Dec 20th
There's nothing quite like spending the holiday season in a non-crucial Foundation site. Were I still working at 17 I doubt I'd even notice, but you can't really miss it here in 346. All non-essential personnel are away, doing… whatever people do when they're not here, I suppose. Is it sad that I don't even really remember what that's like anymore? Just doing nothing, staying at home, seeing family. It's been a while. God, it's been a while.
I'm not the only one staying here, of course. Security staff always stay in full capacity, and a few researchers always have to stick around in case a new Sub-Area appears. I wonder how many of us volunteered for the holiday shift. I wonder if I'm the only one.
Dec 21st
Been hanging around Sub-Area 13 today. I'm not exactly sure what drew me to that particular wing, but it certainly was a… unique experience. All of those beady plastic eyes, just staring at you from their shelves, and the sensations within them…brr. Colorful teddy bears with memories of the first World War. Fuzzy pink fur and blood soaked mud, cheerful little smiles and the stench of gangrened flesh. Squicking and screaming. Sometimes I can almost believe 921 is trying to tell us something. Then I listen to 921-2, and remember the entire thing is just a monument to pointless cryptic nonsense. Twirling ash and candied strips, all but glimmers in a bullfrog's eye. If that isn't just this place trying to fuck with me, I'm a monkey's uncle.
I also saw something else while I was here. Stevenson and Nakamura, hiding between the shelves. Groping. Heh, I suppose that's why they didn't seem to mind staying here for the season. Good for them, really. At least someone around here is having fun.
I wonder if I should call home. I wonder if anyone will be there to answer.
Dec 22nd
Head Researcher Sanders says we had a new Sub-Area appearing last night, somewhere around 24's natural thermal springs. No name from 921-2 yet, but I'm sure Ol' Dismembered Voice will come up with something suitably ominous-sounding. Sanders assigned Nakamura to do preliminary examination, but I said I'd do it instead. Honestly, I can think of worse ways of spending a day than exploring a new wing, and Nakamura, well, I'm sure she has plans. I don't. So, looks like tomorrow morning is spelunking time for kindly Dr. Levine. Sub-Area 24 is all pastoral nature scenes, and given how 921 usually works I assume this new place is going to be at least somewhat similar. Maybe I'll get lucky and it'll have something to do with the sea. Haven't been to the ocean in years now. Would be nice to see it again. I'll be bringing my recording equipment with me, of course, so expect some nifty pictures!
Who the hell am I talking to?
Dec 23rd
Ye God, this place is enormous. I saw how the others looked at me when they saw me packing my supplies, but I wasn't going to repeat that incident in the Chequered Tunnel. Nearly starving once is one time too many. Turns out I was right anyway, since this Sub-Area must be the largest we've found yet, so much so that it feels weird calling it a Sub-Area at all. You could fit a small town into this chamber, and that's only the parts I can see. I think there might even be daylight ahead. That would be a first.
It's an odd place, even by SCP-921 standards. Walls are covered with this sort of- I dunno, liquid crystal, I suppose? Almost looks like moving ice. Swirling in elaborate patterns, sinking and rising with a kind of rhythm, like a vertical shining tide. Naturally I'm not going to touch it until I know exactly what it is, but I find watching it soothing. You can really get away from yourself, watching those patterns flow. You can almost forget where you are.
The memories here are stored in these little alcoves in the walls, where the crystal doesn't touch, and they aren't at all what I expected them to be. Unless I'm missing something and memories from plague-times and pastoral nature scenes are suddenly thematically linked, there's no connection between this place and Sub-Area 24 even though the two are adjacent. Making it this day's second possible first, I guess. Heh. Whole thing makes me curious to see what else I can find in here. I suppose I could go back to the dormitories, but that's a few hours walk and I'll have to waste half of tomorrow just getting back here. No, I think I'll stay here for the night, nice and cozy in my sleeping bag. Not like anyone's going to miss me. Doubt they'll even notice, really.
Dec 24th
It was daylight. God.
I've been with the Foundation for the last twenty-seven years. I've worked on seven SCP items. I've seen and heard things I doubt most people would even buy in a science fiction novel. And through all of that, I can't remember feeling such a sense of true wonder as when I saw the forest.
There really shouldn't be anything here to make me feel that way. Not after… not after everything. Just a small wooded valley, and a road covered in snow, and some mailboxes poking out every once in a while like they've been planted there by some giant squirrel. This should be nothing to me, this is nothing to me.
None of this makes any sense. Nothing about SCP-921 ever indicated there could be something like this in it. Sure, we found some large rooms before, but this- if this is a room, 921 is making a damn good job of disguising it. By all accounts I should go back right now, report this to my supervisor and get some actual experts to deal with this. I flunked the tests for the Paraworld Analysis Department, I was literally found unsuitable to go any further by some of the brightest minds in the world. But I'm… I'm not going to. Because this place, it does mean something to me.
I feel like I'm home again.
And that doesn't make any sense either. This isn't me! I've never lived anywhere even resembling this. My current place sure as hell doesn't. Nothing in this forest should be in any way familiar to me. And nothing really is. And yet, here I am, standing knee deep in snow, fumbling through mailboxes full of artist's dreams, most likely going to freeze to death come nightfall. That is, if night is even a thing here. And the memories, they're far more vivid than anything 921's other wings have to offer. In the inner rooms you always felt like you were watching things through a screen, or touching them through thick gloves. Nothing like that here. No barriers. I can feel the brush in my hand. I can hear each creak in the harp as my fingers weave a pattern on its strings, lightening fast. I can feel the razor parting flesh, warm bath waters filling the wound. I'm there, and it flows through me. My blood is its blood.
December 24th today. You know what, fuck it. This is my Christmas present. For once, screw protocol, screw those Paraworld Dep asshats, and screw being myself! For once in my life, I'm going to see something through.
Dec 25th
I can't feel the cold. I've been walking most of the night through a snow-filled forest with not so much as a coat on, yet I feel nothing. Not tired either, and now that I think about it, I haven't eaten in more than a day. I just forgot. Why didn't I think about that? Why do my thoughts… seem so orderly, growing into a, a narrative? For how long now? I can't seem to get the frame right. It wants me to, it's in its nature. Who's 'it'? Why doesn't SCP-921-2 say anything anymore?
No. Can't… can't think about that now. It's not time yet. Not there yet.
Huh. Nodded off there for a minute. Must be tired, shouldn't have walked all night like that. Still, I'd say it's been worth it. God, look at that view.
I reached the castle shortly after dawn, and it looks like it's the center of this… well, not sure if Sub-Area is even the right word to use anymore, but it's what I got. Anyway, it looks like for once the sensations here are what I expected them to be. In every stone there's a memory of conquest. It's odd how similar they are to those art memories I found in the forest earlier, now that I think about it. There's no restraint to be found anywhere around here, that's for sure. Each memory is so intense, so raw, and there's a whole building-worth of them. I'm surprised the thing can even stay in one place with such foundations. Like the pulse of a colossus, soon to awaken.
You'd expect I'd be intimidated by all of this power, but… I'm really not. When I was working in 17 I was always on edge. Everything out there, every SCP, even the Safe-level stuff, they all felt so alien to me. We couldn't understand what made them tick, we didn't ever really know how to stop them from doing whatever they wanted to do, we were never in control. This isn't the same. The power here… it's human. To its core. The liquid creativity I found in every mailbox, the sheer, burning ambition housed in every stone, it's all us. In a way, it's really quite encouraging. Because now I know that whatever the universe can throw at us, we can throw back harder. It's not us that should be scared. Why did I ever think it was right for us to hide under our rocks, to pretend none of this is real? We can do better. We can do so much better.
There's something calling me. It was calling me ever since I first entered this Sub-Area, but I only just got close enough to really tell, I think. Something in the very rocks of this place. Tomorrow, I'll be going inside. Honestly, I can't wait.
Dec 26th…maybe? Am I counting the days now?
There is a new order in my mind. Thoughts become words, aligned in lines of occurrence, in pages of events, in volumes of a lifetime. Bits and pieces yet persevere in reckless chaos, but they are not long for this world. I shall not push them, for they will come in their own time, when they find what they seek. When they reach the end. Soon. Then… then, my tale could be told. At long last, my words will be heard.
I'm… what was I doing again? I don't know if it's just lack of sleep, or if I'm coming down with something, but it's getting really difficult to keep focused. It's like most of my brain is busy doing other things, and I'm forced to deal with what's left. There are no records of SCP-921 ever doing something like this to anyone, but then again no one ever came this far into it. It doesn't really matter anyway. Any desire I had of going back faded when I entered this place. Back there, I was Mike Levine. Failed husband, failed father, failed researcher. In here… I don't have to be myself. In every vista I view, in every step I walk, in every breath I take, I become someone else. I dive into another memory, another… yeah, I suppose I can call them that. Another secret. Something about these memories elude my understanding. It's as if whoever they belong to went into a great deal of trouble to keep their true meaning hidden from anyone but themselves. But you know what?
It doesn't matter. There's someone's world in each of them, and they are all so beautiful I am never more than a step away from crying like a little boy. And no two views are the same. The edges of a keyhole, as my eye spies on a pair of bodies writhing within. The distorted lens of my spyglass, as hands are shaken and lives exchange hands. The identity of the atom that would shatter worlds, trapped within the safety of my mind, until it is unleashed for all to see. Whispers and secrets, all of mankind's, all pass before me between blinks. Heh. Almost sounds poetic, if you don't think about it too hard.
There's not much further to go on. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the last of it.
A Time to Tell
Sarah. I think I finally understand now. I think I can finally see why…heh. It's a bit too late now, isn't it. I can feel myself sinking into the floor of this final chamber, but I'm not afraid anymore. There's not really a me to be afraid. There's nothing that most people fear more than losing their sense of self, but me? I embrace it. I know that as soon as my head drops beneath this floor, there won't be much left of me, not as I was before at least. That's okay. The only thing I regret is that you'll never get to see what I saw, never get to live as I did these last couple of days. Oh, and being as bitter as I was. I regret that too. I think I… I think I want to go now.
I think it's time to be someone else.
I do understand. Why this place doesn't act like the rest of SCP-921. Why 921-2 never speaks here. Why I now think the way I do. Why I wouldn't go back.
There are no walls here, beneath the end. Which is a bit funny, considering what he is. This whole place was built on his bones, but he has none left to shield him where he is weakest. I feel sorry for him, really.
The Spine of the World, he calls himself. The Curator of Memories, He Who Remembers. It's a bit sad. I don't think even he buys all of those grand titles. He says he called me here because he felt a need in me, some desire to become something other than myself. That may be true. I suspect, however, the need was truly his. He just wanted to tell his first—his last tale. He wanted someone to listen, someone who could pass it on. Someone who would remember. It's all he ever wanted. This place made me into the book he needed me to be, the very way I think into a tool with which to document. To document what he cannot.
They were four, when the knot was struck. Four torn by one man's arrogance, by a blade that was quick where the mind was not. Four, scattered to the wind by the sundering. Four, left to replace what was once their souls with bits and pieces of others, like ethereal parasites, each with a different preference. For years, for decades. For centuries. Four, who finally became something much more and much less than human. Four. He always repeats the number.
One fed off ambition. In him was conquest, the desire to rule, and the ashes they leave in their wake, sometimes. He is Pulse.
One fed off creativity. In her was art, the very spark of making, and the mire of madness that drowns them, sometimes. She is Blood.
One fed off secrets. In him… well, no one knows. Such is the nature of secrets. He is Breath.
One refused to feed. In him was everything, and nothing. He did not posses the brutality of the others, the will to take. All he ever wanted to do was to document. If he fed off anything at all, it was stories, sensations. Memories. He watched the others grow, and in his cave, he wept, for he knew they would ruin all that he sought to preserve in their hunger. And so, around him, he formed this place. A museum of memories. A time capsule, so that something may remain, so he could still tell his stories. And here, right near his heart, he built memorials for his brothers and sister. He is Spine.
He cannot speak here. There is a bit of irony in that. His heart belongs to the others still, and so he must be silent where their spirits linger. And so, he called me here. So that their stories could be told, so that they could have a voice. He knows that they ever prepare themselves to war with each other, each with their own aspect, though he little understands why. He never could.
But I can.
He wants me to tell you their tales, for he cannot. And this, I shall do. He has molded my mind into a form that would be suitable for such a task, and indeed, it is. But he was wrong about one thing. When the telling is done, when the Spine of the World finally breaks, I shall not stand aside as he has. There is a convergence coming, a gathering of the aspects. They mean to finally settle whatever score lies between them, and they will stop at nothing to do so. He expects me to stand aside, and document. To watch as the culmination of humanity's unthinking wrath bends the world around it. As the stories burn. But I cannot.
If there is to be a convergence, then I shall attend it. Not because he's forcing me to, or because I have to. Because I want to.
Before coming here, I was alone. I was hanging on to routine like a drowning man to a sinking piece of mast. It wouldn't have lasted, not for much longer. I was surrounded by people, but they didn't see me. Worst, I didn't see them. It's so easy to forget that you're not the only one out there, that behind those porcelain masks we call faces there's a spark, in each of us. There's…humanity. The Spine showed me what the others would do, if given the chance. They would take away this spark, and pervert it. They never meant to, but that is what they will do. In their blindness, their single-mindedness, they will take humanity and make it into what I was, before I was called here- into masks with nothing behind them. Into a people with no stories to tell. The Spine seeks to prevent that by hoarding all the stories we already have, but he doesn't understand something very, very important. He doesn't understand the very thing that he made me understand, when he called me here.
Stories are nothing if there's no one left to listen to them.


