gone to get it checked, the cancer had metastasized to his kidneys. Grey felt the same way as he had when he was chased back to his childhood home by the big Doberman at the end of his street; and the same way he'd felt when his father berated him for being a ‘sissy’ and running away. 

They ran back to the intersection where they'd split off with Harlson, Bordeaux quickly whipping out his second flashlight and pointing one beam down each path. The tunnel they'd come out of slowly filled with tiny, six legged bodies writhing over top of one another. Each one was no more than two inches long from the tip of their needle-like probosces to the end of the thorax. The wings seemed to hold a chalky, blue powder which shone dimly with the opalescence of rot. 

"Grey. The tunnel to the right looks clear. Get in there and see if you can find Harlson. I'll keep the lights on." 

"Oh yeah, okay. Uh huh.” 

Grey continued his sprint for the exit. 

"Grey! Damn it, you idiot." 

Bordeaux stepped off into Harlson's tunnel, and released the insects from the light. 

Their speed was incredible, they moved like angry wasps to swarm over Grey. He screamed in miserable agony as one slammed itself through his wrist. There was white hot pain where it made contact, radiating violently through his body. It felt as if he were being torn apart, but he wasn't. The flesh stretched and warped, tapering down until it was so thin as to be almost invisible, but it never broke. Ten more were on him, then ten times as many as that. They pulled him apart like taffy before carrying him off as a tangle of muscle fibers each no thicker than horsehair. Grey's fear cut through the physical torment, causing every loose strand of him to ripple with dread as he wondered where they were taking him. 

Harlson stood frozen in horror as the last of the swarm surged into the tunnel where he'd heard Grey's voice. The sound of their wings all working in unison pounded against his skull. If this kept up, he felt that his teeth might rattle out of his head. The noise abated and Harlson swung his flashlight wildly. He had to find another way out before the swarm came back. 

As the beam crossed the room, he caught sight of a human face lurking at the furthest edge of shadow. His heart leapt. It was a young girl matching the description Kenneth had given for Julia. He moved closer, and began to discern another face in the darkness. Then another, and another. Six in all, there was Julia, an old man, a boy no older than eleven, two women who appeared to be twins, and none other than Kenneth Aery. 

"What the hell?" 

Twelve eyes snapped open at Harlson's words, and each head began to lash out toward him on necks like those of snapping turtles. A tentacle-like appendage slapped against the ground and slowly dragged the large mound of flesh into the light, a wasp nest of human skin. Each long neck jutted out from where it had been haphazardly added to the hive. Harlson turned to run, feeling the toothless jaws of the old man graze his shoulder. The gnashing of teeth and stretching of sinew echoed through the chamber. His own footsteps felt like thunder in his ears. The beam of his flashlight swung in a wide arc, revealing carvings he hadn't noticed before as he ran, renditions of men serving tribute. 

At the mouth of the tunnel entrance, he collided suddenly with Bordeaux. 

"We have to go." 

"Heard that. C'mon, this way." 

Bordeaux moved toward the exit, coming to a skittering halt at the junction where Grey had been taken. The swarm sat along the walls, held by the light,  glowing and gently vibrating. Behind them, the creature was attempting to force its titanic girth into the tunnel. 

Bordeaux turned and raised his pistol, emptying the magazine. Julia's skull exploded as she strained, the obliterated grey matter flopping uselessly out of her ruined cranium, but even still she pressed on.

"Shit, Harlson, what do we do man?" 

"I... I don't know. We could duck into the other tunnel, but that just leads back to the same chamber." 

"I was afraid you might say that. Here, take my knife. Give it to my girls, and tell them I love them." 

"Bordeaux, NO!" 

Harlson shouted after him to no avail. By the time he'd finished speaking the words, Bordeaux had turned the corner into the other tunnel, and turned off his light.

"You've gotta move your light, Harlson. They'll come after me and you can slip away." 

"I'm not going to fucking do that, Bordeaux. Get back over here and we'll figure something out." 

The slap of a tentacle against stone rang through the corridor. Time was running out. 

"C'mon, man, you know this is how it has to be." 

