《Memories of Madness: Illustrated Short Stories》 Tantalus Brambles tug at my legs. There will be cuts, but that¡¯s the morning¡¯s problem. It¡¯s not like I can feel them, anyway. The temperature has just dipped below freezing, and already the fog is starting to rise. It creeps from the lake, lapping at the banks, at the woods, at my ankles. Lapping like a swollen tongue. She likes these nights. At least, I think she likes them. This is when she always calls me. It¡¯s not a long walk, down from the cabin where mummy and daddy sleep; down from the cabin that is home during the school holidays. I¡¯ve heard mum and dad say that the walk is difficult, that the thorns and low branches make it dangerous; they just don¡¯t know how to walk it. They care too much about silly little scrapes and sticky threads of spider webs. It is small, small and narrow, but I have opened a path here over time. I walk through the underbrush as quickly and as quietly as I can, muttering apologies to the voles whose foraging I disturb, and the owls, whose voles I have scared back to the water. Something darts between the bushes ahead of me. It¡¯s an otter, I think. I clutch the bulging napkin I carry closer to my chest. It would not do to drop it. She asked me so nicely to bring it. She always asks nicely. At least, at first she does. I walk quicker now than I used to. She¡¯s louder than she used to be. She¡¯s louder and more urgent. She calls me. She¡¯s hungry. ¡°Not long now,¡± I whisper, ¡°I am close.¡± The fresh new limbs of a young birch extend across my path, its switches swatting me as I push through. It¡¯s hard work for one with a frame as small and frail as mine, but this is why I can come this way when mummy and daddy can¡¯t. I persist. I persevere. I answer the call. I near the water. The fog is still here, sitting atop the water like the foamy bubbles on a bath. It¡¯s calm. It¡¯s quiet. There is no hooting, no rustling, no howling of the wind. Only I am allowed to disturb her. Only I have what she wants.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. I kick off my shoes and socks and leave them neatly aligned next to a strip of bark, resting in a dry patch of mud. They will be waiting for me when I get back. I don¡¯t hesitate. I walk into the water. The shimmering surface does not crack and ripple. Instead, small mouths open around my calves, sucking on them like giant leeches. They swallow me inch by inch, deeper and deeper, as I move closer to the center of the lake. I cannot see my toes, lost in the bellies of these worms. I see only the white veil of the fog, above and below. Then I see her. She¡¯s been crying. She¡¯s been crying, this girl who looks like me. Even through the water, I can see her eyes are damp, her cheeks are stained, and her nose drip, drip, drips incessantly. Her mouth is twisted in an ugly grimace of self-pity. Ugly. So ugly. ¡°Do you have it?¡± she snivels. ¡°Yes,¡± I mouth back. ¡°Give it to me! Give it to me, please! I¡¯m hungry. I¡¯m so very hungry!¡± I have long stopped pitying her, this girl in the water who looks like me but is not me. I have long stopped feeling responsible for her hunger. Still, she calls to me. She calls to me night after night, year after year, and I know I will come. How can I say no to her, this girl who looks like me? I gently open up the napkin, and carefully place its contents upon the unbroken surface of the water. Bread and cheese. The girl in the water claws at the offering like an animal. It is a graceless lunge. It is desperation, pure desperation. But, this time, just as every other, the bread becomes sodden and swollen, and begins to tip beneath the surface. The thin slices of cheese drift along briefly like wood-rotten rafts, and then they too slip away, deep into the lake. They sink away, far from reach, far from famished mouths and hollow stomachs. ¡°No! NO!¡± The girl in the lake is screaming now. She is screaming and scrabbling for the morsels that are lost to her. Shouting. Snatching. Crying. This is all she will do now, I know. This is all she has ever done, ever since that first year. That first year was different. That first year was special. Back then we had so much fun. Back then the pit in her belly was just a nuisance, not a purpose. She was fun back then. She won¡¯t be fun again. I watch her, this girl in the lake who looks like me, but is not me. I watch her with pitiless eyes as the sun penetrates the deep fog, and bleaches her from existence. There is no girl in the water now. There is no me staring back at me. Only the white blanket of fog stains the lake. She will be back tomorrow. That is how it always goes. She will call for me then as she did tonight. It is our routine. Tomorrow we will go through the same useless, sad ritual. What a burden it must be, I think to myself as I walk the path back to the cabin where mummy and daddy stay. What a horrible burden it must be, I think to myself as I walk the path back to the cabin where the girl¡¯s mummy and daddy stay. How awful it must be to need to eat. Follow your Dreams May 15th I can¡¯t believe it. After all this time, we finally found it. I¡¯ve finally found them. Grandfather¡¯s journal was detailed, but he was always a careful man. It has taken me half my life to decipher the old man¡¯s ramblings. At least, that¡¯s what he would have people think it was, just rambling nonsense. Hidden in the pages and paragraphs of his journal, there was a discovery to be made - a cryptic map. It was a map that would lead us to them. A map to lead us to those