Happy Birthday, Lord of All Evil!

As I often do, I'm taking part in another Chuck Wendig Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge. This one is based on this Tweet from a Twitter account that does nothing but throw out insane writing prompts. We're about to see how pure evil celebrates a birthday. And no, it's not political. But this one is.

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Everyone thinks being evil, that pure megalomaniacal evil built on a foundation of power and endless streams of money, is easy.

I’m here to tell you, that’s not the case.

I am called many things, but I’m mostly known as Jotara, the Crusher of Souls. My real name is Randy and I used to sell vacuum cleaners door to door. Being the Lord of the Malevolent Keep can be challenging, but it’s indescribably better than dealing with some soccer mom or stay-at-home dad wearing stained sweats, talking down to you because they think they’ve finally met the person one rung lower than them on the social ladder. They were among the first visiting my Chamber of Nefarious Punishment. Those smug faces were twisted canvases of pain and regret within minutes. That was a good day.

For the most part, being indescribably evil is fun. Ultimate payback to those who mocked me when I peed my pants in fourth grade on the bus to our annual field trip to see the world’s Largest Bottle of Ketchup. Being responsible for the disappearances of the prom date who stood me up as a joke (and let’s not pull any punches, she was no prize), her parents, the entire student council who planned the prom, and the band who sang the song chosen by said student council to represent the entire affair. The state of New Jersey thanked me afterwards for that one.

My point being, this job doesn’t suck. At least not most days. Like today.

My birthday.

Just because I’m the Lord of Ineffable Villainy doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy my birthday. I like cake. I like unwrapping presents. I like being served the hearts of unbaptized babies whilst having those who respect and fear me most singing “Happy Birthday.” I’m an immortal god of repugnance and destruction, but I have feelings. I’m still just a guy, you know?

It’s a catch 22. I can’t explain the concept of a birthday to my loyal slaves because they are as I made them—mindless automatons whose sole function is to follow my orders without thinking and to kill everyone in sight. And if we’re being honest, those two taskes tend to fall under the same umbrella. I mean, are you going to trust one of these mindless mass murder machines to bake a red velvet cake with matching cupcakes? Of course not.

When it comes to music, I’m the first to admit I dropped the ball there. I thought extinguishing the lives of all the musicians, actors, and writers I admired in an effort to steal the creativity from their very souls was a solid idea. As it happens, I didn’t actually gain their power and now the people I would’ve invited are all too dead to show. Plus, I killed the last two guys who could’ve sang the song from the White Album to really get the birthday celebration rolling.

You know there’s no handbook for this, right? No one tells you how to be an all-powerful entity bathed in darkness and monstrosity. It just happens and you do the best you can. People seem to be real cool about stealing my ideas, though. Don’t get me wrong, I dig the ones who recognize the artistry of what I’m doing. But the fact that little orange prick—

You know what? I’m not going there. I gave up talking politics for Lent and I’m going to stick with it.

But just the audacity to—

Nope. Gotta have willpower.

OK.

What was I saying?

Ah, yes. I didn’t know what would work and what wouldn’t when I got this gig. I thought, hell, I killed the guy, I can bring him back, right? Nope. What I do is reanimate the corpse and just a shade of the soul is left to run the body and if you think a shade can properly command a body to do a decent version of “In Da Club,” you’re insane. You know what my options are? Either trying to get Conway Twitty’s dead ass to sing “Happy Birthday, Darlin’,” or Florida Georgia Line. Yeah. Florida Georgia fucking Line. One, they suck out loud, and two, they don’t even have a birthday song. But, I killed everyone else, so…

Then there’s the presents. Even I admit, I’m a hard guy to shop for. I literally have $147 trillion at my disposal. So no, I’m not going to be impressed by your grand gestures. A solid gold Ferrari? Please. Ever driven a solid gold car? That shit is soft and you can’t even touch the damned thing without it warping. It’s ridiculous. Oh, wait, you kidnapped the President of France for me to use as ransom? What part of $147 TRILLION did you not get? At this point, I would have to expand the lair to hide any more money. I’d probably have to use the ransom to do the rebuild and you see how that’s just a potential loss leader right there.

And I swear to Me, anyone shows up with some homemade nonsense, I will personally bring your dead grandparents back from their eternal slumber and make them perform the most deviant sex acts Porn Hub could never show you while forcing you to watch every moist, gooey second. I have no interest in seeing the results of your ill-fated struggle with art because you think it’ll come off as kitschy and cute. No one wants your drunken interaction with construction paper, glue, and unicorn hair, GREG.

I dunno. I just wanted a birthday, you know? I brought Marilyn back to sing to me. Yes, that Marilyn, and yes, that song. She looked like a stroke victim and sang like a, well, like a stroke victim. It’s just that—

Hang on. My phone. Sorry about that.

Oh, shit, it’s Vlad.

I have to take this, sorry.

“Привет, господин Президент!”

Inauguration Day Brought to You By Burt's Bees

(Washington D.C., January 21, 2017)

January 23, 2017, 1637 Hours

Looking back, it's hard to figure out why we didn't suspect the bees in the first place.

The scientists kept telling us they were mysteriously disappearing, that something man-made was killing them off. We were bombarded with data saying if the bees disappeared, it would be an epic catastrophe for mankind. The fact was, the bees weren't dying.

They were leaving Earth for reinforcements.

It's been three days since the bees returned, stronger, smarter, and much, much bigger. The Inauguration Day attack in Washington DC was only the beginning, but it put the world on notice they were coming and they were pissed. It didn't help. Nothing did. Much like post-election America, Earth's population was distracted by what was happening in Washington that day. While they were watching in horror as nearly the entire incoming and outgoing American government was gruesomely killed by the now walrus-sized insects, the monsters’ brethren were lying in wait around the world.

As the controversial new President was giving his inaugural address—a hodge podge of contradictions, junk science, and out-and-out lies—the sky went black as the bees descended. The man who had been the most powerful man in the free world for less than 15 minutes looked up, cocking his head like a curious German Shepherd, and could faintly be heard saying, “But he swore he wouldn’t—“

He was cut off by three massive monsters plunging their stingers into him repeatedly as their mandibles tore at his flesh. His screams, blessedly short, were other-worldly and will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life, a life that is forever changed.

The bloody mess that had once been a billionaire fell lifeless on the ground behind the podium as the rest of the bees began their attack in earnest. A couple networks shut down their feeds once they realized what was happening in an effort to spare viewers the horror of seeing a human being ripped apart. The others, including all the cable news networks, kept rolling as the talking heads on duty provided a running commentary of the end of the world.