I pull the car into the driveway and keep the engine on. My hand hovers over the key and I try to screw up my courage, knowing I'll never do it. Just go, the little voice says, just drive and drive and drive and never look back. Start again somewhere fresh and new and untainted. I cut the engine and slump in the seat, telling myself I enjoy the heat. Making sure no one's watching, I take out a flask and treat myself to a quick drink. To brace myself, I think. After a few seconds, I stop pretending to enjoy the heat and get out of the car and make my way to the door.
Through the inch-thick wood, I hear the hard thunk of a bottle hitting the floor followed by a giggle. I close my eyes as I turn the key and open the door. She's sprawled on one of the two folding chairs we've set out by the poker table that makes up the majority of our furniture in the house. In her hand is a mug lifted from some Goodwill somewhere. As she sees me walk in she raises her mug in salute, sloshing cheap whisky onto her hand. The electricity was cut off last week, leaving the house more unbearable than outside. I feel a drop of sweat trickle along my spine.
"Hey, sugar cookie," she says in a mock-Southern accent, chortling at her own non-joke. As she brings down the mug, more of the drink sloshes over the side, hitting her blue dress. "Shit!" she yells as it begins to soak through the fabric. Leaping from the chair, she grabs clumsily at a half roll of paper towels and tries to blot her mess before collapsing back into the chair. Before sitting down in the free chair, I sigh, making sure it's just loud enough for her to hear.
I try not to look at the whisky or the mug, or even at her, instead focusing on the ever-growing cobweb of cracking plaster on the kitchen wall. I go through the check list, my brain coming up with an instant counterargument. Drinking is bad for you. But I want to drink. I need to drink. It brings out the worst in you. No, being uptight and denying myself anything brings out the worst in me. Do you really want to be drunk and sweating and feeling like shit at 3 PM on a Wednesday? It's not like it matters; what am I going to do if I'm sober? You're strong, you don't need this. No I'm not, yes I do. Besides, what does it matter? My eyes close so I can focus on the back-and-forth.
"So, uh, do you want any?" she asks. Like that, the debate ends. It's one thing to deny oneself, another to be rude, especially to one's wife.
"Sure." I grab the nearest clean-ish looking mug from the floor and hold it out to her. She waits for a second before picking up the bottle and pouring. The weight of the drink in the mug is reassuringly familiar.
We raise our vessels in a toast. "Nostrovia," I say. "Bottoms up" she answers. The mugs give a sharp clink when they meet. Every time I hear that sound, I have a moment of terror, thinking that the mugs have broken. We push our heads back and drink, the whisky tasting like cleansing fire.