who came before. May 19th It took myself and Mr. Exler, my hired muscle for this expedition, the best part of a week to remove the rubble around the entrance. All that remains is to pry open the door and see what lies beyond. We were eager to push on, but the hour is late, and we are tired. We will enter in the morning, when we are rested and ready to appreciate what we may find. There must have been a landslide at some stage, as the arch was almost completely hidden. Parker doesn¡¯t think this is a coincidence. He thinks that somebody blocked the entrance deliberately, to keep others from this discovery. Could my grandfather have done such a thing? May 20th We¡¯ve done it! We¡¯re through. Inside we found an enormous cavern, stretching so high that our lamps do not light the ceiling. A great many large rocks stick up from the ground, forming a rough circle. The rocks seem to have been placed here. What¡¯s more, if my books are correct, then these rocks are obsidian. This is very peculiar, as I know of no sources of obsidian for miles around. This is surely the product of an advanced and intelligent race. May 21st Two things happened last night. I have no explanation for either. As the three of us drifted to sleep after supper, there came a low rumble. It was an earthquake, no doubt, although I swear the locals have never spoken of such a thing. The earthquake dislodged some loose stone above the entrance, and we once again find that there is rubble and boulders between us and the door, only this time that door is our way out, not our way in. However, the misfortune of this can wait. Something far more pressing has occurred. No sooner had the earthquake halted its shaking, than we noticed a pale light forming. It was the rocks. The rocks have begun to glow! May 22nd Extraordinary! Absolutely extraordinary! The glowing of the rocks has begun to take shape! There are patterns here! Images? Perhaps even writing! There can be no doubt in my mind now - we stand in the creation of a race far greater than our own. There is much to learn. Much to record. I will study. I must learn all. May 24th Mr. Exler is growing frustrated with me. He grumbles and complains that he is left alone to remove the debris that blocks us in. It seems there is more to contend with than we originally thought. I have no time for this, and I have no time for him. Doesn¡¯t he know we are on the edge of discovery? I can¡¯t afford to stop working.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. May 27th Disaster. Matthew Exler has perished in another cave-in. The poor soul grew impatient and must have chiseled away too vigorously. There is little we can do at this time, save cover the body and say a few words. Peter swears that he saw one of the rocks flash moments before the cave-in. He swears the cause was unnatural. Poor Peter, I fear he is losing his mind. He must simply accept that Exler is dead because he wanted to escape. How can anyone dream of escape from a place as wondrous as this? May 28th Parker believes he heard movement in the night. He believes we are not alone here. How wonderful that would be! Alas, I think he heard only the scratching of my pencil as I hurry to sketch all that I can. May 30th We have exhausted our supplies. To be honest, I scarcely noticed. I have had far too much to think about to listen to the complaints of my stomach. There is moisture enough seeping through the cavern walls to keep us from falling to thirst, but food is a different matter. Peter thinks that we should call it a day. He thinks that we should turn all of our attention to escape, to returning home. I feel I am home already. June 2nd Parker has become quite useless now that the food has run out. He weeps mostly, or claws uselessly at the rubble blocking the doorway. He mutters to himself constantly. I fear he has gone quite mad. He will be much happier once he gives up on returning to the surface. June 4th Parker ate his gun this morning. He died instantly. No matter. At least now I can work in peace. June 5th To my surprise, the muttering did not end with Parker. Perhaps he was right after all. Perhaps something is here with us - with me. Sometimes I fancy that the stones themselves are speaking to me. In truth, I have long wondered this, but felt a fool to entertain the idea whilst the others still lived. June 6th My own hunger has grown to a point where I cannot ignore it. It is a distraction I do not need. I accepted weeks ago that I will not leave this place. I knew almost as soon as those rocks fell that this would be my life¡¯s work in every sense. I am not saddened by this, only proud. Yet there is still much to do. I am sure now that these markings are writing. I have seen some patterns repeated, and some linked as if to form words or sentences. I know I am on to something - the stones tell me so. I just need to continue working. I need to work through the hunger. June 8th I contemplated eating the remains of my fellows last night. That would not do for a gentleman explorer. I have decided to remove this temptation for good. I have burned their bodies and said a prayer of passing. They are fortunate, I think, to have funerals in this sacred place. I almost envy them. The meat smelt disturbingly good. June 9th I did what had to be done. I have eaten several of the fingers on my left hand. I hardly felt the pain, I was so hungry. In fact, rather alarmingly, once I had started I found it difficult to stop. Thank goodness I am still strong of mind and will. The fingers I have lost are of no inconvenience to me. I can still work. If I am clever and careful, there is food about my person for another week yet. June 11th Incredible! Quite incredible! The stones have begun to respond to me! They light up at my touch, and the figures rearrange themselves to make new patterns! New words! I have been accepted by them, I feel. Perhaps they wish me to follow them wherever it is they went. Perhaps I will see them with my own eyes. The whisper of the stones grows louder. I can hear them calling. Jim, they say, Jim, Jim. Jim. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ¡°Honey, have you seen Jim?¡± ¡°Yeah, he was out playing in the shed with some rocks and toys and stuff.¡± ¡°In the shed?¡± ¡°Mm-hm. I checked in on him earlier. He looked like he was having fun.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you think he¡¯s a bit old to be playing with toys?¡± ¡°Hey, if society allowed it, I¡¯d be right there playing with him.¡± ¡°What a great role-model you are. Well he¡¯s played right through lunch, and he¡¯s not going to miss dinner as well.¡± ¡°Oh, give him another half an hour.¡± ¡°Not a chance. Jim! Jim! Jim! Is that boy deaf? Geez. Jim!¡± ¡°Hey, mum.¡± ¡°There you are. Do you have any idea what time it is?¡± ¡°No, mum. Sorry.¡± ¡°Whatever, go set the table for supper.¡± ¡°Okay.¡± ¡°Wait... Jim, what happened to your hand? What the hell happened to your fingers, Jim!¡± Lambs to the Slaughter Mary had a little lamb Little lamb, little lamb Mary had a little lamb It''s fleece was white as snow Mary was a wife of mine Wife of mine, wife of mine Mary was a wife of mine The best you¡¯ve ever known I close my eyes and hear her screams Hear her screams, hear her screams I close my eyes and hear her screamsThe narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. And will until I die They killed Mary in front of me Front of me, front of me They killed Mary in front of me And now I¡¯ll see them pay They came for blood and blood they¡¯ll get Blood they¡¯ll get, blood they¡¯ll get They came for blood and blood they¡¯ll get I¡¯ll see that they all bleed I hear them sneaking through the maize Through the maize, through the maize I hear them sneaking through the maize They think that they are safe I¡¯ve four bullets and they are three They are three, they are three I¡¯ve four bullets and they are three That¡¯s one each for us all Mary had a little lamb Little lamb, little lamb Mary had a little lamb It''s fleece was white as snow Soon I¡¯ll see my sweet Mary, Sweet Mary, sweet Mary Soon I¡¯ll see my sweet Mary Not death will see us part Mary had a little lamb Little lamb, little lamb Mary had a little lamb It''s fleece was white as snow I Only Have Eyes for You The night¡¯s cold. November cold. Strange for June. That¡¯s okay. The cold helps me think. I light a cigarette. I inhale deep, holding the bitter smoke of the Marlboro Red at the back of my throat for as long as I can bear. It burns, but it burns so good. I find it comforting, like a lover¡¯s embrace. It¡¯s time to report. I¡¯m at my usual payphone, the one on the corner of George St. and Croft. Call me old fashioned, but a payphone is as crucial in my line of work as a wrench to a mechanic. I¡¯m no conspiracy nut, but phones can be traced, messages are saved to a cloud, and your emails will outlive you. If that makes me dated, then so be it. Old fashioned business requires an old fashioned touch. I approach the payphone. There¡¯s a crack in the side glass. It¡¯s been there forever, and will probably be there forever more. There are flyers around the place: penis extension; call for a good time; suicide hotline. Why bother? Nobody uses the damn phone but me. They¡¯re watching me. I feel it. They¡¯re tucked away at the edge of the square of light cast by the one functional streetlamp. Nosy bastards. I punch the number and wait. The dial tone is deep and tinny. It¡¯s soothing, familiar. ¡°Hello?¡± ¡°Hilary?¡± I ask. It¡¯s a stupid question. I could pick out her voice in a crowd of thousands. It¡¯s that perfect blend between smooth and smoky. It¡¯s a Marlboro Red voice. ¡°Yes?¡± She¡¯s playing dumb too. No problem, I¡¯ve got time for her.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. ¡°You were right,¡± I say. She exhales heavily into the mouthpiece. It sounds like someone¡¯s crushing a ball of tin foil in my ear, but I¡¯m used to it. It¡¯s what they always do. ¡°That son of a bitch,¡± she says. ¡°Your husband entered the Premier Inn by the Smithfield turn-off at around 1900 this evening. He was accompanied by a young lady ¨C brunette, five-two, early twenties. They¡¯re still there now.¡± ¡°He always did like them young.¡± She laughed, but there was no humour to it. It was bitter. Cold. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say. They seem to like it when I say I¡¯m sorry. ¡°Did you see them yourself?¡± ¡°My eyes did.¡± It¡¯s a simple reply. Honest. ¡°Well, do you think you could have your eyes look into who this girl is?¡± She pauses. She wants me to think that she¡¯s making a decision. Theatrics. It¡¯s a decision she made long before she picked up the phone. ¡°I¡¯d like to send this girl a message,¡± she says, ¡°How much to turn those eyes her way?¡± I can already feel those same eyes widening, burning. They¡¯re excited, although they¡¯ll never admit it. ¡°Same as before,¡± I say. ¡°Same as before,¡± she confirms, ¡°Good luck.