The bees at first seemed to slaughter indiscriminately, but soon a pattern emerged for those willing and brave enough to look for it. They were killing all the politicians who had, over the course of their careers, done their damnedest to convince their constituents science was a liberal lie to appeal to their right-wing religious voter base.

How did that turn out for you, fellas?

I’m sorry for the levity. At a time like this, it’s hard to find humor in anything so you take it where you can. Because the alternative is to simply think about what has happened since Inauguration Day and let madness take over. The plain and simple fact is, they’re intelligent. And not some form of basic intelligence or even dolphin-level animal kingdom intelligent. They recognized faces. They knew who they were going after. Seeing who they spared made that all the more apparent.

Somehow, the outgoing First Couple made it out, helped mainly due to the Secret Service immediately abandoning their new boss and his family, rushing to their old one. The Vice President’s wife, a former Secretary of State, her husband, and two former Presidents also made it out. One of the Presidents tripped over the plastic he had been using to protect himself from the light rain and fell hard. He quickly got up and rejoined the group, but I could’ve sworn one of the bees saw this and laughed a little.

The now-former Vice President stayed behind and what happened then will be repeated as legend for centuries. Channeling his inner Theodore Roosevelt, the meme-loving, jovial, grandfatherly man the nation came to love, especially in the final years of his time as the No. 2 man in the White House, threw off his coat, tore open his shirt to reveal a massive eagle tattoo and at least one visible scar across his belly. Open-shirted and disheveled, the first Vice President from the state of Delaware grabbed the nearest bee, punched it in the head, and screamed, “Come on, you motherfuckers! Uncle Joe’s got something for ya!”

The assaulted bee moved in towards the raging career politician but two more immediately grabbed their comrade and flew off, as though protecting the man from harm. The former US Senator seemed to realize what was happening and ran off after his family, grabbing the woman who would’ve been First Lady and her young son, taking them with him to safety.

What we didn’t realize until later due to the incredible carnage we were seeing in Washington, this was happening all over the world. The Kremlin had been absolutely decimated. China, North Korea, Venezuela, Colombia, Central America, Syria, Iran, governments everywhere were seeing its leadership brutally slaughtered along with any family or friends near them.

More telling were the countries not affected at all, such as Australia, the entire continent of Africa except Ethiopia and Libya, and all of the Scandinavian countries including Iceland and Greenland. Nations such as Spain, Germany, France, and Italy saw certain members of the government killed, but not the top leadership. England, on the other hand, saw the same brutality the US did with the exception of the Royal Family, who all escaped without harm. Ireland and Scotland were also spared.

It was all coordinated by the bees. Every attack on the planet was carried out at the same time, lasting a total of about 30 minutes. And then, after the attack, they left. Just like that. Just like that, the worst attack against the governments of the world in its history was over. The sounds of terror, fear, and pain echoed throughout the city. The city’s first responders would have been taxed beyond their breaking point had it not been for the hundreds and thousands of people immediately stepping up to help.

The EMTs and volunteers worked their way to the Presidential podium. The majority of the people in the stands behind it were dead, massive holes in their torsos from the bee stings and bodies torn apart by hungry mandibles. They looked for the now-former President and found nothing but a bloody suit, a red tie with Scotch tape on the back, and one shoe. One of the EMTs, a black lesbian who also worked for the Capital Police, smirked as she threw the suit (and the body that remained) in a trash bag.

Out of nowhere, a voice blasted in my head. Based on the reactions of those around me, I realized I wasn’t the only one hearing (thinking?) the chatter.

“THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING. GO FORWARD AND BE KIND.”

When the voice stopped, people continued to look around and talk amongst themselves for a minute or two. When they understood that was the entirety of the message, they went back to assisting the wounded and recovering the dead.

Later that day, I joined the remaining Representatives and Senators in an emergency session of Congress. With much of the opposition no longer among us, it didn’t take long to vote the former POTUS back into office using emergency powers. It was made easier by the fact nearly all of the newly-elected President’s cabinet had been murdered along with the President. Only his Secretary of Education remained and she could be heard to say “Fuck that” when told she would be the next President. That wasn’t the case anyway since she had never been officially voted into her roll by Congress.

My fellow Senators and I found the newly-reinstated Vice President, now completely shirtless and drinking a beer—and obviously not his first of the day—in the Oval Office after the session. He looked weary, but his eyes were bright and alert. He had blood on his hands and chest (not his) and more scars were visible now in the artificial light of the room.

He motioned to the large red cooler with “VEEP” written in Sharpie on the white lid. One of my colleagues opened it to find a couple cases of iced-down beer. The owner of the brewery had been a vocal supporter of the man replacing William Henry Harrison as the shortest-tenured POTUS in American history (17 minutes, 32 seconds), but good beer is good beer.

He had his feet on the desk and was leaned back in his boss’s chair, looking up at the ceiling while sipping his beer. As we all took a beer and opened it, the Vice President sat up and said:

“A toast. To those we lost, to those we have regained, and to a minor in melittology. So long and thanks for all the honey.”

Grandma Shirley

Another Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge via his amazing blog at Terrible Minds. Here's the deets on the piece. You can see which of the five seeds I went with. It's not the best piece I've ever written, but it's the first bit of fiction I've done in awhile. Enjoy.

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“Where is it?”

“Huh?”

“The body. Where is it?”

Tim looked up from the computer screen at his second cousin and longtime co-worker Tony. The pair had worked at the town’s only morgue since they were teenagers, Tim moving up to the rank of mortician and Tony happy to continue doing the behind-the-scenes grunt work. He had never been one for dealing with the public and if it made Tim happy to wear a suit and tie every day, good for him.

“First of all,” Tim said, with a look Tony recognized as the beginning of a patronizing sermon, “’it’ is a she. We do not refer to our client’s remains as ‘it.’ They are to be treated with respect and dignity. How would you react if someone referred to your mom as ‘it’?”

“Well, she’s been dead for more than 20 years now,” said Tony, “so I wouldn’t really get too worked up over it. Second, ‘our client’ has shuffled loose this mortal coil. Nothing that was Shirley Talkington remains behind other than the candy shell. All the good stuff, the gooey, creamy center and the milk chocolate, is gone.”

“God, you’re so weird when you compare the clients to food. And what if one of her relatives heard you talking like that? Her family is enough of a pain in the ass without them overhearing you talk about her like she’s a fucking M&M.”