The sun's no longer up, but its thick and miserable heat sticks on through the night, nesting in plants and bugs and walls and all of the air, and maybe a little in her as well. My shirt clings to me, and I can make out the contours of her body through the soaking blue dress. With the heat outside of me and the liquor inside, my mind is dull as I put a happy, thoughtless hand on her bare knee. There's only a thin, sharp voice in the back of my head, telling me not to ruin it, this is a good night, don't touch it or it might fracture. She's talking about something or other, I don't know, I've been wandering in and out of the conversation for a while now. She's perfectly happy to talk to herself. I decide to tune back in, for the hell of it.
"-this guy here in the parking lot and he says 'Hey I'm Bill or Ted' or something, I don't really remember, 'We live two houses down from you. You're Laura, right?' And I'm like, I didn't know this shit! Now I feel like an asshole 'cause this guy knows all this about me and I hardly leave the house, like ever. I mean, when was the las- no, you know what? It was never. We've never had people over here. We live like hermits or something, and for what?"
She pauses for a moment, and I realize I'm supposed to answer. Her and her obsession with people, with being the center. I wonder if she's ever thought about it, about how people can find out, how they can find out, and about having to move, to create wholly new lives. Like pulling a scab, but for months on end.
"I mean, do you really think you're that good of a hostess? To have people over for this?"
"What do you mean 'do you think?'" I feel her tense up. "Of course I would. I'd make a great hostess. I'm great with people. What the fuck kind of a question is that?"
"Mmm-hmmm," I agree. I feel what's coming, and I try not to look her in the eye or even at her blue dress. The thin voice in the back of my head has already abandoned ship.
"No, don't 'Mmm-hmmm' me. What do you mean 'do you think you'd make a good hostess?'" She gently pushes my hand from her knee.
"I just mean… Shit, I don't know what I mean. I just wasn't sure if you're ready- if we're ready for people."
"What, because I'll embarrass you or something? Not smart enough for the friends you don't have?"
"Jesus, honey, can we j-"
"No! No. W- you always do this. I say something or do something or suggest changing in some fucking way and then you make some catty little remark about it, like I won't notice. Like I'm too stupid to get it or you're so above me. You think I don't notice? Fuck you. Maybe I haven't read as many Cliff Note's for famous books, but I can recognize a sack of shit when I see one."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Okay, fine. Whatever. You're right. I'm sorry, that was a shitty thing to say, and I shouldn't have said it, okay?"
"Sure," she says in a sullen tone. We go back to quietly drinking, neither acknowledging the other. I focus on the cobweb crack on the kitchen wall. From her side of the table, I hear the sound of her rummaging through her purse, followed by the sliding of paper against paper. I already know what's about to happen as I look to her. Sure enough, there's the cigarette dangling from her mouth as she searches for a lighter. A grunt of triumph later, and she's fiddling with the dollar lighter from the Gas Tree.
"C'mon, don't be like that," I say. She looks up from the cigarette. "It's hotter than Hell already." She turns her attention back to the lighter.
"I haven't smoked all day. I deserve a cigarette. To celebrate," she answers, lips barely parted. The end of the cigarette glows a dull orange, and there's a crinkling sound as she draws the first breath. She purses her lips and blows out a stream of dry, toxic smoke. A thin plume traces its way up from the cigarette. I take another drink, only to have the taste choked out by another puff of blue-grey smoke. She taps the end cigarette into a glass ashtray, depositing a little load of ash.
"C'mon. Seriously, I feel like shit; I have a headache, I'm tired and the last thing I want is to watch you choke down another pack of cigarettes." She doesn't even turn her head. "You have any idea how bad those are for you? For me? I mean, obviously you don't or el-"
Her head rolls back as she screws her eyes shut. She raises her voice to the ceiling. "I know I know I know I know I fuckin' know, okay? I know it's bad for me and all of those numbers you throw at me. I've had a crap day too, and I need this." She lifts her head and looks at me. "What I don't need is you yelling at me about how 'bad' smoking is. This house is bad. This town is bad. This whole fucking situation is bad. Smoking? Smoking's pretty far down on the list of 'bad' things, far as I'm concerned!"
"Yeah, I'm sure you had a really tough day, getting drunk before god damn noon."
She stubs out the cigarette on the hardwood floor, missing the ashtray by a good four inches. Before I can comment, she starts to shout. "Why? What the hell else am I gonna do? You just wanna stay locked up in here scared that anyone's gonna find out about us! And thanks to your dumb ass, we don't even have TV any more! What the hell else am I gonna do besides get drunk and try not think about what a crap provider you are!"
My reply comes in a cool, calm voice. "No. No, you're right. The reason I didn't want to have people over is because I was afraid you'd embarrass me. But I was wrong; we don't need people over for you to be a fucking embarrassment. Not just me, but to yourself!" I don't even realize what I'm saying until it's already out. A speech I had mouthed silently to myself in imagined arguments, never meant to be spoken aloud.
She lunges forward and grabs the glass ashtray. Before I can even get out a word she flings it at me. I don't even see it move; one second it's in her hand, the next there's a blossom of pain in my right shoulder. The glass falls to the floor, where it breaks neatly into a hundred little pieces. For a moment, everything is still.
I jump up, upsetting the chair in the process. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I shout. I've never shouted before in an argument; I always try to be the calm voice, the voice of reason, the guy who's above it all. Not to be outdone she leaps to her feet. Then begins the mixed shouting. Neither of us can understand the other, or even ourselves. Are we even yelling in English anymore, or is it just some gibberish language designed to expel rage?
In the back of my brain stem, something boils over and I shove her. She staggers back a foot or so, looking surprised. Then her expression changes to something ugly and she punches me as hard as she can in my right shoulder. "Fucker!" she yells. A bright pain shoots through my body and I cry out. She rears back and looks expectantly at me, waiting for the inevitable counter-counter-blow or at least some kind of response. There's a terrible silence in the air as we both wait for my next move. And with that, the red hot anger dissipates, leaving something cold and hard in its place.
"Fuck this," I say and turn to the door. I grab the keys from the nail on the hallway wall and head out into the warm, still night, suddenly alive with the sound of a million insects. The door I slam behind me gives only a hollow imitation of a slam as I head to the car.
I open the car door and give it a much more satisfyingly full slam and turn on the engine. For a fraction of a second, I pause, wondering if she'll come after me, and what I'll do then. The moment passes and I pull out of the driveway at what feels like 80 miles an hour and gun it down the street that heads straight west for what we decided was at least forever. I roll down the window and give a hollow whoop of triumph, mostly because it seems appropriate. I then settle into a silence, not even the radio on, just me and the wind whipping through the window. But I drive and drive and drive, and I don't look back.

I drive through the night until the first streams of the sun's light begin to make their way over the treetops. By some miracle, I don't get pulled over, nor do I kill anyone or even run myself off the road. I pull into a rest stop and get out of the car, stretching in the first light of morning. Outside, the air isn't somehow crisp like I imagined it would be. Instead, it's the same still and muggy as well. No matter, I'm free, I tell myself, off to a new land, beautiful and deep, desirable and bright. Free from the stupid fucking harpy, free from the crap house, free from worry, free from care. I force a laugh, telling myself that will drive off this anxiety. It doesn't.
As I stand, waiting to be sated, I feel the first effects of last night's drinking start to kick in. My joints ache and my head is starting to feel like it's being kicked from the inside. I get back in the car and get back on the highway, looking for a motel to stay for the day. I glance at the wedding band on my right hand and decide that there's no time like the present. I pull it off and am about to throw it out the window of the speeding car when I remember just how much rings are worth. Into the glove compartment it goes.
A few miles down the road, I check into a dilapidated place called the Sleep Tite Suites. When I get to my room, I close the blinds and turn the air conditioning up full blast. After drinking from the bathroom sink for something like a minute, I get under the slightly plastic-feeling sheets of the bed and almost immediately fall asleep.

I wake up, only to find that it's still before noon. I feel rested enough, and my hangover's a bit better, although the pain in my joints is worse than before. I decide to pick up the complimentary continental breakfast from the lobby. The only choices remaining are a cellophane-wrapped muffin and an underripe banana ("Should'a gotten here earlier, I guess," the clerk offers by way of an apology). I choose the muffin and read the ingredients label to occupy myself. About halfway through, I stop reading the ingredients.
Once I'm finished, I get back in the car and head out again, getting more distance between me and that god damned house.

It's been two days of driving now, and the aching hasn't gone away. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror (this time of the Village Inn of Redsfield) and see myself about ten years older. There are bags under my eyes and my face is crisscrossed with tiny wrinkles. I feel like shit, too. Inside my head there's a low constant buzzing, and I'm starting to feel nauseous. Seeing a doctor crosses my mind, but I'm not really sure if I'm like other people. Inside-wise, that is. And the last thing I want is to be found out. Besides, I'm pretty sure I just need a drink.
The clerk has told me that there's a nice little liquor store just down the way. I walk there in a half hour and walk back to my room with a plastic bottle of gin. I flop onto the bed and turn on the TV, flipping through the channels until settling on a show about a boy and his monkey. The bottle's cap comes off with a satisfying snap as the plastic anchors holding it down come apart.
I remember when we used to do this, just sitting side by side with a bottle between us, watching TV or sometimes just the outdoors. When the bottle got low, our fingers would become intertwined. Her mouth would always taste sweet and mellow like damp grass, even with the gin and the old food taste and even with the cigarettes. God damn, I think, where did those good times go? How did it get to be like this?
Then I remember those times were never good. Even then we fought constantly, over dishes or money or anything else we could use as an excuse. Maybe we just hadn't known each other long enough; her quirks still lovable instead of aggravating. Maybe I was less insufferable then, too. I tip the plastic jug to my lips and start to drink as the case of the week begins to unfold on TV.

In the morning, I wake to a sensation of dampness on the bed. I look to my feet and see the gin lying on its side, soaking through my clothing and the mattress. "Nnnmmm…dammit," I groan as I begin to sit up. Little by little, my other senses begin to awake. The soft humming of the muted TV set. The sharp smell of gin cutting the slightly moldy smell of the room. The roofing tar taste in my mouth. And, of course, the pounding in my joints. I run a tongue over teeth which feel like sandpaper. Midway through, I stop and go back a tooth or two. Bottom row. Right canine. Even with a gentle probe, it starts to wobble. I put a hand to my mouth and feel it between my fingers. Without even a tug, it comes out. I let it fall into my palm and stare at it.
Nothing for it, then. The only way forward is forward, I tell myself. I'm never going back to her. To that house. I just want a fresh start somewhere far away, so far I'll never remember her or think of her again. I get in the car and drive west for the rest of the day. Along the way, I lose another tooth.

The next morning, I wake up and barely make it to the bathroom before I vomit. Two more teeth are dislodged and bob in the toilet. I study it for a moment before flushing it down. Amongst the yellows and greens, there are swirls of dark red. I don't remember eating anything red-looking the past few days.
As I rinse out my mouth, I remember the times when we would both wake up hung over. By silent agreement, we wouldn't talk or plan or anything. Just go to the kitchen and sit and eat pickle spears. I remember a composite of all of those mornings, her with her short brown hair jutting out in a dozen different places. Wearing just an oversize t-shirt as she squinted at me from across the table, even then still so beautiful in some way.
But still, I get in the car and keep driving. This time, though, there a lots of stops at gas stations and rest stops and empty parking lots. I vomit twice, each time colored with more and more red, leaving a coppery taste in my mouth. A couple of times, I sit in the car and tell myself to keep going. Just a little further. I listen and I don't turn back.

That night, I find myself covered in rashes. Each arm ringed at the armpit, each leg ringed at the crotch, and a nice huge one in a thin line going along my collar bone and looping around the back of my neck. Like a splotchy necklace, I laugh to myself.
Then I remember her laughs. Her laughs from before, when they were honest and full of light rather than spiteful or sarcastic. They were gorgeous, from her shrill ticklish shrieks to her open laughs of happiness. Even her unladylike snorts at a really good joke seem beautiful. I go to bed with her laughter ringing in my mind.