¡± There¡¯s a soft click, like someone pulling back the hammer on a gun, and then the line goes dead. It would have been nice to talk to Ms. Hilary a little longer, but there¡¯s work to do. Dreams of romance can wait. I walk away from the phone booth, back to the edge of the light. I light another cigarette and pull hard. Damn, it burns so good. It¡¯s a few degrees colder now. That¡¯s their doing. They¡¯re crowding in. They¡¯re keen. They always bring the damn cold. Hilary thinks that I pay for the eyes. That makes me laugh. The eyes are always open, always watching. That¡¯s not what costs me so damn much. It¡¯s the mouths that are so fucking expensive. I pull my pocket knife out. It¡¯s an old Leatherman, given to me by my dad when he still thought I might learn a trade, make something of my life. I open up the pliers. I take another pull on my cigarette. I clamp the pliers down on my right thumb nail. I pull. Fuck me, it hurts so bad. Those twisted little fuckers. I know it¡¯s the pain they want. It never gets any easier. I look at my hands. They¡¯re shaking. My cigarette slips from between my fingers. It bounces off the pavement. I crush it to dust. It¡¯s a stupid thing to do - childish, petty. I breathe deep. I need to get a grip. Only three fingernails left. What then? Toenails? And after that? Will I be cut off then, or will the price just keep going up? At what point will I say it¡¯s too much? When I can¡¯t type? When I can¡¯t taste? When I can¡¯t see? Questions for another time. I toss the bloodied nail into the darkness. I lose sight of it instantly. ¡°Okay, Ixarith,¡± I say, ¡°Let¡¯s talk.¡± The Bombs They had been in the throes of passion when the bombs went off. The sound tore through the night like the shockwave of thunder without the gentle patter of rain to accompany it. A blinding flash of white light through the window, despite how far away they were. Natasha ran from the bedroom, a curse on her lips, Adrian quick behind her as he jostled to dress himself. He followed her outside where she stood in a raincoat grabbed from the door. Staring at the lingering cloud in the distance. A great mushroom that covered the sky rising from the city and blotting out the stars like some angry god. Natasha leaned into him, biting at her thumbnail as more flecks of white appeared in the far distance. The bombs had been expected. The world was on the cusp of war and the tensions between nations were ever growing. This was the first step, but it was not going to be a war. This was going to be an extermination. The end of the human race. Natasha cried and Adrian stared in baffled silence for a long time. They had expected this. It was the very reason they had come to their beach house. Should the world end, this is where they would want to be. They had discussed it, and they had discussed what to do should the time come. After a moment, Natasha wiped her eyes and took Adrian¡¯s hand. ¡°Come,¡± she said, a different woman now, the sorrow gone and replaced with grim determination. Adrian followed as she pulled him along, the gentle eddying waves of the tide masking their footsteps. She took him up to the top of a nearby cliff. Their home still visible down below.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. The precipice of the cliff looked out over sharp rocks and strong waves. Adrian looked at this as they stood in the bed of wildflowers by the cliffs edge, but Natasha looked only at her husband. ¡°It¡¯s time,¡± she said, and kissed him. It was a passionate kiss; it was to be their last. Adrian stumbled over his words, stammering, and spluttering incomprehensibly in a bid to change her mind. She simply smiled back at him with a tear on her cheek. Taking his hand once again Natasha walked up to the edge and closed her eyes before throwing herself into the water. He was meant to go with her, but Adrian panicked. Not ready to face his own mortality. For a moment, as she fell and he stood, their hands pulled at one another, but his grip faltered and she disappeared, leaving him standing alone. He found himself on the beach by their home again, kneeling in the sand, looking out at the waves. Adrian cried. In his mind he debated his chances, the severity of the radiation that surely coursed through him. More bombs had sounded since Natasha had died. More horrible mushroom clouds littered the horizon. He was sure death was coming for him. A gentle rain had begun. A slight pattering of black raindrops fell around Adrian. One glanced off his arm and sent a bolt of searing pain through him. This shocked him to his senses. He looked around, and Adrian saw wildflowers sprouting from the sand and dirt where the rain fell. They were a host of beautiful colours and shapes, the very same type Natasha had planted at the top of the cliff. He knew this was madness. Was the radiation destroying his mind already, he thought? Was grief? He cared little at this point. From the water before him, a creature now stood. The towering image slowly traversed the water¡¯s surface, heading towards Adrian. Built of flowers and dressed in a crimson robe, the antlered creature brought the drenched body of Natasha from the watery depths towards him. His skin was hot and flush, sweat covering him as the rain continued to burn, Adrian watched in a fever dream as this creature approached and placed Natasha on the ground before him. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Adrian said, taking her hand in his. It felt warm to him. He looked up to the creature ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said again. Apologizing for the world, apologizing for the death and the destruction, even though he played no part in it. All he could do now was plead with a god for the forgiveness of human sin. ¡°Nature will always strive.