It was true. Shirley Talkington’s family used to be a big deal in their little town of Hempshire, back when it had a population of more than fifty thousand. After the Korean conflict, however, many of the town’s families, especially the affluent ones, left. Hempshire’s largest employer, Plastco Flowers & Accessories, moved out of the state in 1964, putting the final nail in the coffin of what was once a booming city. Now, without high schoolers being guaranteed a job creating plastic bouquets for funerals and weddings, the metropolis was now a smallish town of around ten thousand mostly lower middle-class people who drove 30 or more miles every day to work in Sappington Springs.

The Talkingtons didn’t get the memo that they were neither rich nor powerful any more, hadn’t been since the early 70s, and probably shouldn’t talk down to the remaining townspeople as though they were pre-Magna Carta serfs. The dearly-departed Shirley was the family matriarch, a vile woman who, in the opinion of nearly everyone who knew her, couldn’t croak soon enough. She finally expired in Hempshire’s only nursing home at the age of 98, suffering a massive heart attack while screaming at one of the nurses about there being too much sugar in her iced tea. Most of the citizens of the town either let them have their way because it was easier than arguing with them, or just ignored them entirely.

Tim knew the Talkingtons had no real power or influence anymore, but he had a reputation as a good man, a fair man who treated everyone equally and he wasn’t about to blow that courtesy of a thankless bitch who died many decades too late and her equally awful family.

He glanced at the table Tony was motioning to and realized with a start Shirley really was gone. In the span of a second, he thought of where she could be. She wasn’t in the viewing room yet and he knew he had taken her out of the cooler first thing this morning. That really didn’t leave anymore else. Curiosity slowly turned into a mild panic; the Talkingtons were broken-down annoyances, but finding out there was a body thief in town would create the kind of bad press and rumors that Tim absolutely did not need. Being the sole funeral home in town didn’t provide the kind of job security one might think. Sappington Springs had two funeral parlors, one of which also provided a crematorium. This was bad.

“Where is she?” Tim asked, his voice slightly shrill.

“Literally just asked you the same question,” Tony said with a sarcastic undertone. “Remember?”

“Shut up. Let me think.”

A quick glance at the television monitors above his desk told Tim the hearse was in front of the building, ready to take Shirley to her eternal resting place at the Holy Gardens cemetery just outside town. The other monitor showed the van they used to pick up the newly-deceased was in its customary place behind the building. Finally, the third screen showed the empty chapel where Shirley’s family would begin arriving in the next hour or so to send her on her way, probably with their customary passive-aggressive snottiness and backbiting disguised as farewell sentiment.

“Hey, Tim?”

He looked up and saw Elizabeth Stanton standing in the door. She was the 20-year-old niece of Tim’s best friend from college who wanted to get into the mortuary business. Elizabeth had worked for them just more than a year and had the perfect temperament for the job. She could console the most grieving mother with a kind word and a simple hand on the shoulder and take the brutal tongue lashings from an angry son, too heartbroken to understand Elizabeth didn’t create the cancer that took his beloved mother.

“Yes?”

“Jenny Talkington is here.”

“Fuck,” Tim said, the word slipping from his lips unintended.

“Oops, sorry about that.”

Elizabeth tried to hide a smile. “That’s OK. She wants to talk to you about seeing Mrs. Talkington before the rest of the family gets here. She’s waiting in the viewing room. Should I bring her in?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Tim said with a sigh. “How’s her mood?”

This time, there was no hiding the smile on Elizabeth’s mahogany face. “About usual.”

Jenny Talkington graduated high school with Tim. She was a cunty know it all then and she remained true to her roots as an adult. “Usual” meant he was about to be talked to like he was the help and that she wanted to avoid paying the funeral bill for as long as possible, if at all.

“Awesome. Yes, go get her, please.”

Still standing by the table, Tony was smirking.

“Something funny?” Tim asked, annoyed.

“Nope,” Tony said, smug grin still on his face. “You have fun with her. That’s why you get the big check and your own parking space. Now you get to earn it. I’ll go track down the corpse.”

Tim was about to once again reprimand his cousin, but decided it was a bad cause and he had much bigger problems to deal with. And as if on cue, bereaved granddaughter Jenny Talkington walked through the door. She, like Tim, was nearly 40, but looked closer to 60. A steady diet of Marlboro Light 100s, Diet Coke, and pure hate had emaciated her to the point of looking positively mummy-esque. The fact no one could quite recall the last time they had seen her smile played no small part in her witch-like appearance.

“Hello, Tim.”

Her voice was nicotine-coated gravel. In their youth, she had a beautiful singing voice and was a soloist who sang at churches all over the county and state. Now, she sounded like Leonard Cohen after a hard weekend.

“Hey, Jenny,” Tim said, standing up and walking to her with his hand out to shake hers. She ignored the gesture entirely.

“We would like to see Grandma before the service and before those money-grubbing moochers show up to pretend they’re devastated,” she said. Tim knew full well Jenny was the lead mooching money grubber and had already scoured Shirley’s will for anything and everything she could possibly get her hands on. The lack of any liquid assets in her grandmother’s last directives had put Jenny in an even more foul mood than her regularly-vitriolic demeanor. Tim’s face betrayed none of these thoughts as he put his hand in his pocket, trying to act as though he had intended to do that all along.

“Of course. Can you give us about an hour for us to prepare her?”

Jenny rolled her eyes, but said, “That’s fine. Also, I would like to think our credit is good here.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Here we go, thought Tim.

“Well, Jenny,” he started, “we normally don’t provide credit and as a rule, request the family make a good-will gesture at least 15 percent down—“

Jenny cut him off. “Wow. You’re really talking money right now? Grandma Shirley isn’t even in the ground and you’re demanding money? I really thought better of you, Tim. I really did.”

She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, leaving Tim to stare at her as she turned the corner leading to the exit. Tony walked past him and plopped down in Tim’s chair and once seated, stared at the floor, unblinking.

“What’s up?” Tim asked.

Tony continued to stare at the floor saying nothing.

“Tony,” Tim said, becoming alarmed, “what’s going on?”

“She’s gone, man.”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “I know. That’s not in question.”

“No, I mean she left. On her own.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Tim asked. “That’s impossible. I watched the autopsy being done. She’s dead.”

“Yes, she’s dead, but she left on her own. I swear, Tim. She’s out there.”

