Homecoming

Previously published in Equinox Magazine

            You sit alone staring into the night sky. It’s a ritual now. Something you have to do every night. Waiting for the spaceship to come back and take you away. Like you were promised so many years ago. You wait until you hear the world coming to and then you pack up your lawn chair and a thermos of coffee and the remnants of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

            You yawn and rub your eyes.

            You check your watch. There’s not much time left before work. Maybe enough time for a nap. Or shower. Not both.

            Nap.

            Sleep is as elusive as the spaceship you watch for, but you’re used to it.

            You’re up immediately when the alarm goes off. You usually lay there, stuck in some state somewhere between asleep and awake until the last minute. You’ve got to see Dr. Santos today and you don’t want her to know you’ve been up all night again.

            You pull your hood up. Wild hair sticks out, ready to face the world.

            “Jonathon,” the receptionist says. “Dr. Santos will see you now.”

            You tell her thanks quietly and politely and get up and walk down the hall that leads to Dr. Santos’ office.

            She says hello as you enter. You return the courtesy.

            “How are you doing?” She always jumps right in. Something you have grown to appreciate.

            “I’m actually doing well.”

            “Are you doing okay without your medication? I’m still not convinced that was the best route.”

            “I’m doing fine.”

            “Are you doing your cognitive therapy workbook?” 

            “Yes,” you lie. Flipping through the pages every now and then and half-assing a couple of exercises count as “doing the workbook,” right?

            “And the exercises are helping?”

            You shrug. “They're not hurting.”

            She watches you for a moment. Looking for a tell.

            “Have you been sleeping?” Always her second question.

            “No, not really.”

            “Are you staying up all night watching for spaceships?”

            “No.” Defensively. Did you slip up and clue her in? Did she catch a tell? “Work has been a bit stressful, it’s been keeping me up a little late.” You wait silently as she looks you over, you are still unsure if she is not you or not. “I put in for that promotion like we talked about.” You mime throwing a hat.

            “That’s good, Jonathon.” She seems genuinely excited for you.

            “Yeah, I’m hoping I get it, but you know. If I don’t it’s not the end of the world.” The spaceship is coming to get me anytime now, anyway so what does it matter, you think.

            “You have to put yourself out there.”

            You nod. “I got invited to go bowling with some folks from work.”

            You see a visible change in the doctor’s face. “Are you going?”

            You don’t answer right away.

            “You should go.” She says.

            “I don’t know,” you say. “I don’t know those guys really well.”

            “Well then go. Get to know them.”

            You nod slightly. It would interfere with your other plans.

            You’ve watched the skies for a long time now. Since you were 12. When you first met him. The one who promised to come back for you. To take you away. To a place where you belong.

            No one, your parents, teachers, friends, believed you when you told them an alien had come to visit you. He said you won’t understand why they have chosen you, you can’t understand it now, but when he comes back for you, the purpose will become clear and it will all make sense.

            They tried to silence you, the ones who didn’t understand. Your parents. Teachers. Friends. Tell you not to talk about the secret knowledge that you’ve gained from your communications with higher beings.

            Your parents put you on medication shortly after you met the being from the Pleiades stars. The medication blocked the Pleiadeans from being able to contact you. The alien hasn’t contacted you in years.

            But you remembered the promise they made. To pick you up and take you away from here. Away from war. Hate. Bigotry. Simple mindedness.

            You enter and bowling alley and begin to look around. “Jonathon.” Todd says and waves you over.

            You look around the bowling alley and feel like you’ve immediately made a mistake. Anxiety begins to build. Your feet feel heavy, it’s those damn ridiculous shoes they make you wear. Your pace feels sluggish and it feels like you’re lifting your feet too high when you’re walking.

            “Let me introduce you real quick.”

            You’re introduced to Megan and Thomas.

            You check your watch.

            “I can’t stay long,” you say. “I got somewhere I gotta be.”

            “Nonsense,” Thomas says. “Let me get you a beer.”

            You remember what the Pleiadeans said about drinking alcohol, that it interferes with their ability to contact you. 

            “No thanks. I don’t drink.”