¡± A voice said sweetly in Adrian¡¯s ear. It was the voice of Natasha. He looked down where she lay, now in a bed of luxurious wildflowers. Adrian smiled, and slumped next to her on the beach. Here he would die, and the world that was theirs, shortly after. Cigarettes and Clichés ¡°What do you reckon?¡± Steve took a swig from his can of Bud, ¡°A dollar? Sure, I¡¯ll take that action.¡± ¡°My man!¡± John cheered, ¡°Tiffany?¡± Tiffany shot back a cheeky half smile, ¡°I¡¯ll take that bet. I¡¯ve seen you throw a football; I think my money¡¯s safe.¡± ¡°Woooah,¡± Steve goaded, eyes ping-ponging between the boyfriend and girlfriend. John¡¯s chest inflated, ¡°I¡¯m the best damn quarterback in the state, little miss, and I¡¯m about to prove it. You in the mood to lose some money as well, Jodie?¡± Jodie tapped frantically at her cigarette, dislodging half the tobacco along with the ash, ¡°Maybe this isn¡¯t such a good idea, guys.¡± ¡°You got the heebie jeebies there, Cartwright?¡± John scoffed, ¡°Well, whatever, it¡¯s your buck. You¡¯re smarter than these two if you plan to hold onto it,¡± John cocked back his arm, his elbow bent at 45 degrees, ¡°Go long!¡± The stone blinked through the evening sky. Only the satisfying sound of shattering glass was confirmation of its destination. Steve wrapped his hands around his eyes like a pair of binoculars, ¡°Second floor, first window from the left. You son of a bitch, your aim was true,¡± he chuckled as he produced a crumpled dollar bill. John bent at the waist, bowing to each of them in turn. It was a more impressive feat than the throw, given how tight his skinny jeans were. ¡°I thank you, I thank you,¡± John said as he collected his winnings, ¡°I would also like to thank Coach Fletcher, for my stellar training, God, for giving me these guns,¡± he kissed the bicep of his throwing arm, ¡°and the good people over at Powerboost, for making sure Johnny gets enough whey in him to grow up big and strong! Awoo!¡± he bellowed, beating his chest like a gorilla. Tiffany and Steve laughed at the antics; Jodie danced nervously on the spot. ¡°Damnit, John, can¡¯t you do anything quietly?¡± she hissed. ¡°Check the attitude, slick,¡± John snapped back, a touch of aggression entering his voice, ¡°Who exactly am I disturbing? This place has been abandoned for years, and I¡¯m pretty sure only crack-heads live in this neighborhood now.¡± ¡°I heard it was those junkies that did for this lot,¡± Tiffany said, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets as she nodded at the old house, ¡°A sweet young couple with three children, murdered for the change in their wallets. Makes me sick.¡± Steve was looking intently at the ground, ¡°I found an article in the local paper that said the place was a hang-out for a bunch of Satanists. One year on the solstice they decided to off themselves in some kind of ritual mass suicide-sacrifice. Nobody had any idea until the smell got so bad that folks three blocks over were complaining.¡±This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it ¡°Jesus, Steve, come on!¡± Jodie reprimanded, ¡°Yeah, look, we¡¯ve heard it all before: they were vampires; they were werewolves; aliens took them; a serial killer from out of state broke in; the government abducted them for whacky experiments; yada yada yada.¡± ¡°You forgot the one where the kid offed his parents and sisters with power tools,¡± John added helpfully. Jodie gave John a sidelong look and mouthed, ¡®thanks¡¯, ¡°The point is, we know it¡¯s all bullshit! That doesn¡¯t mean we should go around,¡± she waved a fresh cigarette about, ¡°disrespecting the place.¡± ¡°Never had you pegged for a goody two-shoes, Cartwright,¡± John smirked. ¡°I¡¯m multifaceted,¡± she sneered. ¡°People, people, people, keep it civil,¡± Steve stepped in, ¡°Jodie has a point, whatever happened in the past, some poor bastard is probably trying to sell that place now, and I bet he¡¯s bargaining on it having a few windows when he does.¡± ¡°Not quite what I said, but fine,¡± Jodie grumbled. ¡°Fine, ruin my fun,¡± John tsked. ¡°On the contrary, my good fellow,¡± Steve pointed dramatically up the road, ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, to the park! John and I have a score to settle on the Jungle Gym.¡± John brightened immediately, ¡°You really keen to lose more money tonight, buddy?¡± ¡°The challenge has been accepted! Onwards!¡± They marched off to the sound of trumpet fanfare, painfully replicated through balled-up fists. Tiffany and Jodie rolled their eyes in unison, but they were both smiling as they followed behind the pair of buffoons. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- John won the Jungle Gym Olympics five to four, after insisting on three rematches. Tiffany and Jodie were half asleep by the time they were done, and it was gone midnight. Despite the hour, Jodie rejected the offer to have the boys walk her home, even if her route did take her past the creepy abandoned house. She didn¡¯t want them making a fuss. Alone, she could just put her head down and walk on by. She approached the house with purpose, determined that this time she would continue without stopping. ¡°Come on, Jodie, just keep walking, just keep walking,¡± she muttered to herself. Her legs brought her to a stop outside the neighboring yard. ¡°Crap! Crap, crap, crap,¡± she seethed and cursed, ¡°How hard is it to just walk, you stupid feet?