Tim looked at Tony for a long time. It was impossible to even consider that what his cousin was saying was true, but was there another option? Was Shirley Talkington a—Tim could barely even think the word without feeling ridiculous—a zombie?

“Tony. Seriously. Is she…undead?”

Tony finally looked up at Tim, his face still a mask of solemnity.

“Nah, I’m fuckin’ with you. She’s in the other room getting her hair done.

“You retard.”

DON’T LET YOUR S0UL BE L0NELY!!!

 

Chuck Wendig has once again put out a great Flash Fiction challenge at Terrible Minds. This week is combining those terrible spam e-mails written by someone who understands English as a third or fourth language with a horror-based theme.

I wasn't planning on participating because it sounded like work and I'm not a fan. However, I've been blowing off my writing lately and decided I needed to do this. So here's what I got. If you're in need of daemonic possession, these folks can help. Or so they claim.

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We are a COMPANY that provides daemonic possessions to mortals who crave ACTION and EXCITEMENT in their lives! No matter what your income or religious preferences our COMPANY can much your soul with a daemon that will PERMANENTLY attach itself for all eternity!

Many blevieve daemonic possession is just a myth or a story told around campfires in scary movies. THIS IS FALSE! We work directly with the Dread Lord Mephisto HIMSELF for the highest-quality most foul shades of Satanic spirit that the Underworld has to offer. Still don’t believe us? Even SN0PES has to agree that they can’t not find proof that our possessions work!!!

Our patented 3-step method will turn you from regular Joe Rube to agent of the Lord of Flies in literally SECONDS! We will bring your to our COMPANY office, with thousands of locations across the known universes for YOUR CONVENIENCE to get your started on your exciting road to HELL!

We will show you the proper method of drawing the pentagram in your basement, root cellar, or one-star motel room with the proper tools. DO NOT TRY THIS ON YOUR OWN!!!! Trying to created your own sign of THE DEVIL could result in not summoning a daemon at all or risking calling a non-COMPANY affiliated daemon and we can’t be responsible for you or your soul in that case.

Once you have created your pentagram, you’ll step into it and say our tried and true MAGIC WORDS!!! Uttering these ancient phrases has a success rate of 150%!!! A COMPANY daemon will immediately appear before you, asking 3 questions THAT WE’LL GIVE YOU THE ANSWER TO!!!! Answer these questions with the right answers and you’re POSESSED!!!

IT REALLY IS THAT EASY!!!! Don’t believe us? Read this statement from a satisfied customer!!!

“I was a Roman Catholic priest for more than 40 years. I had done terrible things to literally thousands of defenseless children, but my superiours had told me my relationship with God protected me from the law of man. As such, I figured no way could I be daemon possessed. Nothing could be further from the truth!!!! I followed the COMPANY’S patented 3-step method and before I knew it, a 10 thousand year old Satanic minion named K’Raithres bonded to my very soul and showed me evil I never thought possible. And the best thing is that I don’t have to be held accountable for my actions!!! I tell people I’m possessed by the DEVIL         and they believe it!!!!” –Archbishop Kyle Molesterer.

DON’T WAIT!!!! CALL NOW or the best daemons will be gone. Give our operators the password SOFT-HEADED SIMPLETON and you’ll KEEP 5% of your own FREE WILL! Don’t keep your soul lily-white and untainted! Be one of the cool kids and get yoru daemonic possession TODAy!

A Tale of a Racist Fish

(This is what happens when you Google "Racist Fish.")

Another one of those great Chuck Wendig flash fiction challenges over at Terrible Minds. Last week, the challenge was to write a very simple but very powerful single sentence. This week, the challenge was to pick one of those sentences and create a story around it. The sentence I chose, from someone named Noel who didn't link to his website, is the first line of this story.
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She couldn’t be sure that the fish was a condescending dickhead, but she was starting to suspect as much. It was neither its look nor its body language, but more his never-ending screed of racial slurs aimed at passersby.

Donna had gotten over her amazement at the reality of a talking catfish quickly after hearing its taunts of “Look atcha, ya fuckin’ beaners!” as a Latino family walked past. Shocked and mortified on their behalf, they themselves acted as though they heard nothing, continuing on to the other exhibits.

Edging slowly to the tank, she stopped only once to watch for a reaction from the black woman who stopped briefly to look at the fish. It had just let loose with some borderline criminal comments regarding the woman’s lineage, but again, the woman seemed not to hear it. Donna felt her face flush again in horror, but the woman looked at Donna and, smiling a friendly smile at her, walked away.

Looking at the catfish, Donna leaned closer yet to the glass partition separating her from the racist fish wondering if that particular term had ever been used in the history of ever. Her nose nearly touched the glass when the fish turned and made eye contact.

“Help you, fatty?”

She jumped back, stunned for a second, then angry.

“I’m not fat,” she whispered at it.

“OK. Wal-Mart called. They want their scooter back, ya pig.”

“My weight is actually below the national average, thank you very much,” Donna said, her voice a little louder.

“Yeah it ain’t. So you aren’t as fat as you could or should be. That’s like being the lead retard at the Special Olympics.”

“You shut up!”

This hadn’t been whispered; in fact, it was yelled rather loudly. People around her were looking at her. Did she just tell that fish to shut up, she heard a teen-aged girl twenty or so feet away ask her mother. Donna gave a shaky smile to those looking at her and turned back to the tank.

The catfish (she definitely felt ‘it’ was a ‘he’ based on tone of voice and the fact no woman Donna knew of, fish or not, would be so crass in public) was still looking at her. Expecting the newly-sexually-identified him to be scowling at her, he was, in fact, not. Talking with a Philly accent must have anthropomorphized him enough.

“You shut up,” she said, much quieter. It dawned on her when he spoke, the fish’s voice was clear as day. Odd, being in water behind thick glass and, you know, a fish at all. She decided to try something.

Can you hear me, she thought, looking the fish dead in his eyes.

He looked back at her, saying nothing.

So much for that, Donna thought. She began chastising herself for thinking a fish could read her mind but shook that thought out of her head. It was a talking catfish. Communications with such a creature haven’t been, to Donna’s knowledge, established, so she should be proud of herself for thinking outside the box.

“Yeah, I can hear you, chubby,” the fish said, interrupting her thoughts. “And you are fat. Like I always say, can’t see the ribs, not taking dibs, am I right? But I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of ribs at plenty of buffets. Does it count as cannibalism when a cow like you piles a couple big racks of ribs down your gullet?”

She was about to speak but remembered it wasn’t necessary. Plus, she didn’t want those around her thinking she was any more weird.