            You are forced to make small talk, but you avert you’re eyes and speak in low mumbles. Your skin feels like it’s crawling away. You try to force a smile, but it feels unnatural, so you stop. You can fill your breath shudder. The anxiety hits your diaphragm. You ball a fist quickly. You shake your hands quickly to unclench them.

            You throw the ball down the lane when your turn comes up. You pay no real attention to the outcome. You guess that is was okay based on the group’s reaction.

            It seems like forever for the ball to return.

            You throw the ball again, this time failing to knock over any pins.

            Thomas gives you high-five and then wraps his arm around you. A smile, this time natural slowly creeps and you nod.

            “Great throw.” Thomas says.

            “Thanks.” The words don’t feel forced this time. It’s almost like they came out all on their own and you let your guard down a little.

            “I think maybe I will have a beer.” You say after you’ve sat at the small, uncomfortable bench.

            “Right on. What do you want to drink?” Todd asks.

            “I don’t know. I’ve never had a beer before.”

            “Alright.” Todd says and curls his bottom lip. “Probably just start you off with like a Bud Light or something.”

            “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll be right back.” You excuse yourself and slink away to buy a beer.

            “Just in time.” Todd says when you return and points to the electronic board above the ball return showing your name.

            You sip the beer and mess up your face. You scrape your tongue across your teeth. You don’t like the beer and set the bottle down, content to let it sit on the table for the rest of the night.

            You step up and throw the ball. Watching as it rolls down the aisle.

            What if they come for you right now?

             You shake the feeling away and throw another ball, this time not waiting for the ball return to send yours back.

            They don’t know where to find you. They’re looking for you and they don’t know where to find you.

            “Hey, that was my ball.” Megan says.

            “I’m sorry.” Eyes down and speaking softly.

            You excuse yourself and rush to the restroom. You splash water on your face and hyperventilate.

            “What are you doing here? You don’t belong here.”

            The words are disembodied. They don’t sound like your voice. Your vision tightens. The edges blur and all you can think about, all you can focus on is what the Pleiadean told you all those years again.

            “We’ll come back for you and then you’ll understand.”

Todd walks toward the bathroom as you exit.

“Are you okay, man?” He asks.

You don’t answer, you just try to go around him, but he steps and blocks your path. You shove him hard enough that he ends up on the floor.

“Get the fuck out of the way.” Spittle flecks spray as you retch the words in livid gasps, menacing and full stinging venom. 

You don’t see Megan or Thomas. You just leave. They wouldn’t understand the importance anyway.

            You sit in your car for a moment, collecting yourself. You breathe out hasty short bursts, trying to expel the anxiety. A trick Dr. Santos told you. You reach over and grab the workbook sitting in the passenger seat. You had the forethought to bring it with you.

            You dig through the pages until you find something familiar.

            The book tells you to cover one nostril with your thumb and breath in slowly through the other, holding each breath for about a second and then exhaling, alternating which nostril gets the thumb. 

            At first, the breaths are rapid and shallow. You are unable to hold them in for a second. You breathe in and release it with explosive force. 

            Soon, you find your breathing has returned to something close to normal. You still feel jumpy, and your heart rate is still fast, but at least the breathing is better. That’s a start.

            You drive home. You have to pull your foot off the gas pedal. It wants to press down, press the pedal all the way to floor. Blow past lights and stop signs and any other hindrance that might be out on the road tonight.

            When you get home, you start the coffee. You make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and cut it in half. You pour the coffee into your thermos, grab your camping chair, and head to the roof.

            You sit down and finally can relax. You feel the tension slowly leaving your body. A long sigh escapes and you close your eyes and gently breathe deep into your belly.

            You look up and watch the skies. Waiting for the spaceship to come back and take you away. 

First Chapter of a Thing I'm Working on

First things first, I don't have a title for this yet. Secondly, any feedback is appreciated. This is the first chapter of a new thing I am working on and I want to get a response to it. Thanks

Dustin

Chapter 1

            Valencia Martini rushed to the small station at the bank to sign his paycheck, in his haste, he pushed past an elderly woman almost knocking her to the ground. He turned and sneered, he was, after all, a villain—at least he wanted to be one. Working your way up to full-time villainy was a long process and Valencia didn’t exactly have the work ethic. Plus, gigs had dried up, making it harder to put in the hours.