¡± The berated feet tapped and shuffled on the pavement apologetically. ¡°Come on, get it together,¡± Jodie commanded herself, lighting another cigarette and taking a series of short puffs, ¡°Okay, here we go.¡± She bit down hard on the filter, and strode with purpose. Head down, shoulders set, she walked forwards. Not once did she look up. Not once did she glance to the side¡­ Yet still she felt them. Those eyes were upon her. Four sets of eyes watching her, studying her, shaming her. Four sets of eyes glued to her, piercing deep into her soul. She stopped at the corner of the house, parallel with the last window. She was so close to freedom. She was so close to putting the damn place behind her, but she couldn¡¯t. She just couldn¡¯t. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she whispered at the ground. Jodie took a pull on her cigarette. She turned to face the unblinking eyes. ¡°I¡¯m so fucking sorry! Is that what you want to hear? Does that make you happy?¡± she screamed, ¡°I¡¯m just, just, so!¡± her fists clenched at her sides, ¡°¡­ sorry,¡± she sighed, the word almost lost through her tears. The eyes did not seem to care for her apology. They watched, and they watched, and they watched. Jodie finished her cigarette in one mighty pull and ground the butt beneath a sneaker. ¡°I¡¯m going home,¡± she told them contemptuously. Jodie turned on her heel and walked off towards her home. Her foster parents would be worried about her. Siren His breathing was becoming heavy, laboured. His feet trod unevenly along the path, snaking in front of one another, obstacles to themselves. His vision wavered. Each blink came sooner than the last. Each blink was longer than the last. ¡°What are you doing there, buddy?¡± a voice called through the haze in his head. It was a high, shrill voice, impossibly chirpy. ¡°I¡¯m,¡± his brow creased as he tried to remember, ¡°walking.¡± ¡°Walking? That way?¡± the voice was accompanied by a neon finger, high to the man¡¯s left. It jabbed the air, indicating the direction the man had been travelling. He nodded sourly, ¡°Yes. It¡¯s the only way.¡± ¡°And what¡¯s down that way?¡± the voice asked, a gentle hum preceding and following each word. ¡°Forward,¡± he said resolutely. He sighed, ¡°I think.¡± A hand clad in a white velvet glove gripped the wall to the man¡¯s left. It was followed by a monitor, cathode-ray tube, dials and switches, it¡¯s screen a blink of pixels and glitches. Upon the screen a face resolved, happy at first, until its smile dissolved. Its frowning features were green on black, it wore its expression with an absence of tact. ¡°¡­ Doesn¡¯t look like there¡¯s much down there,¡± the monitor crackled. The man looked ahead. He didn¡¯t know what was down there, to be perfectly honest. The destination was lost in darkness, and he didn¡¯t remember setting out. All he knew was that this was the path. This was the path, and he was a person who walked the path. ¡°There must be something. All roads lead somewhere, right?¡± the man said. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t know,¡± the monitor answered thoughtfully, ¡°These boots were not made for walking,¡± he pointed at his feet, leagues below, grinning.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. The young man ventured towards the low wall, ¡°Has this always been here?¡± The monitor leaned forward to inspect the dull, red-brick barricade. As he did, a torso clad in the uniform of a hotel doorman came into view, crisply ironed, with a maroon hue. ¡°Hmm, honestly couldn¡¯t say,¡± one Green-3 eye winked conspiratorially, ¡°Maybe you just never thought to look before.¡± ¡°Who said I was looking now?¡± the man answered defensively. As he challenged the monitor, he noticed the sound of music on the wind, a mix of genres ¨C loud, but not a din. Bright colours flashed through his monochrome haze, luminous, but without substance, avoiding his gaze. Snatches of laughter sang in his ears, and he even caught glimpses of some of his peers. ¡°What is that place?¡± ¡°Here? It¡¯s anything but there!¡± flashes of cheering people popped up on the screen, before reverting to the same black back and green, ¡°It¡¯s music, it¡¯s dance, it¡¯s videos and games, it¡¯s fun unfiltered, it¡¯s not for the tame. Say, that reminds me, what¡¯s your name?¡± ¡°Oh, it¡¯s, uh ¨C¡± ¡°Anything you want it to be, that¡¯s what it is! Player 1, anon, troll, Queen Liz, you can be Chuck Norris, Anjin, Nobody, or Link! Sit back and enjoy, with some snacks and a drink.¡± The picture was a reel of vices galore, a grand advertisement of what was in store. The man looked unsure, ¡°But what of meaning, of purpose, of need?¡± ¡°Oh, it¡¯s not all about giving in to greed! You can make friends, make stories, gain fame! The only difference? No two days are the same!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to pour my life down the drain¡­¡± ¡°What makes that end better than this? Is suffering so noble that this chance must be missed? Your body produces dopamine, serotonin, adrenaline, these hormones and more! Why not have them delivered right to your door?¡± he propped an elbow on the barrier and his countenance was stern, as the digital man went on in turn, ¡°Why hunt for satisfaction when it¡¯s already a natural reaction, to living a life not married to strife? Work or play, lovers or wife, nothing lasts past the end of the day, so just live your life!¡± The man looked once more to his unknown destination, even as he was tempted with thoughts of recreation. ¡°If I go with you can I ever come back?¡± ¡°A hop, skip and a jump and you¡¯ll be right on track!