The following morning, I wake up and find that the rashes have split the skin, the edges curling upwards like little scrolls. I gently touch one with a finger and wince as the pain shoots through me.
I sit on the bed and try not to think about what this means. I go through the check list, my brain coming up with an instant counterargument. She's a horrible person. How much of that is my fault? Besides, I am too. You deserve better. No, I don't. She brings out the worst in you. She brings out the real me. She's the only one who understands me, even if she doesn't. You'll just be as miserable as you were before if you go back. No, this time will be different. Probably. Don't go back. I can't live without her.
I get in the car and drive and drive and drive.

For three straight days I drive, stopping only for gas and food and the occasional drink. As I drive, I feel the wounds start to close up. By the end of the second day, I angle the rear view mirror towards my face and notice that the wrinkles have started to fade slightly. The bottom right canine is back in its proper place as well.
When I pull into the driveway, the sun has just fallen below the horizon. I don't feel much of anything except for tired. Outside there are crickets and cicadas and God knows what else chirping, looking for mates. I grab the ring from the glove compartment. It doesn't feel right to put it back on yet, so I slip it into my front pocket. I jog to the door and fumble with the keys. Before I can find the right one, the door opens and she's standing there in front of me.
"Hey," she says, a slight smile on a face now lined with minute wrinkles. For a split second between her lips, I can see a dark gap were a tooth used to be.
"Hi. Can I come in?" I give an awkward wave. Without a word, she opens the door and lets me through. I sit down in one of the two chairs in the house. She takes her seat opposite me. A candle on the table illuminates us both.
"I…" I flap my mouth silently, trying to think of the right things to say, knowing she already knows them, but wanting to say them, as much for my own benefit as for hers. Ours. "I really missed you, I guess."
She gives a weak smile and under the neckline of her shirt I catch a glimpse of a healing rash running over her collar bone. "I… yeah, I missed you too."
There's promises that some would want to be made, lines to be drawn, so that we never do this again. But what's the point? Promises were made to be broken, lines to be crossed. I take her hand in mine and gently kiss her knuckle. My mouth makes its way up her hand, her arm, her neck, her face. Then we're kissing and I taste wet grass again as the night wraps around us both.

We lay naked on the mattress, only a thin bedsheet between us and the rest of the world. Even before the night was up, we both knew that the truce would never hold, that peace was at best temporary. But maybe the good will outweigh the bad this time; maybe we'll somehow come out ahead or at least less behind. Her face, against the pillow, looks younger already; the wrinkles are gone, and so is the rash. I run over my teeth with my tongue, just to be sure all of the teeth are back. They are.
A square of light falls on her bare leg, and I can make out the tattoo. I trace the letters lightly with the tip of my finger, and she shifts slightly. Just like mine, it reads "Mr. and Mrs. Love, from Little Misters® by Dr. Wondertainment." What a sick joke. I don't remember a time when we weren't with one another. There's a paper we had once, long since gone, that listed all of us, telling the reader to find us all. Christ, I think, why would you ever want to do that?
The heat is everywhere in the silent, still house, and my arms are slick with sweat. I look out the window and know that I have to get out into that cool night air. I leave the mattress slowly, trying not to wake her. I open the back door and walk naked into the moonlight. As soon as I cross the threshold, I realize that it's worse out here with the cicadas and crickets. Still, I linger outside for a moment, hoping for a breeze, one strong enough to carry me far away.


William E. Boeing found himself on a couch in his study, where moments before he had been a happy child near a seashore. He got up infirmly and slowly started making his way from the first floor where his study was, to the ground floor of the main mansion of the estate he was currently at. Halfway down the broad red-carpeted stairway he ran into a servant, like he knew he would. He spoke up, knowing exactly what his words were going to sound like.
  "Twenty eight acres of maple and oak ? I think we can do business," he said.
  "I can see it's a thoroughbred, but that's a king's ransom you're asking," he said.
  "In this connection the first logical opening will be the development of a commercial flying boat.," he said.
He also screamed at the top of his lungs while clawing at a jammed door, as he was about to be burned alive while stuck in the wreck of a car.
But just like every other sentient being William E. Boeing actually only ever said one — same — thing. That same thing just sounded different each time it was spoken out loud, in accordance with the where-and-when it was being uttered. This is what it sounded like when William E. Boeing said the thing to the servant: "What year is it?"
The servant gathered a worried look about him. "It's the same year as when you asked me this morning, sir," the servant said, and repeated the answer he had given William E. Boeing earlier on that day.
William E. Boeing hemmed his throat and nodded as a gesture of appreciation, ignoring the servant's obvious discomfort about his employer's apparent forgetfulness. William E. Boeing turned around and went back upstairs to his study. He knew which year it was. He knew he was going to go downstairs and meet the servant half way down. He knew the thing he was going to say was going to sound like "What year is it?"
"Time," it was sometimes said, "is what prevents everything from happening all at once." In that sense William E. Boeing was outside of time. From where William E. Boeing was standing everything was always happening all at once. Moreover, existence was simply doing the very same thing over and over within a different set of parameters, and what was generally referred to as "free will" was nothing more to him than an ability to be surprised by an inevitable outcome of a fixed sequence of actions.
William E. Boeing sat down in the broad Naugahyde chair in his study, closed his eyes and massaged his temples.
When he opened his eyes, he was sitting in a comfortable business class seat, cruising at 780 kilometers an hour at an altitude of almost eleven kilometers. There was no one in the passenger compartment except for William E. Boeing. He was afraid. Not because he didn't know what was coming; he knew exactly what was going to happen. He was afraid because, given the situation, it was the only thing left to do.
The voice over the intercom would have interrupted his anxiety, had he not known the interruption would happen. "Mr. Boeing, sir, five more minutes until onset," was what the thing the pilot said sounded like.
William E. Boeing got out of his seat and waited patiently in front of the center left emergency door. He looked at the rows of corpses seated next to the emergency exit door. All the corpses were of William E. Boeing, and each one of them was burned in different ways to different degrees. The sacrifice it had taken to bring him this far had been immense. Not just the personal sacrifice he was witness to right now, but the sacrifice of the countless others, in the past, the present, and the future, as well.
But William E. Boeing was not a mad murdering maniac; he was a businessman. Mad murdering maniacs would eventually get hunted down and stopped, no matter how successful they initially appeared to be. And the truth of the matter was, his aircraft had a better safety record than most of his competitors, so statistically he was actually keeping people alive. But with misfortune and mechanical defect at some point being inevitable, he might as well collect the lives lost as sacrifice; all in all, it made good business sense, for the aircraft division as well as the other.
At exactly the right moment, the center left emergency door started to open. At exactly the right moment William E. Boeing started to scream in terror at what was outside that door. Flames burst inward and set fire to the closest row of corpses, which now were animate and, for those with a working voice box, screaming as well. On the precipice, William E. Boeing wrangled with the now closing emergency exit door with all his might, trying to keep it from closing.
William E. Boeing jolted into consciousness in agony. His upper body had severe burns. He was strapped to his seat. The thing he tried to say amounted to nothing, because he no longer had a working throat. If he would have had a working throat, the thing he would have said would have sounded exactly like the frantic screaming of someone who was on fire. With his working eye he saw William E. Boeing wrangling with a closing emergency exit door with all his might, trying to keep it from closing. His eye stopped working.
Normally, being dead would be the end of things, even for people who were outside of time, though they would have the benefit of knowing how and when they would die, even if they could do nothing about it but act out the appropriate death scene. But William E. Boeing was a businessman, and few things were as disruptive to conducting business as being deceased. So William E. Boeing made sure to make sure that — to put it in inside-time terms as accurately as possible — "William E. Boeing, was always going to be, and would always have been, William E. Boeing."
That is what the thing he said sounded like at the particular where-and-when where he was sitting upright in a casket somewhere in a gigantic warehouse. There were a few dozen of additional caskets propped up against the nearest wall. Where the caskets touched the platform that supported them a white mist hung in stale air. The transparent lids of the caskets were covered in ice flowers to the extent of being opaque. Not that it mattered much, William E. Boeing knew who was inside. The inside-time description would be that he could remember stepping inside each one of them at different times, but outside of time, William E. Boeing was laying down inside each one of them concurrently, and slowly began drifting off on behalf of the various chemicals, to start the long wait for when he would be William E. Boeing once again. Well, not "wait for", he knew perfectly well at what where-and-when he would be recalled, or, in the case of 3 and 7, never at all. But being William E. Boeing, such things mattered little, and even if they mattered, nothing could be done to change it anyway. William E. Boeing felt himself slowly drifting away into unconsciousness as a comforting freezing cold started to set in around him.
William E. Boeing regained his faculties upside down with blood trickling from a split lip down into his eyes. The inside of the car smelled like gasoline. He had been speeding, and he had been distracted by the pretty girl of french heritage that sat next to him. Her name was Ronda. Ronda was unconscious now and would soon be dead, even though William E. Boeing was going to be okay. Still, he had no options left other than panicking.
He called out her name repeatedly to no avail. Then he called out her full name repeatedly, hoping that the familiarity of it would trigger something, would elicit some sort of response. She would remain unconscious for the next few minutes up until the time the fire would reach her.
The whole accident gave rise to one of the funnier aspects of being William E. Boeing. You see, the full name of the girl was phonetically very similar to a model of compact car of Japanese manufacture that would be produced several decades into the future, resulting in him erroneously producing about a hundred similar compact cars that were also William E. Boeing.
William E. Boeing realized that mistake, of course, then, as now, as always. But the mistake was made, had been made, and would always be made. He would have laughed at the mistake if he would have had the opportunity, but he didn't. He was now stuck in the routine of being William E. Boeing being stuck in a wrecked upside down car that was about to catch fire. The car caught fire.
William E. Boeing was at the seashore again. The thing he said roughly sounded like "Hmmmmm", as he was enjoying a cool inbound breeze on a sunny day. William E. Boeing found himself staring up at the blue sky, and he felt himself raising his arm and pointing upward. William E. Boeing heard the voice of this father — his real father, not William E. Boeing — from behind him.
"You want to fly boy ?"
His father picked William up by the waist and lifted the young boy over his head, holding him upward as if proffering him up to the heavens. William stretched his arms outward as if they were wings and closed his eyes.
William E. Boeing was back in his study. There was a man he didn't know standing in front of him, talking to him. The thing the man was saying sounded like this: "William E. Boeing?"
William E. Boeing wasn't sure what to make of the question.