            He signed the check, the first one he’d gotten in nearly six weeks. Henchmaning wasn’t paying the bills so he had turned to professional hostaging to bridge that pay gap, which wasn’t panning out for Valencia either.

            Ever since the emergence of superheroes and megavillains, the downside had always been collateral damage. Particularly that of the human population. Civilian casualties had been the downfall of The Slovakian, who had been a hell of a megavillain but was executed via planet ejection after his actions indirectly caused the death of roughly 14 million people.

            The megavillains were then forced to call a time-out and meet with many of the current superheroes in order to hash out an agreement on how to proceed.

            “You could just turn a new leaf,” said The Honorable Chief Justice. Chief Justice was the newest superhero to join the Super League, donning long black robes and for some inexplicable reason, a barrister’s wig.

            “I’ve got knives from the elbow down,” said Knives Akimbo, motioning toward his knives from the elbow down. “Anybody who hires me deserves to get robbed blind.”

            “Because,” Bat Ma’am chimed in, “if these idiots aren’t out doing megavillainy, how do we get to do superhero stuff.”

            The room was quiet.

            An agreement was arranged, a set of leagues, guild really—basically unions—would be set up. One for superheroes, which would issue patrolling licenses, gadgets, or sidekicks, everything your average superhero would need and one for megavillains that roughly did the same thing.

            Anytime a major act of megavillainy should be committed, then permits should be issued through the Hall of Megavillainy and Mild Annoyances, shortened by most to HMMA, or simply the home. The HMMA would review the megavillain’s plans and then suggest changes and ensure that it fell within all the necessary guidelines to keep the megavillain from being launched into outer space like what had happened with The Slovakian, who was seriously, a hell of a megavillain.

            After all the paperwork had been filed, the HMMA would make an assessment of what the megavillain would need to pull the job off and issue any permits, persons, and equipment.

            Once the approvals from the HMMA’s upper echelon, retired megavillains, and gangsters, had been completed, the megavillain who made the request was called into the home offices to go over any changes. If all parties were in agreement, equipment would be signed out to the megavillain along with however many bad guys the HMMA determined the job would need. Bad guys came in three tiers: thugs, goons, and henchmen. Thugs were the typical low-level street enforcer who typical would run away when or if superheroes showed. If they didn’t run away, they were dispatched quickly. Goons stuck around and fought it out even though they had little chance of actually beating the superheroes. Henchmen were where the money was. To be a henchman, one had to pose a serious threat to a superhero. The money was good, but the benefits were really what made it a primo gig.

            And Valencia wanted that henchmen gig. He had a sore tooth that had been bothering him for some time and was really ready to get it taken care of. He had a good spot on the crew of Incognito, the megavillain whose camouflage ability had been impeccable, but kept putting off a visit to the dentist and when the gig ended, he started kicking himself immediately.

            But here Valencia was, standing in line in the downtown First Bank of Whatever to put a meager $318.22 into his meager bank account from a professional hostage job he had the week before.

            Hostage had become a quick and easy way to get league points. If a megavillain planned a robbery that would require hostages and the paperwork was submitted and approved, then the HMMA would notify the banks or what have you in advance and supply hostages. The profession hostages would receive a small portion of the take, or $500 whichever was greater. But after HMMA’s cut and dues, state and federal taxes, Social Security, and pension, all that was left was $318.22.

            Valencia stepped to the teller. He was wearing his HMMA uniform which instantly made the teller nervous.

            “It’s okay,” Valencia said in a high voice that made him sound like the villain from some 80s action kid’s cartoon. “I’m just here to deposit…my check.”

            Valencia’s voice had been something he cultivated in his early days of villainy, but now it was proving to be more of a hassle than anything. Especially during his personal times when he was doing everyday things like grocery shopping. Anything he asked for it also sounded slightly murderous. “Came you tell me where I can find the Boric acid,” he said and the clerk’s alarm bells would suddenly go wild, “I’ve got…a bit of moth problem.” The dramatic pauses didn’t help either, but Valencia came from the method school of villainy.