Why are you so hateful? Donna glared at him. I’m not fat and you’re not going to get to me.

“Really I’m not?” the fish asked, a sneer in his voice if not on his face. “You’re about to start bawlin’ and you’re talking to a fucking fish!”

With that, he swam to the other side of the aquarium, casting his eyes upon a group of children looking to be no older than eight or nine.

“Jesus, the gay practically seeps outta that kid,” he said. “A haircut like that and those shoes pretty much scream ‘Cock, party of one, please!’”

That’s so mean and, well, doesn’t really make any sense, Donna thought at the fish. Does that mean he’s the one providing the cock for another gay man or that he’s a party of one requesting cock? I don’t get it.

“Huh? The fuck are you talking about, Chief Walkswithawobble?” he asked, again with attitude in his voice if not on his features. “The point is, he’s gonna have more men inside him than the locker room at the Rose Bowl. And he’s not going to be a power bottom, either. Look at that little fruit…you know he’s gonna be someone’s wife.”

Just stop it! Donna screamed at him in her mind. You’re just a fish! Who cares what you think anyways? She was on the verge of angry tears, staring daggers at the back of the fish (whom she kept thinking of as Charlie for some reason) while he continued to look upon the children.

Charlie, sensing Donna’s eyes on his back, turned towards her. He came at her fast, nearly hitting the glass, screaming “HEY!”

Donna started at Charlie’s yell. When she regained her composure, the fish, the aquarium, and in fact most of the people, were gone. She closed her eyes and gave her head a little shake, hoping to knock whatever was loose back to normal again, the normal including a talking, racist fish.

She opened them again, but Charlie and the aquarium were still gone. In its place, a doctors’ office waiting room, filled with people staring at her. Angrily. A security guard put his hand around her bicep, lifting her to her feet.

“Ma’am, you have to go. Right now.”

“What’s going on,” she said, eyes moving across all the angry faces. “Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m sorry you feel bad about your weight and all,” the guard said, “but that’s no reason to say horrible things to all these people. You’ll pardon me for saying so, but being overweight and angry doesn’t give you the right to be a racist bitch. If you feel that way, just keep it in your head like everyone else.”

A Mother's Love

Another Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge by Chuck Wendig. One thousand words. Here we go.
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"Wanna hit?"

"No, Mom, I'm good."

"You sure? Good stuff."

"Yes, Mom, I'm sure."

Most 12-year-olds being offered a toke off their mother's joint during breakfast would naturally assume there was no way she was being serious. But that's also assuming one's mother was not only rocking the wake-and-bake, but doing it at the dining room table as well. Thomas knew his mother was serious; she was generous to a fault and that included sharing the kind with her only child.

Jenny, Thomas' mother, wasn't a bad person. She doted on her son, ensuring he had everything he needed to live a happy, healthy life. Whether it was paying for his private schooling, buying him the newest iPhone when it came out (and not making him pay for the phone and the service plan like his friend Tyler's parents did), or burning down the house of the high-school kid who punched him at the mall just because he didn't "like you soulless fucking gingers," her heart was in the right place.

He looked at her, simultaneously eating eggs with one hand while checking his Twitter account on his phone with the other. Thomas knew, objectively, his mom was attractive. After his father died in an unfortunate meth lab explosion, Jenny had had a couple different boyfriends and they had made their way to the small but cozy home the two shared. Two of them he got on well with because they, like he himself, loved comic books, especially Batman. Thomas hadn't liked the most recent man to come a-courtin' the Widow Jenkins. He had shoved Thomas once when he came over drunk, announcing he didn't care much for little orphaned bastards.

The glass eye he was fitted with after Jenny took an ice pick to him looked pretty natural, Thomas had to admit.

The boy was aware his mother wasn't a typical mother in that she didn't feel the need to hide anything. At all. Thomas knew other women Jenny's age did similar things, or worse, but were much more adept at hiding their indiscretions. And it's not as though she was a harsh woman; nothing could be further from the truth. She smiled easily, never swore, and that time she beat the preacher's son mercilessly with an aluminum baseball bat after the young Baptist had spray painted "Cock EATING Whorr!!!" on the side of their house, she immediately called 911 and waited with him until the EMTs arrived. She even bought a massive floral display for his funeral a week later.

It just never bothered Thomas the way other people felt it should bother him. The only time he felt embarrassed regarding his family was after his father's accident. It wasn't that his dad, a man who encouraged the boy's love of online gaming and cried during Little House on the Prairie reruns, was cooking meth. It was the fact he was cooking meth with someone he knew was borderline retarded and was being watched by the police. Doing something illegal wasn't necessarily bad, but doing something stupid was.

The people in the community tut-tutted whenever they saw Thomas and Jenny in public, their assumption being that this poor boy, a straight-A student who was active in sports and the student newspaper, was living a Dickensian existence at home away from prying eyes. Stories of abuse by the endless string of Jenny's lovers (in truth, she had Biblically "known" one man since her husband's death and that was an ill-advised one-nighter occurring about 450 miles away from home) and a life lived humiliated by his family's shameful behavior couldn't be further from the truth. He missed his father terribly and he loved his mother without condition.

In fact, he felt worse for the people too uncomfortable to live their lives honestly and without excuses. So his mother liked to drop acid at church. Who did it hurt? If anything, Jenny running down the aisle topless provided Pastor Daniel a much-needed distraction from thinking of his dead son. Jenny had a penchant for beating abortion protesters with a pipe she kept in her Audi. Again, is there really a victim? Some tormented girl has one less asshole screaming at her and said asshole is taught a very valuable lesson. At worse, it was a push.

"Honey, I'm going to be late picking you up after school," Jenny said, interrupting Thomas' train of thought. "Your aunt wants me to take her shopping this afternoon and she said it's only going to be an hour or so, but you know she's lying."

It was true. Aunt Lydia was a delightful person but suffered from several different forms of mental illness, including a case of OCD that made grocery shopping more painful and uncomfortable than surprise sodomy. Example: she would shake a two-liter bottle of soda, wait a minute, then count the remaining carbonation bubbles. The bottle with the least amount of bubbles was the satisfactory one. Thankfully, Lydia only liked one very specific soda so they didn't have to do this with every single container. The problem lie when the one store at which she liked to shop was out of her brand. Then things became difficult.

"That's OK, Mom," Thomas said, finishing up the last of his sausage. "I wanted to stay a little late anyway. I'm working with Mr. Inkwell on some Photoshop stuff for the newspaper."