¡± ¡°It¡¯s an easy climb from my side to yours, but the way back looks steeper; are there no doors?¡± The sky was filled with fireworks and banners, the other side welcomed him like he was a pelt at a tanners. ¡°The world is your oyster, it¡¯s for you to decide! Come and go as you please, or stay for the ride,¡± an image of grinning teeth filled the TV, a smile as wide a s a cat¡¯s was all he could see. He looked once more at the steep path he had trod; there were still decades of uphills to scramble and plod. ¡°Perhaps a short stay would be kind of nice. I can spare a few minutes; it¡¯s not much of a price¡­¡± Tabiat Tabiat ¨C In my native tongue it means ¡®Nature¡¯, but to me it also means Father. Mother has told me not to speak our language now we are here. People do not like strangers here. She tells me I am to speak how they speak. I do this, but still they laugh. I say things wrong, and they make fun of the way their words sound from my mouth. The boys in my class push me and they make fun of me. Today three of the bigger boys, the worst of them all, they told me I should go back home. I was angry, I swore at them and punched them. But the teachers punished me, they gave me detention after class. The boys waited for me outside of the school. They tell me to go home, but Tabiat is my father, wherever there is nature that is my home.Stolen novel; please report. I was scared and tried to run home when I was let out. The boys chased me and shouted at me. It is a long way to our house; I could not run the whole way. They caught up with me. They pushed me down and hit me. I squirmed and broke free, ran into the woods. They chased me and said they were going to kill me. I was hit with a stone one of them threw and the others laughed. They laughed because I was crying. There is a small brook in this town; it is where I was able to escape to. The boys said they would drown me, that no one would ever find me. They said no one cared if the foreign boy disappears. I believe them. I broke off a branch to defend myself, I struck out and I managed to hit one on the arm. This just made them angrier. He punched me and broke my nose. They pushed me into the water and kicked me. Then they stopped. I stood up and saw their faces; they were terrified. I knew why. Tabiat is my father. He had come. He was angry. They ran away, the boys, as the shadow loomed over me. I could feel his outstretched hand. Tabiat had not come for them. Tabiat is my father. I promise I will not break any more branches father. I promise, I will not. Please father, do not hurt me this time. Please¡­ Sip, Sip Pretty girl, pretty child, sweet little thing. What do you have there, Gulp wonders? What delicious treat do you have? Gulp¡¯s lumpy pate sat low in the water, as dark and craggy as a bolder. His eyes shone like headlights on the highway, brilliant orbs, perfectly reflecting the night¡¯s lunar luminescence. Do you have strawberry, Gulp wonders? Do you have chocolate? Is it vanilla? Perhaps even all? You humans are so creative at making even sweet, sweet. His colossal feet kicked up plumes of sand and silt as Gulp shuffled closer to the shore, closer to the inviting sounds and smells of the promenade, with its janky music, and colourful signs. Down here everything is salt. Every drip, every drop is the same. Everything looks the same, everything tastes the same, and that same is never sweet. No, never sweet. You would hate it, I think. It is never human sweet. Gulp¡¯s great arms pawed at the ground before him, dragging him through the gently tugging tides of the sea, pulling him closer and closer to the girl on the beach, sipping her delicious dairy treat. You humans should share, Gulp thinks. There is enough sweetness to go around, Gulp thinks. Won¡¯t you give Gulp a little drink? Won¡¯t you give Gulp just a few sips? The allure of that sweet nectar grew stronger and stronger. Gulp forgot restraint. He forgot to hide. He forgot how the children would run and scream whenever they saw him. Yes, just a sip or two, yes? Water cascaded over his shoulders and back as Gulp pulled himself to his full, colossal height. His dark, barnacle encrusted skin obscured the constellations. The warmth of his kelp and crustacean breath could almost be felt on the shore. That salty, savory breath, issuing in short, sharp pants.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Don¡¯t be greedy now, human. Share. Share. Just a sip. Just a sip. The girl on the beach shivered a little, despite the warmth of the night and the gentle rumble of the van¡¯s engine. She had wiped out a few times on the waves that afternoon, she reminded herself. All that dunking is not good for a person. She was probably catching a cold. She sighed. It was definitely not a good idea to be drinking a milkshake right now. Sip. Sip. A little annoyed at herself, she jumped down from the roof of the camper, pausing only briefly as a wave of anxiety washed over her. She shrugged it off, convinced now that she was coming down with something. Siiip. She walked a few paces to the nearby bin and dropped the milkshake, still two-thirds full, into the trash. Gulp froze where he stood. Shaking her head, the girl hopped up behind the steering wheel, and kicked the old stick-shift into first. Gulp¡¯s breath caught in his throat. He glanced between the girl and the bin. In abject silence, Gulp watched as the colourful van chugged away down the road, off into town. A poor, out-of-tune rendition of ¡®Living on a Prayer¡¯ following in the VW¡¯s