"Let's trade places. I'll stay and you can escape. Please, Bordeaux. Please." 

"Harlson. My radiologist gave me two weeks, tops. That's why I'm not giving you the option. Turn your light away. It's okay." 

His hand shook violently, as if his body were trying to win out over his will. From behind, he could hear a voice like that of Kenneth muttering wildly to itself. 

"Forgive me." 

The words were spoken so softly that they never reached Bordeaux, but they weren't for him. Harlson wouldn't ask his friend to absolve him of his murder while he condemned him to it. As the eerie light surged toward the man who'd given up his life, Harlson found his thoughts turned toward judgment day in a way they hadn't been in years. He wouldn't waste the sacrifice. 

He surged through the tight stone corridors, deftly dodging rogue strands of pustulous fiber running across their span. At the mineshaft's exit, he found a net of thick, bleeding rope blocking the way. At its epicenter, Harlson saw the severed head of Officer Grey cast in pale shadow by the moonlight flowing over him. Harlson was frozen in horror, unable to understand how what had once been a man could be fashioned into this, and how the eyes could still hold so much life even in such a state. 

A sudden jolt of pain below his right shoulder brought him back into the present. The pain was crisp and hot, yet cold like steel. As the glowing light grew brighter behind him, he used Bordeaux's knife to hack away at the material. 

The blade severing the meaty ropes of Grey's newly woven form felt like acid poured across his being. As Harlson slipped through and made his escape, Grey wished spitefully for his flesh to knit itself back together and trap the bastard in, and he wished that he could have laughed when he felt the thin thread of flesh tickling his web as the detective fled into the darkness. 

Harlson didn't realize anything was wrong until he closed the door to his cruiser. The sound of latch and hook meeting brought agony screaming down his arm, each nerve ending writhing in electric suffering. He turned instinctively toward the door and caught sight of the strand of flesh dancing in the wind. The light of the moon revealed a glistening ribbon woven chaotically across tree branches by his own panicked steps. 

He again grabbed the knife and began to saw at the thread. The pain was so great he felt me might pass out, rippling through his arm with all the subtlety of a jackhammer. The strand finally came loose, catching in the breeze and rising up high into the air. The moment it was disconnected, Harlson's right arm fell uselessly to his side. There was a moment of blinding pain, and then nothing. He shook the arm wildly, praying for it to wake up. He went so far as to make a small cut in his forearm, but still there was nothing. 

III. Return

Harlson raced to the police station, his left hand gripping the wheel with extra force, determined to compensate for the lack of his right. He told himself that Kenneth's face being part of the beast didn't mean anything, but still it ate at him. As he drove, the radio blazed to life with panicked calls for all units to return to station. 

The whole place was ablaze, various officers and other employees staggering around with limbs either missing or exaggerated beyond belief. Each body on the scene was a twisted mass of nonsensical flesh. In the middle of the carnage lay Kenneth. His eyes were wide and his mouth agape in a way which could only be involuntary. An oily eye snapped over to lock on Harlson's face. 

"Detective" 

His mouth didn't move as he spoke, each syllable strained even further than during their interview. 

"Detective, I don't know what's happening. They came from inside me." 

As if to prove his words true, a faintly glowing insect crawled out from his mouth. Harlson stomped it under his boot before it could get far. 

"Is...is Julia okay?" 

"No, Kenneth. Julia is dead." 

Harlson leveled his sidearm at the young man's barely-human face and pulled the trigger. 

IV. Resolution 

Harlson slowly backed the fuel tanker up,  careful of each turn to position the port just so. Getting a Commercial Driver's License is never overly difficult, especially for a former cop. He had done this a hundred times by this point, but today was special. Today was the whole reason he'd taken up trucking to begin with. He didn't know how else to easily get his hands on that much diesel. 

He opened the valve, allowing thousands of gallons of the pungent, faintly green liquid to run freely into the mineshaft. Satisfied that it would be enough, he backed the truck up further. The steel of the tank, no longer pressurized, crumpled easily against the stone. He floored it in reverse until convinced that a seal had formed, then he got out and poured a thin trail from a jerry can leading to the outside edge of the clearing. He dropped a match, and the flames raced toward the tanker. 