The clockworks on display in the temple were the culmination of many years of hard work by the craftsman. Years of hard, diligent work, many prayers to the god of the forge, innumerable cuts and scratches that had almost made his hands worthless and numb, his fingerprints long since worn off.
And it hadn't been worth it.
These clockwork creatures and men were… imperfect. The sparrow could only sit on a branch, it could not take flight. The automated man could only stare blankly at passersby, making them unsettled. Even the clockwork Heracles he had made, depicted strangling the great lion, was unimpressive; it could only repeat its actions until the spring wound down. It was not enough.
And he feared it never would be.

The automata were taken down from the temple the next day; the craftsman would have them disassembled and their parts melted down for new works. Better works. More lifelike works.
The craftsman resolved that divine favor would be the only way to improve his works. Therefore, he resolved to go on a pilgrimage to Limnos, and visit the site most sacred to the god of metal, where he had been cast down from the godly kingdom, and crippled by his spiteful mother. The trip would be long, hard, and expensive, but he had many drachmae and much time.

The temple was magnificent. It stood on the very spot where the crippled god had fallen, glistening in the sun. It was entirely metal, but what metal, the craftsman did not know; it looked akin to bronze, but when he knocked on it, the density seemed wrong. The top of the temple had a facade depicting the fall of Hephaistos, his lecherous wife Aphrodite, and his second wife, the graceful Kharis. It depicted Ares and Aphrodite being discovered in bed by the gods, the treacherous Hera being trapped on a throne of Hephaistos' own design… surprisingly enough, this facade was uncolored; perhaps they were renovating it?
The inside was even more spectacular. Unlike most temples that were open to the air, this was enclosed, with a door that opened as if the gods themselves pushed it aside; he knew it was a simple trick, but he admired it nonetheless. There was a sacred forge in the center attended to by priests and smiths, who were creating mostly ceremonial pieces, such as ceremonial swords, jewelery, shields… and cogs. Automata were, by in large, inspired by Talon, the great bronze man that Hephaistos created to protect Europa on Crete; creating them was still a relatively uncommon practice, due to their complexity and relative lack of use beyond entertainment.
The craftsman approached one of the priests, when suddenly, a bird flew over his head, causing him to duck down. Cursing, he looked around, and saw the bird was, to his surprise, an automaton, capable of flight. He inspected the small sparrow, which tweeted at him in response. He reached out to touch it…
"I would suggest that you do not do that, pilgrim." The craftsman turned to face a priest of Hephaistos, clad in a red tunic. "The Broken one does not favor those who tamper with his creations."
The craftsman knelt before the priest solemnly. "Forgive me. This is my first pilgrimage to this temple. I come to pray to Hephaistos for greater skill in the creation of automata and clockworks." He pointed to the bird. "Tell me, which one of your craftsmen created this? It is spectacular, I must learn his technique."
"That piece was untouched by human hands," replied the priest, smiling. "The Broken one himself created that piece, and several others in the temple. The Broken one is such a great craftsman, he can create complex pieces with only a single touch." He produced a pair of gloves, handing them to the craftsmen. "If you truly wish to inspect that piece, wear these, lest you be smote by the Broken one's touch."
The craftsman couldn't help but think that 'the Broken one' was an odd euphemism for Hephaistos, but he supposed it was apt; after all, Hephaistos was broken at birth, and broken again when he was cast down from the heavens. Regardless, he put on the gloves, and inspected the bird, which perched on his finger; the detail was remarkable. Every feather was visible, and they were not engraved, but actually individual metal plates. The eyes were small, unknown gems, the beak crafted of steel… and it was all incredibly light. He would have expected a piece this intricate to be so heavy, he could not hold it, let alone have it be able to fly. With a broad smile, he released the bird, and knelt before the priest again. "I beseech thee, tell me the secrets of Hephaistos."
"All in due time, friend. All in due time."

And so it was that the craftsman began to study at the temple, living among the priests, smiths, and craftsmen at the temple. He quickly began to notice several strange things about the people there. Firstly, several men, Sicilian by their look, spoke and wrote in a language unfamiliar to him. He also noticed that several of the walls of the temple, which had been crafted of an unknown metal, had been engraved with obscure, possibly pagan, symbols; had the temple been vandalized?
Illness was also startlingly common among those in the temple; several men were whisked away to the infirmary due to coughing and sudden bursts of pain; these men were never seen again by the craftsmen, and when he asked the priest, he was told that they had been taken to do work for Hephaistos elsewhere, and that they were quite alive.
Most disturbingly of all were the humanoid automata he had been seeing; they seemed to change position whenever he left the room. Granted, automata were meant to move their arms, head, legs, mouth, and perhaps even their eyes… but he had never heard of walking automata. Then again, he had also never heard of metal birds capable of flight.
Nonetheless, he continued his work on automata, his skill growing each day. He attended prayer and meditation daily, and always found it curious that, despite being a temple of Hephaistos, the only fire in it was that from the forge; no sacred fire was used for sacrifices. He simply thought that this temple was part of a cult dedicated to the smith aspect of Hephaistos, and thought nothing of it.

One night, after working at the temple for 11 months, the priest he had met almost a year ago came into the craftsman's chamber. "You have been here for long enough, I think. It is time."
The craftsman looked up from his blueprint, which was that of a sparrow that he theorized would be capable of flight. "…time for what, oh priest?"
"Time for you to see the true secrets of the Broken one." He extended a gloved hand to the craftsman. "Come." The craftsman stood from his desk, and followed the priest out, to the main room of the temple. There, the priest depressed a metal panel on the floor with his foot, which made an unusually loud thump noise as it did so. The floor slid away to reveal a staircase leading downward. "Here, you shall see the true temple." He took up a torch, and traveled down into the bowels of the temple, the craftsman following.
As they descended further down, the craftsman heard a chanting, in an unknown tongue. It made him feel uneasy, the hairs on his skin standing on end, as if affected by some unseen breeze from the underworld. The chanting grew louder as he descended deeper… and deeper… and deeper…
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of walking, the craftsman emerged in a large room, made of the same material as the temple above, and inscribed with the same symbols. Several members of this cult were bowing in reverence to a figure on a throne at the other end of the room, chanting in the same unknown language. The man was… not a man at all, but some form of automaton. Around his neck, he wore a metal pendant with several strange symbols engraved into it. The automaton stood, and pointed at the craftsman, beckoning him closer.
Nervously, the craftsman approached, the crowd parting for him. The automaton beckoned more sharply, his eyes taking on a bored look… it was then that the craftsman realized that the eyes were too perfect to belong to an automaton.
They were human. With a sudden look of fear in his eyes, he turned and stared at the priest. "By Styx, man, what madness is this?"
The priest laughed. "Madness? This is the touch of the Broken one. The one you believed was Hephaistos. The Broken One's touch reveals the true form of man and animal, for the whole world is a machine… and we are simply cogs, levers, and screws in it to serve his purpose."
"…you turn people into machines? But… that…"
"You've always aspired to create great work, oh craftsman." The automaton stepped off the throne behind him, approaching slowly, with carefully timed steps. "Now, you shall become part of the greatest work in the history of mankind." The automaton drew a knife and cut open the craftsman's palm, and leaned in, kissing the blood. The priest smiled. "It is done."
"…what is done? What have you done?" A great fear stirred in his heart, but his pulse refused to quicken. Instead of his beating heart, he heard a tick… tick… tick… tick… tick…
The craftsman felt as cold as the metal around him.


Regret had existed since time immemorial, since the first mind capable of reflecting upon its actions took a moment to consider the consequences of its decisions. With each passing generation, as minds more intelligent and wise came to be, so too did Regret become more and more powerful.
It was unfair to think that Regret was cold and uncaring; after all, it would be silly to think of an emotion as unemotional. As one subjected to the final misgivings of every living mind, she was audience to their suffering and their ultimate sorrow and defeat. Even though this was the very essence of what she was, the burden of grief bore down upon her until one day she found that she could not stand it any longer. Deciding to take action, she picked a random thread of thought and followed it back to the mind that had given it life.
The mind of a human was a turbulent thing at the best of times, but the panic that accompanied impending death made a fantastic mess of things. A torrential rush of clashing thoughts rushed through her as she reached out and touched it:

Why didn't he wait for the others to catch up?
Why didn't he watch where he was going more carefully?
If he had worked out just a little more, would he have been able free himself?
If he wasn't stuck, would he have been able to save just one more?
Would his family be alright without him?
Would—

With a jab of pain and a final shudder, the candle was snuffed out and his broken body lay still. Regret sat and stared for a long time, turning the thread in her hands over and over as she replayed those final thoughts. An eternity passed in the blink of an eye as she deliberated, but in the end she came to a decision: she of all people would not allow herself to have cause to have misgiving. Delicately, she reached out and re-lit the candle.