            The clerk took Valencia’s check and deposit slip and punched a few keys on a computer. She said nothing, but Valencia could feel her silently mocking the number in his bank account. He forced a smile.

            “I know. Hard times…so to say.” He looked upward theatrically before returning his eyes to her. The teller looked at the ceiling to see what Valencia had been looking at, sighed loudly, and then returned to clickity-clacking the keyboard.

            “Want a receipt?” She asked dryly.

            “Please.” He answered.

            If Valencia had been paying a little more attention, if he hadn’t been so focused on putting that $318.22 in his bank account, and if he hadn’t been distracted by trying to find the right megavillain name for his ultimate ascension, he might have noticed the four men that were casing the building.

            The introduction of the guilds had certainly done a number on crime. There simply wasn’t as much of it. The punishments for committing a crime without HMMA approval was harsh and not really worth the trouble.

            To most people anyway.

            There will always be a subset of the population who are either too smart or too dumb to make it. The four gunmen casing the joint were too dumb.

            “Everybody on the ground. NOW!”

            Valencia turned to see the gunmen.

            “I didn’t see a sign posted,” he said and then turned to the teller, “are you…scheduled for a robbery today?”

            The teller dropped to the ground.

            “Guess not,” Valencia said.

            “I said get on the ground.” One of the gunmen said, not the gunmen who had actually made the announcement inviting everyone to get on the ground, Valencia noted.

            “Okay, okay,” Valencia said as he was getting poked in the back with the muzzle of an assault rifle, which had been banned in armed robbery per HMMA bylaws that came about after the Armed Conflict Agreements between both guild houses. Stun weapons were the only official HMMA weapon that could be used. Funnily enough, the agreement didn’t bar the use of laser or alien weaponry which were seeing an uptick in availability.

            “I’d like to see your permits,” Valencia said as he tried to find a sitting position on the ground that wasn’t hard on his bony butt.

            “Permits,” laughed the gunman who had lied about telling everyone to get on the ground. “We don’t need no permits.”

            This is going to get ugly Valencia thought and begin a mental list of superheroes he thought might try and break up the party. Bat Ma’am primarily only came out at night, which was a good thing. Bat Ma’am intimidated Valencia to no end. She was definitely the toughest of the superheroes, in his opinion.

            The fact that the robbery was on land highly ruled out Aqua Marine, but you never could tell when that dude was going to show up anyway. He half-hated Landers, as he called them, but also frequently showed up at their aid and when would talk about how it was such a predicament that he was in, always having to save the Lander’s ass and whatnot despite their treatment of oceans and his kind. Valencia thought he was kind of a douchebag, especially since Cityton was landlocked.

            The Honorable Chief Justice was the likely candidate. Showing up in his judge’s robe and barrister’s wig and swinging that giant gavel of his. Kicking in the door of the bank at any moment and offering up one of those dumb sayings of his: “Get ready to be spanked by the Hands of Justice.” Something along those lines. Valencia thought that The Honor Chief Justice was a bit of a loose cannon since he was fairly new to the world of superheroes and megavillainy, he was always trying to prove himself.

            Valencia thought there was a chance that Rubbermaid or whatever she was going by now, could show up, but since she had lost her lawsuit to Rubbermaid for copyright infringement, little had been seen of her. The problem when becoming a superhero or megavillain is that by the time that people started actually turning superhuman, all of the good names had been taken by comic books, tv shows and movies so there was little for a new superhero to choose from. The Slovakian had played it safe, he just went by the region of the world he was from—The Slovakian wasn’t actually  Slovakian. He was really from Plainsbury, Ohio and his given name was Peter Sites.

            Valencia was thinking that maybe things would work out so he wouldn’t spend most of his day at the bank. Maybe the robbers would be able to get in and out before any real response could be made. And maybe, he could get home, heat up a frozen burrito, and study for the villainy test needed to promotion from thug to goon. That was the thought in his head when the first police car pulled to a halt in front of the bank.