A titanic explosion rocked the world all around. Dust and debris were flung high into the air by the resulting fireball, and a great thump was heard as the mines below suffered a total collapse. Harlson knelt down beside the destroyed entrance long after the dust had settled.

He put his ear to the ground, and heard the earth faintly buzzing with the beating of wings.

Drops of dew burn away beneath the first blazing rays of dawn. The sound of evaporation paints the air around me, so thin as to be imperceptible. It is only the barest suggestion of noise. The wind rustles through the endless branches of oak and pine. I lay there for a while listening as the world awakes all around me. Suddenly, a voice from the treeline shatters the stillness of morning.

"Holy shit bro, I'm gonna fuckin starve to death out here."

The voice is gruff, and unusual. It pronounces the words in a way which is stiff; disjointed as if each syllable were a word of its own. The wilderness here is deep enough to make finding another human being highly unlikely. I find myself thinking back to times when I was the one lost in the middle of nowhere.

"Excuse me, are you hungry? I've got some extra rations I could share!"

For a long moment there is silence. I begin to suspect I may have hallucinated the voice before it comes again.

"Rations? What the fuck is a ration bro?"

I'm a bit perplexed at how anybody could get this far out without hearing the word "ration" before, but I press on.

"Uh, food and water mostly. You said you were hungry."

"Oh shit, okay."

A lumbering mass makes its way toward me. I can barely make out the massive silhouette as it moves through the shadows cast by the canopy of emerald leaves. Small rays of light break through here and there, giving me just enough sight to recognize what it is. A grizzly.

I shout a warning.

"Hey man, there's a bear between us."

"Oh, fuck," he says. His tone doesn't match the words. He sounds utterly disinterested, his voice getting louder as he continues to approach. "Do you have a gun?"

"No, just a knife. Let's hang tight and wait for it to pass."

"Oh, OK bet"

The bear continues to approach before turning off. I breathe a sigh of relief as the plodding footsteps pass. After a few minutes, they cease completely. I'm holding my breath, listening for any last signs of its passing. Finally, I speak up.

"Alright, I think it's gone. You can come on."

"Okay, be right there."

The voice comes from behind me.

"I think you went too far bro. Come back this way."

It isn't until the words leave my mouth that the realization dawns on me. In order to get around me that quickly he'd have had to be walking directly behind—

The bear steps into the clearing. Dirty brown fur rippling over powerful muscles. A thick, impossibly sturdy neck leading up to cute little round ears, and eyes sewn crudely shut. It's snout full of razor teeth. It sniffs the air and speaks in its stilted cadence.

"Where are you, Food? I'm starving."

I reach a trembling hand into my pack and pull out a granola bar. Offering it up, I realize the bear can't see my outstretched hand.

"H-here. You can have thi-"

It pounces on me as soon as I begin speaking. The granola bar goes flying. The bear's claws carve deep furrows into my shoulders as it pins me to the ground. It leans down and uses its teeth to rip out a chunk of my abdomen. It makes little groans of pleasure as it chews. The pain is blinding, instantly driving me to the verge of shock. I beg for it to stop, I try to reason with it. In response, it takes a bite from my leg.

At death's door, I manage to speak one final time.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Dude, I'm literally a fucking bear."

Empty waters.

Incarnation.

Beginning of everything.

A trillion mindless mouths

Sucking sustenance from sea

A silent scream erupts

Heralding the birth of teeth.

They find us in our brine pools

And eat their fill of us

They take their leave, eons flee

And we grow more robust

Membranes thicker, skin more tough

Our form is changed, but not enough.

Hungry eyes emerge from depths

"We still remember you"

Beckoning behest of death

Still nothing we can do.

Another epoch passes, change the only constant

The world expands, crawl onto land

And learn to pray we've lost it

Millenia in parallel, the age of man began

The monsters left down in the depths

Grew fins in lieu of hands

The largest stones we've learned to sling

Each smaller than their teeth

Still wouldn't do a thing

If they ever choose to leave.