John gasped as he came to again, coughing violently as his lungs burned from the stifling smoke. In an act of desperation, he found one last reserve of strength and pulled himself out from under the pile of debris. With his equipment broken or missing and his eyes watering, he threw the unconscious child back over his shoulder and pushed on through the raging flames. Somehow, he managed to make it all the way back to the main entrance before his legs finally gave out. His last conscious thought was that everything would be alright as the paramedics rushed to his side and took the still-breathing child from his arms.
He woke up in the hospital two days later, and paid little attention to the doctor's bewildered inability to explain how he was still alive; he had more important things on his mind. Things like never forgetting to tell his wife he loved her again, not missing another one of his son's soccer games, and making sure that all the proper arrangements were made if something were to happen to him.
Three weeks later, John rushed to the site of another burning apartment building. The chief hesitated, and tried to explain to him that the building was too dangerous to enter, but the crying of a child over the roaring flames ended all further discussion. Without Regret, he turned and rushed through the door.

Shaking from the exertion, she knew instantly that she had irrevocably lost a part of herself as she sank to the ground. Yet, even as her eyes watered, Regret smiled, knowing that through her sacrifice she had given a man a second chance. Without hesitation, she drew another thread — the nearest she could find — and followed it with determination.
Time passed as she touched countless lives, selflessly giving a month, a week, a day, or even an hour, one extra chance after another to do that which they could not before the end. A young man recovering from a car accident finally found the courage to confess to the woman he loved. A mother who fell down her stairs told her daughter that despite everything that had come between them, she was proud of her accomplishments. A new father and survivor of a heart attack held his newborn son for the first time.
And then, the unthinkable happened. With an outcry of agony, the minds linked to her began to wink out, a catastrophe of global proportions. Millions, then billions, died, their flames extinguished in the blink of an eye. More would follow in the wake of the disaster, but despite the pain that threatened to cripple her, Regret continued to touch as many lives as she could, giving them the closure they so desired until but a single thread remained.

Was there more he could have done?
If he hadn't approved that last experiment, would none of this had happened?
If he hadn't been so ambitious and reckless, would he have been spared the torture of watching his friends, family, and coworkers suffer in the last waning hours of humanity?
Was this all his fault?

It was unfair to think that Regret was cold and uncaring. She had avoided interfering with the actions of those she touched, but she would make an exception for this last human man lying alone in the ruins of civilization. A part of her knew that this was it; with all minds gone, there would be no more reason for her to exist. So weak was she that she could not even fully re-light the candle; as its meek flame sputtered in the darkness, she took the man's hand in her own and, with a firm but gentle motion, traced his finger through the thick ash that covered the ground until a crudely formed phrase took shape:
It's okay. You did your best.
The flame went out one last time, and only the darkness remained. Regret closed her eyes with a final sigh and sank into nothingness.
But it was not the end.
Was there something left, something she had missed?
What part of her could possibly remain when no more existed?
Struggling against the emptiness, Regret reached out as far as she could, stretching up on tip-toes until her fingers brushed against a distant but unmistakable thread. Clawing at it with her final shred of strength, she latched on with all her might and pulled herself towards it.
Feeling warmth against her face, she opened her eyes to the brilliant green light of an unfamiliar sun.


My Duchess Louise,
The riches which I have recovered for you are the very least I owe to one who has so often bankrolled my travels, yet vanish into insignificance against the wonders which cannot be melted down. Such things lie quite outside the experience of your colleagues in the Secure Containment Initiative — there are some treasures which bear no number, which defy the confines of description. These are the spectacles of the True World, and these I long to show you when my tributes have slaked your thirst for gold.
I enclose with this letter an account of the most obscure and sacred ceremonies of the people which reside in the great forests of the Congo, a land with whose inhabitants I trust you are well familiar; to which I have so often returned in order to enrich your knowledge as you have allowed me to enrich my own.
The Wilds have long since gorged themselves upon my youth, but for you I will return until the Forest has drunk away my blood.
Xenophoni
Paris, 1908.