            Valencia cursed out loud.

            It didn’t take long for the police to surround the building. It took less time for them to cut the power to the building.

            The air in the bank was growing stale and stuffy. The HMMA uniform that Valencia was wearing wasn’t exactly clean. The fabric, mostly wool, clinched to the smells coming from the clothes like Lois Lane hanging on to Superman during a flyby through Metropolis.

            The four gunmen were arguing among themselves when the teller, who had been repositioned next to Valencia, raised her hand. She cleared her throat when the hand raising didn’t get their attention.

            “Bathroom?” One of the gunmen barked.

            “No. Can I move?” She said. Confusion washed over the gunmen. The teller nodded toward Valencia and then waved her hand quickly in front of her nose.

            “Hey,” Valencia said, then lifted the collar of his shirt and took a whiff. He tried not to shudder from the smell but his face betrayed him.

            “See.” She said.

            Valencia sat—knees up with his head between his legs, looking as pathetic as he felt, alone on one side of the bank lobby, while the rest of the hostages sat on the other side. He was sure he had hit rock bottom if it wasn’t rock bottom, he didn’t want to know how much worse it could get.

            Several hours had passed and all Valencia could think about was the $318.22 he wouldn’t be making from this hostage situation. He would have to see the HMMA tomorrow and make an appeal for lost wages.

            “When do you think we’ll be rescued?” One of the hostages asked.

            “Any minute now.” Another answered. “They’re probably on the way.”

            The conversation turned to times the hostages had seen some of the various superheroes around Cityton doing various charitable acts that were required for Super League membership.

            Valencia thought about telling the hostages that this was a non-sanctioned robbery and the wheels of superhero bureaucracy moved slowly under normal circumstances and there was no telling what kind of paperwork went into assigning a superhero to a non-sanctioned robbery. Even a superhero that was on patrol would have to call in and get clearance for something this big. He should have told them too, if for nothing more than to make them feel worse than they already did—just to get that extra little bit of villainy—but instead, he stared at the floor.

            Something hit Valencia on the head. It landed on the ground next to him and rolled around. Valencia watched the small object for a second and then realized what it was. A screw. He looked up.

            There was a vent directly above him and then he realized there was a person in the vent. He cocked his head from side to side. The vent was slowly pulled away. Valencia knew what was coming next. He scooted away. He didn’t want to be in the path of anything, or anyone that fell from it.

            In an instant, there was a body standing, dressed in black and armed to the teeth.

            “Guilty.” The figure growled in a low, gravely voice that barely registered above a mumble and took aim. “Sentenced to death.”

            He shot a grenade at the gunmen who Valencia had decreed a liar, who then splattered into the wall behind the teller station.

            There was a volley of gunfire and the remainder of the hostage takers was strewn about, emptied of most of their internal organs and bodily fluid.

            Valencia looked up to the rescuer and recognized Judge, Jury, and Executioner.

            “Judge,” Valencia said and nodded.

            “Valencia.” He pointed at the bodies on the ground. “You apart of this?” Valencia shook his head. “Good to see you then.” With that, Judge, Jury, and Executioner was gone.

            Judge, Jury, and Executioner was the only superhero who wasn’t a member of the Super League, which paradoxically made him a criminal. It was the very thing he despised the most, but the dramatic irony was lost on Judge, Jury, and Executioner.

            Normally, the sight of Judge, Jury, and Executioner would have caused Valencia to shit his pants, him not abiding by guild rules and all and having no qualms about shooting the organs out of any advisory with the stupidity to poke his head around the corner when Judge, Jury, and Executioner was just around it, but today was a welcome change.

            Valencia spent the rest of the evening talking to the police, which is never a fun activity to do when you are in am HMMA uniform and sound like fucking Star Scream.

            Feeling pathetic and defeated, Valencia walked toward his small efficiency apartment—only marginally bigger than the average prison cell. Thinking that the night couldn’t get any worse, Valencia opened his apartment door, hoping to heat up a frozen burrito in the microwave only to discover that the electricity to his apartment had been turned off.