So pray, my friend, they stay beneath the waves through all your days

For any moment might begin the march from out the blue

Do your best not to forget them

They still remember you.

"I'm the dumbest sumbitch 'sever walked this earth."

I could tell by the scars along his chiseled jawline that he wasn't lyin'. He strut through the saloon, depositin' these tiny figurines at each table. He stopped in front o' me, diggin' in his pockets for a minute afore depositin' a handful o' carbonara on my table. I figured he must be one o' them I-talian folk, tweren't no concern o' mine, I ain't prejudiced. He looked at me 'n he said:

"Yer a good kid. Git yerself sum pretty for me now, little lady."

"Now how'd you know I weren't a feller?" I asked the stranger, lettin' the implication hang in the air. "You must be pretty...smart..."

He looked at me like I fed his testicles to a rattlesnake, all fire 'n brimstone in his eyes.

"What the hell did you just say to me?"

"I said you must be a pretty smart feller, on account of your noticin' the deception surroundin' my gender 'n all."

His eyes went wide. He just stood there like a deer in the headlights, whatever a headlight is. After a few tense moments he look at me 'n he said, just barely whisperin':

"You think I'm...pretty?"

"Does the Pope shit in the woods?"

His eyes welled up with tears. He started blubberin' right there in the middle of the saloon, in front of everybody.

"Nobody's ever called me pretty before," I was a little bit taken aback on account o' how loud he was bein'. "Thank you kindly, miss, but I'm afraid I'm here on business."

He walked up to the bar. Barkeeper fixed him with a mighty glare, but Stranger didn't pay him no mind. He climbed right up on that shit. For real for real. He stumbled as he hauled hisself up, and his pants tore at the buttocks when he caught hisself. Stranger didn't seem to mind at all. He drew his six-shooter and fired five shots into the roof of the saloon. Then he started yellin':

"EL VATO CON GORDO, I'M CALLIN' YOU OUT!"

It was so quiet in the saloon you could hear a mouse shart in the next county over. Stranger fired two more shots.

"El Vato Con Gordo! I SAID, I'M CALLIN' YOU OUT!"

The barkeep spoke up,

"He ain't here. This is Joe's Bavarian Saloon, you're looking for John's Hungarian Saloon. It's just down the street."

"Oh."

The Stranger climbed down off the bar, bumping his hip on the way down and causin' his six-shooter to discharge another bullet. He made eye contact with me and tipped his hat.

"Ma'am," he said. As he walked out of the saloon, I noticed that his hat weren't a normal hat. It was a conveniently shaped rock which only mimicked the appearance of a genu-ine cowboy hat. I followed him as quick as I could. My heart was pounding in my chest. I found myself flooded with a desire to be near him.

I caught up just as he kicked open the saloon doors of John's Hungarian Saloon and General Store. The kick sent the doors flyin' inward, but they bounced back out and ended up shut again. Stranger gave it another try, 'n the same thing happened. Now Stranger weren't no fool, he drew his six-shooter and fired four shots into the center of each door. They swung themselves open in submission.

He entered the saloon, and this time there weren't no pageantry. Stranger started yellin' soon as he crossed the threshold.

"VATO CON GORDO! I'M CALLIN' YOU OUT YOU SUMBITCH."

El Vato Con Gordo sat in a corner, brow furrowed with a darkness I ain't seen on nobody else.

"Oh-ho, you're approaching me?"

"Well, no. I'm standin' still currently."

"Oh. Well what the hell are you callin' me out fer you sumbitch? Freeze tag?"

"Oh my god that would be so fun, actually, but no. I'm callin' you out on account of the fact that I figure I'm dumber than you."

"Dumber than me? DUMBER THAN ME?! I'll shoot you dead right here and now you dirty sumbitch!"

"Who you callin' a sumbitch, ya sumbitch?"

"You, ya sumbitch"

"You sumbitch"

"Sumbitch"

They went on like that for a while. Normal folk'd be forgiven for thinkin' both of these fellers were dumber'n a sack o' rocks. Not me though, I recoganized it for what it were. It were an intellectual battle. A war between minds. Stranger broke the stalemate.