Coming to the Congo for the first time in 1880, I sought trinkets amongst the crumbling ruins of the Old Empires. I had not yet found the True World, that realm of experience beyond science or anomaly. Now I walk the forests of the world to capture that which cannot be removed — the rites and magics of the forest peoples, which on occasion wander far from mere superstition indeed. African or European, seeker or scholar, the jungles will tell you of the power in their depths at the first opportunity. In my profession it pays to take the jungle at its word.
This most recent expedition — 1906 — was organized to test the mightily persistent rumors which swamp any traveler to that country, of a most terrible magic practiced only in the deepest forests of the Congo, a nameless Rite orchestrated by the La'Hamon people which no words could bind.
Capricious peddlers along the shore claimed it was held to keep the sun from vanishing, while Ba'Mabuti elders claimed it was to pacify the spirits of the heavens which might otherwise consume their subjects. The most fanciful of rumors surrounded the ritual and its practitioners, yet all agreed on three points — firstly, that the ritual itself was of the absolute greatest importance; secondly, that it was to be found at the bend in the great River Congo, at which could be found a seat of great magical importance. This supposed seat was called variably the Altar of History, the Spirit Song of the Moon Palace, and the Limbs of the Earth, among others. All questioned made reference to an incredible entity born of the mountains and central to the ceremony. No more than that could be made certain. It soon became clear that a dedicated journey would be required if I was ever to observe it — or at least lay the rumors to rest.
We departed from England in February of 1905. I will spare you, Duchess, the details of how I organized the party; suffice to say that we numbered twelve, all experienced and known to you; with these men and women I pushed down the length of the Congo River and arrived at the bend where the nameless Rite is held by those few who fully know it. The inhabitants of those forests, the La'Hamon, call themselves the People in their tongue, and so it is that I have named them in my account.
For fear that I should impose upon your patience as I have imposed upon your largesse, I shall spare you a description of our journey up the river and into the forests of the People. It is enough to say that fourteen months' journey saw our party and equipment safely deposited in that region of the jungle where the river bends wildly, where the treeline gives way to plains and the Mountains of the Moon disappear into the cloudy distance. Fourteen months' travel and another three ingratiating ourselves into the ways of tribal life, living in their village, earning their trust and, eventually, access to that object of so much pursuit — the People's Nameless Rite.
The Coming of the Rite
Our time of study amongst the People came to a close on the Sixteenth of April. Prior to that day, nearly three months passed as we came to know the People, the events of which are without significance, though we picked up some desultory information about our quarry. Yes, the People possessed magics of great power; yes, that magic was rooted in what they called the Limbs, though we had not yet seen the Limbs, nor the grove in which they rested. I confess there were moments during our months of waiting and observation when some of our party doubted that any such mystery as we sought existed at all; yet the excitement of penetrating into these hitherto all but undiscovered tracts would have provided ample satisfaction even if we had not found the ultimate goal — but find it we did.
According to their beliefs, the People have no special claim over the Rite or its ingredients — they are not even custodians, much less owners — and so could not rightly deny us the chance to see jungle's greatest treasure, the rumors of which had summoned our team out from varied homelands and onto this long journey. Thus, though only recent guests, when the day of the Rite came suddenly upon us we were invited to gather in the grove with the rest of the tribe. It would not have been safe in any case, the eldest remarked, to remain outside when the Rite was in progress.
As the sun set on the appointed day, we were summoned by a general call to the heart of the village. From there, the whole of the tribe accompanied by our expedition, departed for the Hidden Grove — a circle of stones five hundred feet in diameter, about half way between the village and the spot where the trees give way to wide plains. Near the edges of the forest, the canopy is not so thick, the vines not so aggressive. At the center of the ring there lay a sort of cave, and within that cave slumbered the Limbs of the Earth — an enormous suit of armor of which I'd never seen the like.
We of the expedition were of course riveted; now either we would see that entity whose coming rocked half the continent, and touch once more the sublime perfection of the True World — or face disappointment presently too horrid to bear contemplation.
Gathering around this pit, the People began to waken the Limbs from their deep sleep. By this I mean they began to unearth, one after another, the components of that suit and pile them in the center of the clearing. As one, soundless, five hundred hands — every adult La'Hamon, man or woman — hoisted the first of the Limbs from its murky resting-place — a great stone cuirass, a chest-plate hewn from the Mountains of the Moon and fit to armor a giant. It and the companion pieces which followed wore the black of oldest granite, bare of all adornment and without trace of human artifice.
I watched the junglefolk as they continued the laborious lifting — faces we had known for weeks now bore no trace of their former kindness and character. Eyes human and otherwise glowed from the ferns surrounding the sacred circle and the calling birds seemed to redouble their efforts as each new piece of the mighty armor rose from the pit of sacred slumber.
We did feel a stirring in our hearts; an echo, perhaps, of some imperceptible sound meant for quite different ears.
The Three Chimes of the Forest
The Limbs of the Earth were heaped high before our party, the hollow shell of the people's ineradicable deity. Helm, greaves, gauntlets and more, each of naked stone and proportioned for a Goliath. When the last piece had been settled into place, the laboring arms paused. At some unspoken command a waiting woman loaded her flare gun — a rather modern addition to the proceedings — and launched a crimson bolt skyward, as a signal to more of the tribe stationed in the plains beyond the tree-line. Now the Rite had begun in earnest, and even fire would not speak again until it had concluded.
Out on the plains far from the forest's sheltering canopy the rawhide drums, cued by the flare, began to call and thunder, answered by brassy cries and animalistic bellows from deep within the inner groves. Leather drums, steel bells, stone horns — such was the voice the People gave the forest. Picked men had placed the instruments in hidden places the night previously. This cacophony was the first of the Rite's three Chimes, and the only one to be sounded by human hand and breath.
Reader, you may find altogether inadequate my explanation of subsequent events, for it is now that the animals began to come, summoned through a mechanism as yet quite unknown to me. I ask you to persevere as we did.
Procession of the Dignitaries
The drumming rose into the sky and woke the denizens of the land. Solid ground began to convulse with the passage of numberless insects, a tide of instability rushing in from the outskirts of the encampment and crashing upon the rocky boundary of the Holy Grove. The insects and the birds had come to honor the Rite, bound, the People say, by its strange powers. They were not the only ones.
High above what daylight still shone through the leafy peaks vanished beneath a sudden living cloud; the vivid colors of the jungle flock transformed into a swirling vanguard for the tireless geese and eagles, condors and falcons, which tore at the sky with the fierceness of their passage. I saw these creatures with naked eye, a hundred strains quite foreign and indeed totally incapable of surviving in these tropical climates; saw the flashing shadows of their imposing Liege within the flocks that made new clouds in the cloudless sky. At the center of this tumultuous plumage soared the magnificent Bird of Paradise herself, Lady of the Hurricane and Queen of All the Birds.
A creature born of wind and wreathed in fog, she swooped low beneath the flocks above only once, her passage shaking leaves from the trees and frightening the forest antelopes. Her opal eyes flashed once at the peak of her descent and darkness fled. I could make out the serried nephrite of her breast set at intervals with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires as large as oranges. One jeweled feather was worth a palace which her tail's gilded streamers could have purchased a kingdom to accompany. Then her survey was completed and the Bird of Paradise withdrew to the midst of its flapping host to await the other comings.
Even as we craned our necks, searching for the shortest glimpses of that heavenly procession, more terrestrial rumblings drew our notice downward. Out beyond the warding torches moved many-clawed somethings, each no doubt fit to shred our party to pieces, but bound by a compact stronger than any lion's claw or leopard's lunge. Great cats of every description now prowled around the outskirts of the sacred stones, their misty breath seeping from the forest in fetid clouds. The awed muttering of the soil announced these sacred guests; two hundred leopards, a thousand panthers, and one fierce tiger — the entourage of bold Sycorax, eight-legged Lion of the Wind and King in the North.
Some thirty hands high at the shoulder, with teeth more suited to clash on armored knights than wildebeests' soft flesh, with decadent mane continually infused with the gory remnants of past prey — here we found our Landed Dominion. Four pairs of striding legs were each a guarantor of the Monarch Terrestrial's mastery over all that walked and crawled beyond the human gaze. Those iron claws and metaled furs brushed up against the People's higher law and grew docile.
Our tremendous consorts answered no call, responded to no summons — this Rite within the trees was not ordered, it did not even occur — at most one could say that all within the Hidden Wood simply was in accordance with that Will which tolerates no description and bursts the boundaries of all adjectives. That Will which was the entity we had come to see, perhaps even catch. Mundane thoughts, utterly unsuited to what we found instead.
The Force of the Will
Supplicated, the Limbs of the Earth stirred. We had heard these relics called the Altar of History, the Armor of the Before, but what I saw in that grove knew no name's mastery. Drum calls poured in from the plains and merged with the lamentations of the bells. The armor summoned its Wearer, as the Wearer had summoned all of us. All rose, all swelled in a pulse which banished reason. The second chime.
Acknowledge, my reader, that I make no use of metaphor or literary artifice in rendering you these scenes! What I say is as it was — completely. Here was the purpose of the Rite now before us; the labors of the La'Hamon, the confluence of the animals, and all the rest were slaved to the single purpose of invoking what was both an entity and far more. Drumming turned to roaring, calls to siren shrieks. There came before us now the Indomitable Will of the Earth.
A creature, a thing, the soul of our very planet — no name is adequate. Whence, why — ask not! I tell it to you as it was witnessed and no more. I beg again your patience and tax your credulity. Our tongue is tried heavily by the task before it.
I should not say we waiting watchers were joined by the Will, the Bearer of the Limbs — we joined It. That last word is meaningless as well, for the Wearer neither has gender, nor lacks it — but to explain further I am unable. Not even the La'Hamon understand that which is both older than and quite beyond the bounds of human thought.
We animals stepped back in unison as the Will donned Its assembled regalia, taking up the plates' stony bulk as easily as the wind lifts the leaves, though even now language itself buckles under the weight of the event's mere description!
What had brought forth those leaders of the beasts now produced the Laughing Herald of the Four Winds and the Blazing Champion of the Sun, whose roaring gusts and stinging beams of light threatened to scour the flesh from our bones and ignite the still-sodden trunks of the rainforest. Yet I cannot linger over their description, for at their arrival the jungle cats and taunting birds sent up a paean, a song of triumph of such great volume that the total sound of the whole ritual prior bore a greater resemblance to silence, than to this new pandemonium.
Only now was the Stony Crown of Nations raised to the highest by that Will which did not raise it. The climax of the ceremony was upon us and the World-Soul quivered. The granite helm lowered on to the incomprehensible brow of that Foremost Strength. Amidst combustuous ruin and clarion call the Rite Without Words birthed a third stupefying pulse which banished language.
***
When our tongues returned to our heads, we of the expedition left the village and returned to our homes. We had seen a marvel without equal. A phenomenon to sate an enormity of wanderlust and fit to confound any number of representatives from those adventurous organizations which seek to police the stranger things on earth.
Behind us, the orbit of history continued. The stone armor, once more inert, was laid back within its burrow. A year, perhaps three if not a hundred, would pass before the People came to wake it once again.
My Duchess, I have traveled far at your behest and brought you many treasures. There, by the Bend of the River, the fabric of the world soul was revealed through a phenomenon which I have described as fully as speech allows. As for the how or the why of it, the name of the land from which those beast-lords hailed, or of the Stone Armor's divine sculptor; to all such questions I must say let it be enough that I saw these deeds, and can relate them to you — of explanations, the True World has no need!


For merchants, the place to be was Kalefheit, Heart of Kalef. Fables of the stupid rich, buying relics for ten times what they were worth, and of poor men, who went from starving to retiring in the space of a day, abounded in the world of trade.
So two men rode east across the desert, one on horseback, one on camel, hoping to find themselves dressed in colored silks on the other side. Three days were left to travel, with one village, Mideia, between them and the city, when they found two dead men lying face down in the dirt. Both packs appeared to have been rifled through, and the sand around them was stained black with dried blood.
“A follower of York got lucky here!” One man shouted to the other through a thick accent.
“No. There is plenty left to steal. The man who killed them took their water, maybe their horses, too. But look in this pack.” Where the first man, Kerrek, was thin and gaunt looking, sharp-featured and bony, the second was broad and muscular. His name was Goreth.
They emptied the pack on the ground, and found it was filled with relics. Kerrek lit up, seeing value where Goreth saw wonder. Within was a plain set of clothes (Kerrek added it to his own gear), a corroded metal coffee mug with letters of the old language (‘ITT Industries — Bell & Goss- the second name was rusted over), a polished black pipe (a bag of tobacco was tucked inside the coffee mug, though neither man realized its purpose, so this was discarded), and a green book.
“Hmm… What would a Kalefheit man give for a relic of the old world? ” Kerrek's eyes had widened with glee and anticipation.
“Food, water, his wealth and daughter?” Goreth finished the joke. Both laughed and hugged each other for their find.
Kerrek examined the pipe, while Goreth opened the book. He looked at the page, and examined the only line on it. He flipped to the back, then the front, finding nothing in the other pages. He furrowed his brow and went back to the page with words, remembering what he hadn't used since he was a small boy. He sounded it out.
“What does that mean, Goreth?” Kerrek did not know how to read, as it was.
Goreth frowned, and shook his head. “I don't know. But we must ride, friend. We can reach the Mideia village before sundown.”
The two strapped the finds to their rides and started off at a brisk pace. They had no food left, and Kerrek hoped to find something to eat before they slept. They rode with him in front by three lengths, contemplating his dinner. Had he looked back, he might have asked Goreth what was on his mind. To somebody who didn't know him, he would have looked upset. But the large man rarely looked anything else, and in truth, he was looking on thoughtfully.
The book was no tome, and not heavy by any means. But he could have flipped to any page, and yet he flipped to the only one with words on it. It was a funny little coincidence…
Before Goreth could think on the matter any longer, he fell from his horse and died.
Kerrek, while irritated briefly, laughed at himself a moment later, remembering that he was going to kill Goreth anyway, to avoid splitting profits. He had planned on doing it in two nights, while they slept between Mideia and Kalefheit. This was just as well for him, as now his only hindrance was tying Goreth's horse to his own camel.
He did not realize — how could he? — that had Goreth lived for another day and night, he would have become richer than either of them could have hoped.
But he rode on to Mideia.