            “Damn the torpedo!” He said dramatically, a thing he said often hoping to set him apart, but usually resulted in mockery. 

Feigning Private Ryan

            Ryan heard the unmistaken pop of gunfire in the distance. The shots weren’t directed at his platoon. Not yet anyway. Private Ryan wondered how long until the shots started zipping over his head. It didn’t matter, he thought, he had his plan. The one he always had, the one that always worked.

            He was 8 months into the war and bravery wasn’t the reason he had made it through Tunisia; bravery wasn’t going to be the reason he was going to now make it through Sicily.

            Private Terrance Ryan didn’t even want to join the Army, he had no interest in joining at all. He did join though, after a night of drinking just a little too much, to impress a girl. That was Private Ryan in a nutshell, thinking with his cock but he realized early the best way to make it through a war. When the gunshots started, he simply waited until it was the most chaotic, then found a nice quiet spot to play dead.

            A few bullets zinged feet above his head, he heard them slam into trees. It was soon going to be time. Once the bullets really started flying he would hunker down and ride it out.

            Ryan suspected that some of the other guys in his platoon were onto him but he didn’t care. He figured he would be going home soon. He didn’t want any medals and didn’t expect to rise any further in rank. Nope, he just wanted to go home.

            “Get ready boys!” Sergeant McMann yelled from his fox hole.

            Private Ryan was ready.

            The landscape erupted with muzzle flashes and the thunderous cracks from the gunpowder exploding, expelling deadly projectiles towards the platoon.

            Ryan fired three shots from his Garand, he always fired three shots. He didn’t know why he had chosen three but it seemed like a good number. After his three shots, he casually dropped his rifle then dropped to the ground, closed eyes and slyly smirked.

            Ryan laid there for a minute before he realized something was off. He opened one eye and saw the Private who shared his foxhole with him, Private Bartelli was down on the ground.

            “What the hell are you doing?” Ryan asked.

            “Same as you. Going home.” Bartelli answered.

            Private Ryan had a horrible realization; no one in his platoon was firing back. Not a single one. Not even Sergeant McMann.

            “Shoot them,” Ryan said to Bartelli.

            “Fuck you. You shoot them.”

            “Fuck you. This is my gig.”

            “Mine now.”

            Ryan peaked out of the foxhole. A group of Italian soldiers were out in the open, headed toward the platoon.

            “Get up and shoot them.”

            “No,” Bartelli said.

            “They’re coming.”

            “I don’t care.”

            “Damnit,” Ryan whispered but wanted to yell. He didn’t have a choice. Ryan looked down at his weapon lying at his feet.

            “Really!” He yelled. “No one is doing anything?”

            Silence.

           

Ryan had no choice. He picked up the rifle and engaged the group of soldiers that were advancing on their position. He killed eight of them. Wounded at least two more. The allies won a major victory in what was later known as the Ploy of Italy.

            Private Ryan received no credit for his part.

            

Not Cancer: A Short Short Story

            “It’s not cancer,” the doctor said. I thought this would make me feel better, but it didn’t. It made me feel worse.

            “If it’s not cancer, what is it?” I asked.

            She didn't answer. 

Post Modern Inconveniences: A Short Story

            Most of us got used to the zombies but I never did. They stink. That’s the main thing. They stink. Bad. Nothing sucks more than coming across a large group of them. I nearly lose my lunch every time.

            Most of them had been rounded up, but there were new zombies made every day. I was sure of it. We had figured out it was a disease that was spread through their bite. We had vaccines now, but no cures.

            If the Zombie War wasn’t bad enough, the Anti-Vaxxers lost their mind when the CDC announced they had a vaccine and it got even worse when the government made the Zombie Vaccine mandatory.

            There are still bands of unvaccinated humans who die and come back from the dead and now here I am between my car and zombie slowly shackling toward me. His eyes as dull as marbles and his walk as slow as the meeting I just got out of.

            I dug around in my purse for something I could use to shoo the creature away. It was a recent death, I could tell from the way it didn’t smell like an outhouse rotting away in the sun on the last day of Burning Man.