"Meet me outside at high noon, ya sumbitch,"

It was 2:30 in the afternoon but stranger didn't seem to mind. Stranger and the Vato marched out into the street, holdin' hands 'n skippin' as they went. They stopped, back-to-back. I couldn't hardly see the stranger on account of El Vato Gordo's large size fries. Soon as Gordo tossed the box aside, Stranger spun 'round and drew his six-shooter.

"ALRIGHT, you dirty dog! It's time to D-D-D-DUEL!"

"Ain't we supposed to have twenty paces 'tween us?"

"You would say that, you smart sumbitch. Now draw!"

Stranger fired thirteen shots at the feet of El Vato Con Gordo. Vato were struggling to draw his own six-shooter, and when he finally got it out the holster he let off a flurry of shots. I've never been one for countin' beyond about 13, but I figure El vato must have fired 23 rounds or more. They all went wide, despite the men havin' about two feet between them, and both men were left unscathed.

"Shit! Gotta reload," They shouted simultaneously.

El Vato and the Stranger pulled the magazines from their revolvers and started shovin' bullets in. Stranger was the more deft hand between the two. El Vato Gordo knew he couldn't outspeed him. He dropped his six-shooter and drew two knives. The sun glinted brightly off the keen edge o' the blades, reflected by a thin layer of oil coatin' the beefsticks. He lunged right as Stranger slammed the magazine back inta his revolver. Stranger was quick. He fired two shots with lethal accuracy, El Vato's slim jims exploded in his hands, leaving him holding only the plastic handles.

"I'm out of ammo!" Stranger screamed in panic and threw his six-shooter to the ground.

Suddenly, the duel turnt to a brawl. El Vato had the upper hand in terms of physical strength. He brought the stranger to the ground and started wailin' on him. The slaps rained down with a speed which belied their power. Each slap resulted in an odd, squeaky sound comin' from the strangers head. Down the way, I could see a wagon approachin'. When it pulled up alongside the men, it stopped and Stranger started yellin' again.

"WAIT! TIME OUT! My CourseHorse order is here."

"Ooh, lunch," El Vato Con Gordo said gleefully as he lifted hisself up off the Stranger. "What are ya havin' today?"

"Shark coochie board."

Stranger spoke the words with an air of self-satisfaction. Like the way a man speaks when he just got finished crankin' it. Stranger paid the CourseHorse driver and turned to face El Vato.

"That sounds like the lunch of a smart feller."

"Nah, it's actually really dumb. They give you all these little fruits and cheeses and shit and expect you to figure the shit out yerself. Here, I'll show you."

Stranger opened the box.

A whirlwind erupted from within. Soarin' spirals of salami and blackberries rose high inta the sky. The charcutornado picked up its intensity at a rapid pace. The two men stared at each other with glazed expressions.

"What the hell did you do, you sumbitch?"

"Idk you sumbitch, I just opened the damn box"

"All you had to do was not open that box you sumbitch!"

The spiraling tower of lunchmeats and other delicacies picked the two men right up off the ground. I could just barely make out their silhouettes as the storm swung em in a wide circle, round and round. I could hear em yellin' at each other.

"I'm scared, ya sumbitch!"

"Me too, ya sumbitch!"

"Hold me, ya sumbitch!"

I watched as the two were carried off by the circuitous winds of cuisine. I couldn't let Stranger get carried off, I may never see him again. I ran forward as fast and as hard as I could, and I dove toward the base of the whirlwind. Just before I reach it, a lump of dry fruit comes soarin' out and knocks me unconscious.

I wake up hours later. Scattered scraps of salami litter the road. Half the town's been repainted with a spray of blackberry juice. As I take in the destruction around me, I can only think one thing:

"Well sumbitch."

Just another hanging. That's all it were, er at least, 'sall it shoulda been. We all knew Eve. A lot of us even took a liking to her. Kid had fire in 'er. 'Course, her parents was never exactly happy with the wild streak in 'er. Me? I've always had an appreciation fer animals what know themselves. It can be frustratin' when these types interfere with our lives, when you're the one dealin' with em, I mean. Seein' em from a distance, though, now that's a thing of beauty. Wild stallions buckin' for reasons only they could ever understand

Now don't mistake my 'animal' talk for no disrespect toward women. It is my belief that nothing can live happily without a partner. My father used'ta say that the human bein' is still a creature of the Earth, though set apart as the favorite child of our creator.