Kerrek did not want to sell his wares in the village. It was poor, and nobody had much need for relics. And even if somebody decided to buy from him, a Kalefheit man would pay twice what he could get here. But he needed food. Or rather, he wanted food, and figured that buying something to eat in Mideia was more prudent than in Kalefheit, if one had a choice. At least until he made his fortune.
So he would sell one relic from the pack he and Goreth had found. He would accept nothing less than what he could use to buy one of the chickens he had seen on his way into the heart of the village, and then he would eat, sleep, ride, and get rich.
Sitting on the blanket he had laid out, he called to anyone who would listen. “Relics! RELICS! Have you not seen the utensils of kings yet, my friends? But look and peruse, the very stuff of legends!”
As he was showing one elder the black pipe (“But what else could it be for, my friend? Orphaned infants, to suckle off of! Put the milk of a goat of your choosing in this wide end, and let them nurse at the tip…”), a young girl, eight years at most, looked over the things with wonder. The elder walked away shaking his head. Kerrek scowled, and turned to the girl.
“And just what do you need, little miss?” His voice seeped with sarcasm and acid, making the little girl cringe backwards, seeming to shrink.
“My momma told me to fetch a chicken for us to eat, tonight. She gave me this.” The little one held up a coin. Its edges were flat and rough and uneven.
Kerrek brightened, thinking about the fool's gold he had laying before him, and thanked York for the fool before him. “Well little miss, surely your mother wouldn't mind if you browsed for but a moment.” His tone had changed from scaly and patronizing, becoming animated and colorful. “Look at the wonders before you, and tell me what catches your pretty eye.”
She picked up the book. Odd child. “Ah, the wizard's tome! The little miss has a good eye.” She opened the book and gasped.
“My grandmother showed me these letters!”
“No!”
“Yes! She showed them to me before she died. I know the sounds they make!”
What a useless skill. “Then it's fate, little miss! No doubt your grandmother wanted you to take this book, she sent it here!”
“Really?” “Of course! Bring it to your family, show them what you've found. This is worth much more than a tired old chicken, sweetling. This is magic.” The girl gasped.
“But, I only have-” She trailed off, looking at the coin. Her eyes started to swell. Kerrek got on one knee, so he could look up at her. “No, little miss, I can't interfere with fate! Here, take the book. I'll only take the coin, even though the Wizard's Tome is worth its weight in silver!” Stupid girl. “Best of luck, best of luck. Run home, run, for surely your family will shower you with praise for the magic you have brought into their lives!” The little girl started running frantically with a huge grin, before she doubled back to the merchant.
“Wha-“ She threw her arms around his waist in a tight embrace, before she started running again, clutching the book to her chest.
“Stupid.” Kerrek rolled up the blanket and tied it to his horse. He flipped the coin, caught it, and walked in the direction of the chicken coop.

“Stupid girl!” Her mother shrieked. Her voice boomed in the little hut. “Stupid, stupid, STUPID!” She hit the girl across the face. “WE CAN'T EAT A BOOK!”
“But the book is-“ “MAGIC?” She slapped her again. “THERE IS NO MAGIC, ABIRT-DAMNED, STUPID, USELESS GIRL!” She grabbed up the book and hurled it like a disc out the doorway.
“SLEEP OUTSIDE! SEE IF THE BOOK KEEPS YOU ALIVE!”
The girl slipped through the doorway, crying. She found the book and stared at it, before she pounded it as hard as she could with her tiny fist. Some of the others in the village looked out at her from their huts. She kept crying while she went around back. A few minutes went by before she calmed down enough to open the book again. By the light of the setting sun, she sounded out the letters her grandmother had taught her nearly a year ago. But it only said the same thing, and felt decidedly un-magical. With that, a new wave of emotion overcame her, and she cried herself to sleep —

— and awoke in the most beautiful place she had ever seen.
It was a Wonderland, with a vivid landscape of trees and valleys, and mountains in the distance. Birds colored like rainbows flew right over her head, and she watched as amazing animals sprinted across the valley below. She looked up, and saw more stars than ever before, despite it still seeming like daytime, with two suns in the distance.
“Excuse me, little miss.”
She spun around and gasped at the man before her.
He was tall, almost twice as tall as she was, and much older. His beard was long, but tidy, down to his chest, and was bright white. His hair was the same color, as were his eyebrows, which were bushy, and raised as he looked at her. The voice he used was soft and deep, but friendly, and he was very calm when he spoke. His face was friendly too, with many wrinkles and creases on the sides of his upturned lips.
But most amazing was his cloak. It was a shimmering green, and flowed with waves of shades, from a deep, deep emerald that almost looked obsidian, to a light leafy olive, and everything in between. The girl was stupefied.
“Hello there.”
“Are- are you the wizard?” She was stammering, and even though he seemed friendly, she wasn't sure what to make of him. But he smiled, and she felt better straightaway.
“I suppose I am… May I ask who you are, young one?”
“Aleia.”
“What a pretty name… Aleia. So, Aleia, do you know where you are?” The girl gazed about her shyly. She had never seen the animals before, had never seen a sight so beautiful.
“Am I in Heaven?”
“Ha!” The old man's laugh was full, and deep, and wasn't mean at all. It was young.
“No, my dear, you aren't in Heaven. You're far too young to see the afterlife. That's for old men like me. You're in the book you found, Aleia.”
“The book…”
“The book. I call myself the Book Keeper, but you may call me whatever you like. And in here, I suppose, a wizard is about right.”
“The book had words in it.”
“Can you read, Aleia?”
“My grandmother showed me letters, but I only know some of the sounds they make. I can't read very good.”
“Would you be so kind as to walk with me Aleia? I haven't had company in a very long time, and would love to speak with a bright youth like yourself.”
So they walked through the marvelous forests and valleys, and the Book Keeper answered all of Aleia's questions. She had found a magic book, and was elated at the thought.
“It was magic!”
“Indeed. And so you see, Aleia, when people visited me before, it was a very different time, when people had all they needed, and knew all they could hope to know.”
“The Old World?”
“Yes. But I've went a long time without any visitors, and am so happy that you've come here. I do wonder what happened to the other man, he hasn't shown up yet… Ah well. He'll be along soon enough. What I want to ask you, Aleia, is if you'll come back again.”
“Oh, yes, Book Keeper. This place is wonderful!” He smiled an elated smile.
“But you have to promise me something, Aleia.” His expression turned somber. “I made a mistake in the Old World, one that I will never let happen again… You have to promise me that you'll keep being happy in your world. You may visit as often as you like, and indeed I hope you do. But you have to remember your promise, and live in your world as much as you do mine.” Aleia nodded with energy. “Good.” The Book Keeper smiled again.
“Book Keeper?”
“Yes, little one?”
“What did the words say? I don't know the sounds very good.”
“It said, ‘A Hero is Born'. How much do you know about the letters your grandmother showed you?”
“Not very much Book Keeper. She only knew a little bit, too.” The smile disappeared, and the wizard looked puzzled.
“I think we'll start there. Aleia, will you let me teach you how to read?”


It had been a dark and bloody night. A veritable parade of horror had descended on a small Midwestern town, led by a shambling, laughing, singing fiend playing a flute made of bone. Now, at dawn, the fiend and his circus of death were making themselves comfortable. Pale figures huddled in burnt out houses; dark figures hid in the brush and in basements; tiny skeletons sat in the sun, murmuring quietly amongst themselves.
The Scarecrow watched the sun rise, scraping shreds of warm meat from his claws. He was quite satisfied with his work, having done his best to make every death quick and terrifying. The Harvest was bountiful so far.
But then he felt unfamiliar eyes on himself. He shook himself out of his daydream and looked around himself, wondering who could possibly still be alive. His gaze fell on a tiny figure, barely a foot tall, peeking out from behind a picket fence. It wasn't a dog, nor cat, because he had made sure to slay everything that he could catch. Everything else had fled far away; what could his little visitor possibly be?
"Whaz all this, then?" Scarecrow muttered as he came to loom over the fence, his horrid platoon of wraiths circling around him. He lightly kicked the fence, and the tiny figure peeked out from behind. It was a tiny teddy bear, with a squished face and black eyes. He crouched down and saw something in those beady little eyes, something that he couldn't quite place. Something innocently evil, something both inhuman and totally human at once.
"Yor a horrid little fucker, aren't you?"
The bear looked beside itself as another figure stepped out from behind the fence. A small figure, perhaps a foot tall, shaped much like the little teddybear - only instead of fur and string, made of human eyes. They all seemed to stare up at the Scarecrow, each meeting his gaze with their own. He stared back, almost disbelieving of what he saw.
For you see, there were few things in this world that the Scarecrow found to be beautiful. One of them was the human eye - such a wonderful, perfect organ. The pure white of an unblemished soul, splashed with the vivid red of lifeblood, each accented by a ring of colour as unique as the person it's cut from. All surrounding a tiny, black void that reflected the Scarecrow's heart, itself black and nonexistent. It was all very metaphorical.
"… Oh," breathed the Scarecrow, his own infernal eyes burning like coals. "Oh I like you. I like you an' I like yor little buddy. I think I'll keep ya." The demon turned, looking over the army of the dead that now entirely encircled him, and pointed down at the teddy bears. "Oi, e'rybody welcome our new friends. Play nice, eh? Take them around an' show em all the nice stuff we do."
The two teddies reached towards one another and held hands, following the Scarecrow's movement as he stood up, looming over them. There was a great cheer as the ghosts and ghouls and skeletons and shadows each cheered, several of the littlest skeletons running forward to cuddle the bears. The Scarecrow stepped over the crowd, smiling to himself, wondering idly what other horrible little things were waiting for him in that wild, wide world.
He looked to the sky at the warm morning sun, spreading his arms to take in the warmth. A fantastically fun night of horror and violence, a wonderful clear morning sky, a new friend or two, and a new day.
And the children were happy, too.

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