"My little future Pulitzer winner!" Jenny exclaimed. "What did I ever do to deserve a perfect boy like you?"

"You held the stork hostage and threatened his wife with a straight razor unless you got the best baby in the bunch," Thomas said. "At least, that's what Dad always told me."

"Oh, your father," she said. Jenny didn't talk about Tony much--it was obvious she still missed him terribly. Thomas quickly changed the subject.

"By the way, I'm probably going to stay home this weekend."

Jenny stopped what she was doing and looked at her son. "I thought you were going paint balling. You've been looking forward to this for a month! What happened?"

Pause.

"Oh, nothing. Just changed my mind."

But Thomas knew his hesitation had betrayed him. Jenny was a pretty smart cookie.

"It's that girl, isn't it? She's going to be there, isn't she?" she asked with a dangerous tone in her voice.

Jenny was referring to Zoe, a girl Thomas had had a crush on for more than a year. Two weeks ago, when Thomas made his intentions known to her via text message, she took a screen shot of it and posted it to her Facebook page, tagging Thomas and nearly their entire class in the post. Normally other-worldly composed regardless of the circumstances, even Thomas had taken this quite badly.

"Yes," Thomas said quietly.

His mom effortlessly scooped up the breakfast dishes, depositing them into the sink with a smile, the smell of kush and her perfume tickling Thomas' nose. She snubbed out the rest of her joint in the ash tray on the table and turned to look at her only child.

"Would you like me to grab my cattle prod and some zip ties before I talk to Zoe?"

"Yes, Mom," Thomas said. "And thanks. I love you, Mom."

"And I love you, too. Now get your backpack so I can get you to school."

The Legend That Is Nipple Clamps!

 

Another of Chuck Wendig's Terrible Mind Flash Fiction challenges. This time, we were to visit this page of unexplainable stock photos, pick a random pic, and write a thousand words about it. The pic above is what I got. The words below form the story I wrote.

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If asked, Anthony would say he’s a good man. A good father, a good husband, a good cop. Not a regular churchgoer, but not a C&E Christian, either. He prided himself on his ethics, both at home and at work. He was easy to like and hard to anger.

That being said, even he had his moments.

“Are you fucking kidding me with this shit right now?”

Anthony was standing next to his car in a neighborhood that would need millions in urban renewal money to be considered a “bad” neighborhood. Even gang bangers only came here after dark on a dare. These facts made it even harder to understand why a doughy white guy, wearing tighty-whities with two large carpenter clamps on his nipples, would be here.

The man seemed nonplussed by all the activity around him. In addition to Anthony, two other detectives in street clothes joined five uniformed officers, three police cruisers with bubbles on, at least 20 onlookers, and, oh yeah, the quickly-stiffening corpse of what appeared to be a homeless woman lying on the sidewalk.

“Anyone?” Anthony asked. “Can anyone explain this?”

One of the uniformed cops, a sergeant, stepped forward and was about to speak when Nipple Clamps (Anthony had decided Nipple Clamps was his name, regardless of what his mom and pop may have christened him) began talking.

“I can read the confusion on your face, my good man, and believe me, I empathize with your plight. My true identity is irrelevant so for now, you can call me Nipple Clamps.”

A senior detective with more than 20 years’ experience, Anthony, for the first time he could remember, was at a complete loss.

Nipple Clamps.

“What in the entire fuck are you talking about?” Anthony managed to spit out. “Who are you, why are you here, and why the shit is there a dead woman laying here?”

“I already told you, sir, I am Nipple Clamps, and I am here to solve this mystery.”

Anthony looked around to his brother officers, who looked back at him with the same bewildered expression he knew he himself wore.

“Perhaps I should elucidate further,” Nipple Clamps said. “I am, for lack of a better term, a super hero, a meta, if you will. I was once a normal human being, much like yourself, until I came across these.”

He motioned grandly to the two large red clamps, one attached to each nipple. They appeared to be the type of implements used in woodworking that would hold pieces of glued wood together tightly while drying. And more than just dangling from his nipple, the clamps were actually holding on to the entire man teat, but Anthony understood why the nearly-naked man in front of him went with Nipple Clamps; Teat Clamps would just sound stupid.

“A super hero?” Anthony said, sarcasm fighting with incredulity in his voice.

“Yes, good sir!” Nipple Clamps said brightly. Anthony felt like, in Clamps’ mind right now, he had a cleft chin as his wide smile sparkled with a gleam like Superman’s. “I was a babe in the woods, so to speak, lost without any path. But one day, in a mystical castle, I found the Nipple Clamps of All-Encompassing Truth, Strength, and Tightness!”

One of the uniformed officers leaned in to take a look. “Sticker says they’re from Home Depot.”

“But, citizen, would you not agree that Home Depot is a magical place?”

The men in attendance looked around at each other and began nodding their heads and muttering, conceding the point that Home Depot is, in fact, pretty awesome.

“So alright, Mr., er, Clamps, what powers do you have and why are you here with a dead women lying at your feet?” Anthony said, still obviously unconvinced of the power of the Nipple Clamps of All-Whatnot and Et Cetera.

“I have the power of focus, good constable,” Nipple Clamps said, still talking as though he was wearing a cape and talking to a group of awe-struck toddlers. “I have the power of knowing when danger is near, allowing me to arrive on the scene and mete out justice!”

“Got here a little late this time, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not at all!” Clamps declared. “I arrived in time to see her murdered…”

He looked at the assembled law men dramatically.

“…by one of YOU!”

Nipple Clamps looked around at each of the officers with a smug, knowing look of triumph on his face. He did this for nearly a minute until it became obvious he wasn’t getting the reaction he was looking for.

“So, the thin blue line is in effect, eh?” Clamps said, stroking his chin. “No matter. You are men of the law. When I tell you who did this dastardly deed, you will have no recourse but to do your duty and place your brother in arms under arrest.”

“You mind if I talk to my, uh, fellow ‘brothers in arms’?” Anthony asked.

“Not all all, sir!”

Anthony turned his back to the pale, nearly-naked man with the twin clamps attached to his pecs. They were each trying to maintain a modicum of professionalism in the face of overwhelming absurdity.

“Alright, the guy’s obviously struggling with some issues, but he seems to really believe this, so be careful. He could get violent when we try to bring him in. I mean, there’s no doubt he has a high pain tolerance; those clamps have got to be killing him.”

Anthony turned around as Nipple Clamps began shouting.