The noose framed her young face, red puffy cheeks around eyes more tired'n any I'd seen prior. Her jaw was held tight, tryin'ta keep her lower lip from quivering. It wadn't workin'. Chester, who used'ta run the general store back in Odium, spoke out. The first 'n only one of us able to find the nerve.

"She's just a girl! What crime has she committed to deserve this?"

The Clergyman spoke a reply from behind the gold veil built into them black robes they wear.

"The girl has been charged with disobedience before the Father and the Mother. The punishment delivered is in accordance with the Doctrines."

"Her mother and father are good-for-nothin' drunkards! I'd have done the same as her. Let her g-

ARREST this man at once. His lack of obeisance is blasphemy unto the most high!"

I wadn't too much surprised at the way it went from there. The Clergyman's guards carried trumpets to drown out the cries of any naysayers. They wore this armor. It was too thin to be of any real use. The Quaritanians love their pageantry, y'see. The armor was molded to their bodies. Closer to one'a them leotards the ballerinas in the big city like to wear. It made 'em stiff, and slow, but they never had to move very quickly. People in the crowd grabbed onto Chester and passed him up to em. People I'd known, and that he'd known, since what felt like forever.

They brought him up and tied another noose. He was brave about it. He stood up there holding that little girl's hand, and he didn't let go even after the ropes snapped taut. Chester's neck snapped with the drop, but the girl's hadn't. The rope wasn't tight enough to choke her completely. She was just dangling there, gaspin' out horrible sobs and strangled cries of repentance. Nobody did nothin' to stop it. The Clergyman just watched, and I'd swear I saw that sonofabitch grinning. It took her thirty minutes to die. Nobody left 'fore then. We all stayed. A cynical man might say people wanted to watch, but, way I figure it, nobody felt right turning away from her before she went to be with the Creator.

When she finally died the ropes snapped, but the part connected to her neck stayed taut. Chester's corpse finally let go, and dropped like a sack of bricks. Eve was lifted higher into the air. Somethin' holding her there, suspended amid the clouds. A voice like thunder rumbled from somewhere far beyond the horizon.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

I couldn' really tell you what I felt, hearin' that voice. It was little of everythin'. Guilt, joy, remorse, awe. It was everythin'. He is everythin'. The whole crowd was still. Stiller than I'd ever seen any of them folks. Those four words told us more than what'd been spoke. We would suffer everything she suffered. He would not allow us to forget our transgression. The air grew... hostile. It felt like trying to breathe in a sandstorm. We all started gasping for air, like a buncha beached trout. We were given just enough to stay alive, much the same as Eve'd been.

The Clergyman and his posse tried to flee that evenin'. They didn't get fifteen feet outside'a town 'fore a pack of wolves was on em. If the screaming weren't enough indication of what'd become of em, the scraps of golden lace carried on the wind woulda been. It didn' end with them, though.

Eve still dangled there in the sky, swingin' in the breeze. It took a couple of days for any of us to understand the vengeance laid upon us. I was workin' the woodstove making chow one night, 'n I realized I couldn't feel the tips of my fingers. I reached out and touched the hot pan. The flesh sizzled. I felt nothin'. I could feel the heat radiatin' against the lower part of my arm, but the hand was deadened. It weren't just the Clergyman who'd be held to account.

It weren't long after that people started talkin' about it again. Josiah, the Mayor, had noticed that the girl's body was rottin' up there. Her fingertips had been eaten away, exposing stark white bone below.

Next came her ears, and the world fell silent, aside from voices. Not just the voices of people, but animals too. Crickets still chirped, and people could still speak, but the winds made no sound. Trains, horses, footsteps, even gunshots. It all went quiet, and we were left only with each other.

I figured I'd best to write this account sooner rather than later. Her eyes'll be next to go, judgin' by how the world grows dark. May God have mercy on our souls.