            “Come on,” I said. I had pepper spray, but I didn’t want to spray it in the parking garage. It would be likely to do more damage to me than the zombie.

            We were supposed to report them when we saw them. Call it in like it was a stray dog running around.

            I unlocked my car with the fab and walked around the front of my car, squeezing between the bumper and the wall of the parking garage. The zombie mostly followed me with his eyes as I moved, though he did lose me momentarily. Once my car was between us I opened the passenger door and crawled through to the driver’s seat, my ass high in the air.

            “This is undignified.” I thought as I imagined I was flashing my panties to anyone behind me as I crawled.

            Once I sat and straightened up my clothes, I leaned across and slammed the door.

            The zombie walked up to the cry and began grasping at me. He paid no mind to the barrier between us. He was undeterred by the window.

            “Stupid fucking zombie,” I said and then opened the car door, knocking him to the ground.         

            I exhaled deeply as I shut the door.

            “The day can only go up from here,” I said. 

The Choosing One: A Short Story

            Abernathy Fairly descended the staircase indicating the ceremony had officially begun. He took his place at the head of the table and turned to Percival.

            “Have you selected The Chosen One?” Abernathy asked in his most formal majestic tone of voice.

            “I have, Lord Fairly.”

            Abernathy Fairly had been The Great Wizard of The Order of the White Lion for just over 150 years now. He formally accepted the position in 1862, becoming the youngest wizard to mastermind The Order in its long ordained history. He was of near-mythical legend among the younger members and garnered the utmost respect from the older members, personally overseeing and playing a pivotal role in stopping the Dragon uprising in 1894, an alien invasion in 1924 and the rising of Cthulhu in 1948 and once again in 1994.

            Now The Order was meeting once again; to select a new Chose One, who would be trained and guided by The Order to repeal the biggest threat as of yet. An interdimensional attack from lizard people, who since 2004 had been moving into positions of power in various governments across the globe in an attempt to rid humans as the dominant species on Planet Earth.

            “Who have you chosen?” Lord Fairly asked Percival, who had been given the highest honor in The Order of the White Lion, aside from being asked the lead The Order. Percival was asked to select the next Chosen One. The man, or woman who would lead the human race to victory in the secret war currently being waged against them.

            “Myself,” Percival said defiantly, then stood up a little straighter than he had been. He was The Chosen One now and excellent posture gave an air of confidence and confidence was going to be crucially important.

            “What? You can’t do that.” Lord Fairly said, his pompous tone replaced with a high pitched nasally whine.

            “Why not?” Percival asked.

            “Well. Because you were given a perfectly fine pool of candidates to choose from.” Abernathy crossed his arms. “Besides, it’s against the rules.”

            “Not according to the bylaws.” Percival pulled out a pocket-sized copy of the bylaws that Abernathy had printed two years ago; he regretted that decision now. “The bylaws clearly state that if I don’t find any of the candidates suitable I have authority to choose ANYONE I like. I choose myself.”

            “What’s wrong with the candidates?”

            “Well, they’re all babies for one.”

            “They have to be babies. We have to have time to train them.”

            “Bylaws don’t say that.” Percival crossed his arms showing Abernathy he wouldn’t back down. “I am sticking with my original choice. Myself.”

            Abernathy Fairly was fairly nonplussed; in his 200 plus years with The Order, nothing like this had ever happened.

            “You can’t choose yourself,” Abernathy said after he messed up his face. “Make another selection.”

            “Fine.” Percival snorted slowly. “I choose Keanu Reeves.”

            “What?” Abernathy belted in shock, he stood and slammed his hands on the table in a fit of rage. “No. You can’t choose yourself. You can’t choose Keanu Reeves. I suggest that you start to take this a little more seriously Percival.”

            Abernathy ran his hands down his robe, easing out a crease, then sat down once he had regained his composure. He waved his hand motioning for Percival to continue.

            “I choose John Cena.”

            Abernathy slammed his fist on the table once again then pointed a finger at Percival. Percival smirked undeterred by the look Abernathy was giving him; the one that could kill a mere mortal man.