“It was you who are the murderer!” Clamps said, pointing to the same policeman who had pointed out the origin of his namesake home repair implements. “I got here as you finished choking her. You were trying to extort money from her. You see, gentleman, this woman is one of the most highly-paid beggars in the city and your badge-wearing friend gets a cut from her and many like her so long as he allows them to panhandle!”

Anthony turned to Officer Thompson, the man in question. Amazingly, Thompson was looking very nervous.

“Eddie, he’s full of shit, right?”

“I didn’t kill her, Anthony, I swear,” Thompson said.

“But the other stuff…”

“Hey, she’s just some homeless broad, right?” Thompson said, looking from cop to cop.

“Jesus,” Anthony mumbled. He turned back to Nipple Clamps.

“Are you willing to make a statement that you witnessed this officer attack and kill this woman,” Anthony asked.

“Nah,” Clamps said. “I’m just fuckin’ with you. I killed her.”

In Too Deep: The Finale

A couple weeks ago, I took part in a Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge where, every week, a different writer would contribute 200 words to a 1,000-word story. The piece I added to, In Too Deep, was completed by Jim Franklin, the man who kicked it off. Overall, it's a pretty sweet piece of writing. If you want to take a look at the finished product, click HERE.

In Too Deep

Another Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge from his Terrible Minds blog. This time, it's a 1,000-word story, written 200 words at a time, using someone else's beginnings. Three different people have written the prior 600 words, I have written the last 200 and, hopefully, someone will choose to finish up with the final 200 words. The first 200 were written by Jim Franklin, the second by Lynna Landstreet, and the third by CE Konicki.

Enjoy.
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The plunge into the ice-cold water hit Derry like an avalanche. A fading knowledge of the film Predator had informed him to lower his body temperature so that the alien wouldn’t see him. Though he hadn’t realised how cold the water would be, how the flow of the water would drag him away from the bank, or how his thick woolen coat and boots would become the rocks that pulled him down.

It’s worth noting at this point that in Predator, the hero was a hardened military veteran with experience in guerrilla warfare, while Derry worked in the Accounts department for a large national fish exporter, and the most alien thing he had encountered in his life so far was the perpetual lack of sticky notes in his office. Being woefully terrible at making quick decisions, preferring an hour or two to mull over every eventuality, also goes some way to explain his poor choice of hiding place.

His limbs stiff, his breathing now wheezy gulps, and his head now spent more time underwater as his legs struggled to move. Derry panicked, with a thought that he didn’t have hours to mull this over…. he was going to die.

As he floundered, the creature loomed over the water's edge, staring down at him -- so much for the hope that it wouldn't see him! It raised some sort of complicated device to its -- those were its eyes, weren't they? Undoubtedly a weapon of some sort, and he found himself wondering which would be worse: drowning, freezing to death, being vaporized, or being eaten. But no laser bolt came, just a light that illuminated his sodden head as the creature peered through some sort of lens. The hell --? Was that some kind of camera?

The thing opened its terrifying maw, and let out a sound somewhat like a cow being fed through a woodchipper. Or at least what Derry imagined that might sound like, not that he'd ever needed to before now. Then it made some adjustments to a device affixed to its throat, and a strange mechanical voice accompanied the bellowing: "Good evening. I observe that you have placed yourself in a context|challenge|predicament causing respiratory and circulatory distress. May I inquire as to the significance of this act among your tribe|culture|species? Are you attempting to terminate your existence, or this is an artistic performance|athletic event|mating display?"

This was not any of the scenarios Derry had imagined.

“Ath… wha? Uhh, wait, no?” he said.

“Please excuse me. I do not understand your meaning|phraseology|intention. Do you use slang|jargon|patois? This lexicon has not been upgraded to include modern slang.”

What did he say to that?

“I don’t… I….” was all he managed before the water pulled him under again. A struggle for the surface brought limited response from his limbs and panic almost caused him to breathe in. He did inhale when something snaked around his waist and the following flight through the air was punctuated with hacking. He landed hard and it forced the last of the water out of his lungs.

Five copper eyes blinked at him.

“Not a mating display,” it said.

“No. I thought…. I thought you were… ah… Predator. From, the movie, because… I did.”

The creature twisted its head upside down like an owl.

“Incorrect. I am not a predator. I am Richard. I am intolerant|on a restricted diet|vegan."

Derry’s brain surrendered.

“Richard,” he said.

“Richard is not my actual name. I have chosen this name for convenience|to make friends|humour.”

“Richard isn’t your real name. Because you’re a vegan.” 

“Correct. What is your name|handle|nomenclature? 

Derry continued taking in the looming pile of weird before him. The irony that he was gaping like a fish after his very wet misadventure was not lost on him. He tried to speak, but the chattering of his teeth prevented any meaningful conversation. He may have been saved from a watery grave, but that was only a brief respite before the hypothermia set in. 

“My n-n-n-n…” 

Suddenly, he was enveloped by feeling of warmth and security. It was liked being hugged by a favorite grandmother while wrapped in an electric blanket. Derry looked up at the stranger to see him/her/it(?) looking down on him intently, all eyes glowing an subtle orange. 

“Do you feel better|warmer|safer now?” 

“Um, yes. Yes, I do. Thank you.” 

“Now,” the being said, “what are you called?” 

“Derry. My name is Derry.” 

“Hello|Greetings|Salutations, Derry. I am (what followed next was a series of eye twitches followed by what smelled like a cross of rotting citrus fruit, wet dog, and toffee.)” 

Derry looked at the creature in front of him, mouth still wide open. 

“That is why I choose the name Richard for this mission|job|trip.” 

“I totally get that,” Derry said.

Dream World: A Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge

Chuck Wendig laid out his weekly flash fiction challenge from Terrible Minds: Subgenre Frankenstein. The writer is to randomly pick two of the 20 literary genres he provided and drop 1,500 words on it. My two were Low Fantasy/"Grimdark" and Fairy Tale. This may be the most disturbing piece I've ever written.
-------------------------------


Thomas woke up laughing and was slapped across the face.

The boy was startled into full consciousness, rubbing the rising welt on his left cheek. The joy and magic he felt in his fading dream were gone, replaced by the awareness of where he was.

“Always something funny with you,” Zach said. “Always laughing, always smiling.”

He slapped Thomas again, this time rocking the boy's head back with such force, he struck the wall behind him, making a dull thud that could be heard throughout the barracks-style room.