wake. Not even a sip. Gulp¡¯s shoulders sagged, and he hugged his arms to his chest. Not even one, sweet, little sip. It was a joyless journey back home. Gulp waded into the depths one slow, current changing stride at a time. He walked until the great ocean submerged him. He walked until great gouts of salt water filled his nose, his ears and his eyes. Always salty, ever salty. But it is never a sip, Gulp. Gulp never takes just a sip. Gulp is greedy, and that¡¯s why the humans won¡¯t share. Gulp is far too greedy. Gulp clambered along the reefs until he came again to the hollow cavern he called his home, tucked away in the darkest depths, far from the prying eyes of mortals. Gulp likes sweet things too much. He can never just take a sip. Too greedy. Yes, too greedy. Gulp paused to look at the empty husks of children and teenagers adorning the nooks and crannies of his little cave. They were hollow, drained, brittle frames, rocking in the gentle undulation of the all-encompassing sea. Yes, never just a sip. Bad Gulp. Gulp never stops at just a sip. Gulp repeated these words admonishingly to himself as he settled down to sleep, surrounded by salt. Surrounded always by salt, with not a sip of sweetness left to be found. Kroakus The cold wisps of air that whistled through the trees kicked up the mist of the early morning and white tendrils danced around the trees to the haunting tune of the wind. This deep in the forest he could move without threat of being seen; he needed no torch to light his way despite the darkness of the hour. He found the clearing that was so familiar to him, lit a cigarette and laid the soft black case that held his Saxophone against a tree. There was still much to do before the night was through. He took time to finish his cigarette, savouring the bitter taste of the tobacco and the flare of orange light with every inhale. Once done he debated another but ground the remnants of the ash into the dirt and pushed forward. It would be a short journey from here, and it would yet be a long night. The sounds of the forest died out as he progressed - the chatter of bugs and insects silenced by an unseen force. The time was coming. He reached into his bag and produced a small brown parcel. Pursing his lips together he let out a long loud whistle that echoed around the area. Slowly, two red orbs appeared above him and a sigh filled the void, a prolonged exertion of breath came forced and disturbed as the rest of the figure took hold. Before him a great toad materialised. The creature looked down at the man and his long loping tongue lazily moistened its own eyes and wetted its lips. The man pulled from the brown parcel a bloodied piece of meat and tossed the bag aside; it flew off in the wind. At the site of the meat the toad pattered its feet and jostled about excitedly. Its mouth quivered open expectantly as the man readied to toss the cutlet into the air. Once he did it arched messily towards the sky and the toad snatched it greedily.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! ¡°You treat me well!¡± the toad bellowed in a deep, creaky voice after it finished chewing its prize. ¡°All part of the deal¡± the man said, he strode casually closer, ¡°We were very popular tonight.¡± The toad barked a laugh, ¡°Of course you were! People always loved my face. I told you there would be no trouble gaining popularity.¡± The man looked up angrily at the toad, the body of the great woodland spirit had deteriorated vastly since he had last seen it. Before it had been broad and bloated, the limbs strong and skin sickly, and wet. He used to be glorious. ¡°Time to switch again,¡± the man said, eyeing up the toad cautiously. ¡°Has it been another month already?¡± the toad asked. It was pensive as it spoke and shuffled away slightly, ¡°I don¡¯t feel like it¡¯s been long enough yet!¡± the toads voice started to panic, ¡°I need longer, I need more time, another month!¡± The man spat into the ground. It had been four years. Four years since the body he now inhabited brought the young arrogant man before him with a bargain. A chance for the great Kroakus, woodland spirit of old, to experience civilisation and fame, the likes of when he once was worshipped long ago. Once a month they were meant to switch places, but he had proven a difficult soul. Kroakus could not perform his magic unless both parties were willing. ¡°One more month, I promise!¡± the toad spoke again ¡°Just one more month, then we can switch again.¡± Unable to do anything, the man that Kroakus now lived in hung his head low, ¡°Fine, another month,¡± he said, and turned his back. He couldn¡¯t let it be known that his powers were faltering. ¡°Oh, and Kroakus!¡± the human that had traded places with him and now resided in the body of the great toad called out, ¡°next time, bring me something a little nicer to eat. Maybe someone younger...¡± the voice trailed off with a chuckle and, as the man looked back, the toad was gone again, only the darkness of the woods and the mist remained. He walked back through the woods, the familiar land that was his ancient homeland. Back to the clearing where he laid the saxophone down. The chatter of the bugs and frogs had restarted, he heard them clearly as they reached a crescendo of angry calls and croaks. They asked their old master when he would return, when order would be restored. The man flung the bag onto his shoulder, ¡°Worry not, my children, I will get my body back,¡± he looked back out the forest, towards the city he must now return, ¡°Soon enough. Soon.¡±