            “Sir.” A quiet voice spoke behind Abernathy. He turned to see Farnum, often called Farnum the Fool whose entry into The Order of the White Lion still remained its biggest mystery.

            “What is it, Farnum?” Abernathy spoke through his teeth, unable to hind is frustrations.

            “I second John Cena sir.”

The Candy Man: A Short Short Story

            He reached his hand to the bottom of the giant bag of Nerds, Gobstoppers, Butterfingers, and Crunch bars and wondered how it had been depleted so quickly. The bag proudly boasted that it contained over 350 pieces of candy.  He immediately realized he was asking questions he did not want the answer to.

            Who am I? Some old sage, he thought.

            He dug at the bottom of the bag, hoping for a Butterfinger, but he knew that he would not find his El Dorado. His city of gold had vanished days ago.

            He settled on a box of strawberry-flavored Nerds and two small packages of Gobstoppers when his fingers brushed an unknown object.

            Unknown, but the texture was familiar. He could feel smooth ridges and knew that he felt the crispety, crunchety, peanut buttery texture of a Butterfinger.

            He pulled the unwrapped bitesize chocolate bar out of the bag and quickly examined it. It was small, even for a bitesize candy and slightly deformed. But still looked delicious.

            No one’s going to know if you eat that chocolate bar, a voice spoke at the back of his mind, and why shouldn’t you. You work hard so why shouldn’t you get to have this candy.

            “I’d know,” he said.

            But it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done something like this, the voice replied.

            He shrugged in admittance.

            Remember that time you dropped that meatball? The voice reminded.

            “That was different.”

            It wasn’t all that different, the voice said.

            “It was different,” he said. “It was the last meatball.”

            I remember it having a dog hair on it, the voice said.

            “Yeah, no need to remind me,” he said, shame hanging in his voice. “I remember that.”

            He stood for a moment. Dropped the piece back the bottom of the bag and walked away. 

Hapless Romantic: A Short Story

            The shooting star danced across the sky, leaving a trail of wonder for just a second before disappearing.

            “I wish I was what Stephanie considered perfect,” Mark said as the shooting star vanished. He leaned against the tree he was having his pity party on and closed his eyes. Feeling sorry for himself was his forte, especially when it came to girls. He was a helpless romantic but worse than that he was a hapless romantic.

            He waited for another shooting star to gleam across the night but he lived in the city; he was lucky to have seen the one he just saw. He wondered what happened to the star when it fell out of his view. Did it vanish from existence? Or could he just no longer see it? Mark decided he was going to start paying more attention in science from here on out.

            Mark got to his feet and dusted off his butt with his hands. He was hoping to get an extra day out of the jeans he was wearing. He thought they showed off his ass and maybe Stephanie would notice but it was a pipe dream and he knew it was a pipe dream. Stephanie would never notice him. Maybe last year she would have but she grew up, got popular. He had friends but didn’t fit in the popular kids. He didn’t play football or any other sports. Other sports didn’t matter though, not in Topper, the only one that mattered was football. People in Topper would kill over high school ball. He had a poem published in a collection but that didn’t score points with the high school crowd unless they were looking for something to bully you about.

            He came in and brushed his teeth and did all the things he did before bed. Some don’t need to get mentioned here. He was thinking about the shooting star and the wish he made when he saw it glinting.

            “Jiminy Cricket’s a fucking liar.” He said then rolled over on his side and shut his eyes.

            He woke up a girl the next day. It had nothing to do with the wish he made, more to do with the city he made it in. Topper, Texas is a weird place where weird shit happens so often that weird shit becomes normal shit.

            He didn’t notice it right away. Not until he went to pee and ended up with a bit of a mess and a lot of explaining to do.

            He/She looked at his/her body. He/She was smoking hot. He/She examined his breast and got a phantom boner. Mark spun, whipping his/her long brunette hair as he did.

            “What the hell?” Mark stared at himself in the mirror trying to understand what was happening.

            “Mom!” He/She yelled as he marched out of the bathroom.

            His/Her mother was understanding of the situation. She picked up on it right away after Mark told her the story.

            “Mark, honey. Stephanie must be gay.”