Zach was slender, but had a wiry strength to him, the kind of muscle that comes with growing up hard. He also loved to inflict pain on the boys. He wasn't above a well-placed kick to some of the girls, either, but he had another method of showing displeasure to young women placed within The System. Thomas knew the worst for him was a beating; for the girls, the punishment was much longer and sadistic.

The System was a federally-operated institution where the children of illegals were sent. The Illegal Minor Education Act of 2019 stated that undocumented foreign nationals who came to the United States and had a child there, were to be immediately deported while their child was to be taken by the government and placed within the Arpaio School for International Youth or The System, as it came to be called.

The institution was built to house and educate these children to become hard-working Americans. Unfortunately, employees within The System weren't paid well and were barely educated. Many never had positions of leadership, much less among children, so the excess of power more than compensated for the lack of pay. Several were former prison guards who treated the children the same as they did the convicts at their previous jobs.

Thomas, ten years old and small for his age, now began rubbing the back of his head, struggling not to let the tears fall. Zach hated seeing kids cry because he felt impelled to beat the remaining tears out of them.

“I'm sorry, Zach,” he said. “I didn't mean to.”

“I don't like you, Tommy. I don't like you at all,” Zach said, leering with a disturbing glint in his eye. Thomas felt fear awaken in his gut; it was whispered that, sometimes, Zach punished some of the smaller boys the same way he punished the girls. Thomas knew he couldn't fight Zach and also knew he may not survive the older boy's sweet tooth.

To Thomas' relief, Zach turned, leaving his bedside. Other boys casted knowing looks at Thomas, all of them having felt Zach's heavy hand before. Although he knew they felt for him, Thomas also knew they were glad it was him and not them. He understood that. He felt the same way two days ago, watching Zach belt whip a boy younger than Thomas across his bare back. Zach hadn't stopped until his arm was sore, which was five minutes after blood was drawn. The little boy was taken away and hadn't been seen since.

A speaker in the ceiling emitted three short electronic notes, alerting the children it was time for morning announcements.

“Good morning all!” a baritone voice said jovially.

No one was quite sure whose voice addressed them every morning and evening, but inmates of The System (or “residents” as the school called them) didn't think it was anyone in charge. None of the kids within the school had met anyone who sounded so nice. The only time people sounded friendly here was when something bad was about to happen. But even then, boys like Zach, standing at the front of the room, monitoring them in his role as Dorm Boy, never sounded nice. He was angry all the time. Thomas nearly snickered at the idea of Zach trying to smile, but his throbbing head silenced him.

“And now,” the pleasant voice said after going over the day's menus, class changes, and activity schedules, “it is time for our morning prayer. Everyone please bow your heads!

“Our God, who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name, please watch over us all, the supervisors, the teachers, the school staff, and our beloved little residents who will someday be great Americans like our President! And, oh Lord, be especially with our President, who battles evil in Your name his every waking moment and provides a place for the children of the lawless and lost to be raised like the good Christian he himself is.

“In Jesus' blessed name, amen!”

All the children murmured “Amen”, though truth be told, the majority had long ago lost faith in a God that would leave them here, while the few who did still believe wondered what they had done so wrong in their young lives to be banished to Hell.

Thomas got out of bed, removed his pajamas and began putting on his regular clothes. During the week, the boys' uniform consisted of red polo shirts (each dorm was assigned a different color; Thomas lived in the Red Dorm), khaki pants, and brown shoes. He went to the community bathroom, brushed his teeth, singing “Happy Birthday” in his head twice, once for the bottom teeth, once for the top, washed his face, and returned to make his bed and put his nighttime clothes away. He stood at the foot of the bed, ready for Zach's morning inspection.

A boy older than Thomas, five or six beds down, gasped audibly as Zach kicked him in the shin for leaving a sock on the floor. The boy, Miguel, didn't say anything, but was still breathing heavily. He was new to The System, arriving last week. He had injured his leg before he came here and Zach knew it. Miguel had just learned a valuable lesson.

Zach grunted his approval at the remainder of the beds until he got to Thomas. He stared at Thomas until Thomas looked away, the younger boy too smart to force a battle of wills. Zach's hand shot out, grabbed Thomas by the hair, and forced Thomas' face near the pillow.

“What the hell is that, Tommy?!” Zach yelled. “What is it?!”

Stunned, his face buried in the bedsheet, Thomas stammered, “Wh-what, I don't...”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You're lazy and stupid? Come with me!”

Zach, still clutching Thomas' hair, jerked the boy's head up and marched him towards the front of the room. Thomas could again see the combined look of terror and relief on each boy's faced as he passed. The fear Thomas felt earlier exploded into ice-cold panic. Warm urine flowed down Thomas' legs as he saw where he was going.

He was being taken to the Dorm Boy's office.

Any time a resident was taken to the Dorm Boy's office by Zach, that resident was either never seen again or beaten so badly, they weren't recognizable. The last time it had happened, a 12-year-old girl was drug in there by Zach and another Dorm Boy and held for more than an hour. She cried and begged for help that never came the entire time.

Thomas was thrown into the dark room, consisting of an old metal desk with a computer monitor and three paperwork bins atop it, a filing cabinet, and a dry-erase board with writing he couldn't make out. Thomas tried to turn around to face Zach, but was grabbed by the back of the neck and forced face first into a corner.

“I don't fucking like you, Tommy,” Zach growled in his ear, his grip tightening on Thomas' neck. He no longer cared about controlling his tears; they streamed down his cheek as he began crying. “Always smiling, always laughing. Well guess what? I'm about to take your smile.”

Thomas heard Zach unzip his pants with his free hand and began screaming. He screamed until he felt as though his throat would shatter. Zach leaned closer, his breath loud in Thomas' ear. Thomas heard Zach's pants drop to the floor. He screamed louder as Zach leaned into Thomas' back and--

He woke up, covered in sweat, a shriek for help dying on his lips as he sat upright in his bed.

“Thomas, my prince, what is the matter?”

The boy looked up to see Gorma, the winged gnome who had been Thomas' nanny/constant companion since he was born. He looked around, no longer in a small, dark office, but in his open, light-filled bedroom, one of nearly a hundred rooms in the Land of Kizdom's Royal Palace. Seeing Gorma's face, lined with worry as it was, began the calming process for Thomas.

“I'm OK, Gorma. It was just a bad dream.”

“The same one? Where you are imprisoned in that bad place?”

Thomas nodded.

Gorma shook her head. “I don't know why you have such terrible dreams, my prince. You always go to sleep so happy and full of laughter.”