The beam from my flashlight jumped from tree to tree as I sprinted through the forest, trying desperately to get back to the trail. Except where my light hit the trees there was only blackness, and tears swelling in my eyes obscured what little I could see.

The woods around me shifted with the almost imperceptible sound of running, betrayed only by the autumn leaves. I shot my head around in an attempt to get a look at the creatures chasing me, but it was in vain; everything around me was a dark void on this moonless night. Terrible, imagined visions of beasts and blood danced through my mind and I lost focus of the path ahead. The root of a tree, a phantom in the shadowy night, grasped my foot and I tumbled down to the hard, black earth. As I fell, I grasped onto the flashlight in my hands with what little strength was left in me. It was all that separated me from the shadows in this sinister wood.

The Chef whirled around the kitchen throwing off curses, praise and urgency like sparks from an antique top – all in a mixture of French and English. In the moments between he spoke with his only ally, the produce man.
“A new ambassador, a child, is appointed, God knows why and suddenly my, MY menu isn’t good enough.”
“How long did you work on that menu?” The produce man continued to unload vegetables.
“Two months. I have prepared lavish dinners for kings, presidents and alien lords. Political appointees, bah! You should see what he wants to force on those poor souls.”

"I bet you thought you"d never see another Bug."

"Nope," said Mona Bastogne, a veteran of the seventy-year Human-Vermi war. "Humans lost that war when Bugs launched killer asteroids against the major planets in all twelve settled systems.

Art and poetry are not the first things that come to mind when you think of fighter pilots. And it's true you won't find many fighter pilots given to producing them. The image of fighter pilots as jocks, steeped in patriotic pride and locked into a military mindset, is a hard one to shake. But the art and poetry are still there, hidden in the soul rather than openly on the sleeve.

The advertisement was very convincing. 'Tired of making New Year's resolutions that you never keep?' it said, and my answer was a resounding 'Yes.' So the next chance I got I checked out their website. It seemed simple, maybe that should have cued me in. Well in short, they used the new discoveries that had been made recently in mapping the human brain to implant your resolution right into your subconscious mind. Forget the days of reinforcing positive thoughts and substituting a good habit for the bad one you wanted to get rid of. This process took only an hour and from the moment they finished with you, you were going to be unable to not respect your resolution.

This was the start of an idea to have a group write a story in a common world. Then we added a few central characters that everyone could use -- Mr. Perkins the school Principal. Chief Cody the Chief of Police etc.

Ground rules is you can't kill or hurt them. They must be available to wander into somebody else's story. A few key locations: ticket booth, buffet table, kitchen, bathroom, dance hall, DJ, and you can't trash or alter these locations.

"You have to slur your words more!" Grendel shouted at me. "Fhuuuud nowwwwwwww! Fhuuuuuuuuuuddd nnnnnnnnnnnoooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!"

I slumped. That was okay, not like in Wizard school, where you had to have "bearing". Ugh. Best decision I ever made leaving that place. Still, I wasn't sure about this place, either.

"Foooooooooooooooood nnnnoowww!!" I screamed. "Hhunnnnnggrraaaaaayyyyyyy!"

"Better," he commented. I couldn't tell if he was pleased. Grendel was so close to graduating, he rarely smiled except when he was supposed to. I was still getting the rules straight in my head. Only smile at violence, oh, and really bad puns.

"Cat got tongue bath?" I said, smiling. Was that too clever? Grendel smiled, so I guess I got it about right.

Putting a laser pistol to Hobson's head hadn't worked. Threatening to blow him out of an airlock hadn't worked. Putting Hobson in an airlock hadn't worked.

Commander Conway was furious. They still had ten minutes to get away from the black hole, if their science officer would get off his ass and think of something'

But Hobson wasn't budging.

"Look, Hobson' We know you can do this'"

"No."

"You'll die too if we get pulled in'"

"I'm prepared to die for my beliefs."

"Damn it! Be reasonable!"

"I am."

"Commander," said Dr. Schmidt, "maybe we should just listen to him?"

Conway threw his hands up. He would have liked nothing better than to strangle Victor Hobson at the moment, but that wouldn't have helped him or his crew or his ship.

"Fine! I'm listening! After he gets this ship'"

Wax shimmered as it reflected the overhead light causing it to gleam back into Balkur's eyes. He smiled at himself and took a step back to check his appearance in the dresser mirror. His dark gray suit perfectly pressed without a wrinkle fitted his muscular body well, the black shoes shined with each step, and his ten inch, dark red horns shone with a brilliance that outshined everything else. The last coat of wax had finished off the affect and Balkur felt ready to leave for his first day on the new job. It was the perfect job for him. He would have an office shared with one other person, it was in the field of his degree and in something he loved to do and close to home so the commute wouldn't be bad. The employer only hinted at there being one major drawback but he wouldn't elaborate.


Walking out of his house Balkur could barely hide the spring in his step as he walked the sidewalk, following a flow of foot traffic from in which he got several glances from blue skinned beauties, toward the office. Balkur had been unemployed for the last four months and had visited the unemployment office, just the office to him because he refused to admit that he was unemployed he rather stated that he was merely searching and contemplating better career options without the distraction of labor, each week looking for an open job. The best, and worst, part of the whole scenario was the woman that worked and the office was the most beautiful demon Balkur had ever laid eyes on. Perfect blue skin, terrific personality and she even flirted back a little with him. Of course what chance would an unemployed demon have with someone so perfect? Today was going to be different. He had found this job without the help of the Unemployment Office but was going to use them to give him transportation to the new job. He wanted to make sure that the woman of his dreams, Mazmurela, could see that he had taken care of himself and could take care of her. The extra coat of wax on his horns had been just for her.

Mrs. Wilson, an unhappy librarian, was frustrated with the unending collection of people her desk.

"Where do I get a 1099-Interest form," a patron asked.

"I'm sorry," she held her voice steady as the anger built up, your banking institution sends those forms," She busied herself moving papers around her desk to deter further questions.

The tax season cut into her usual evening of patrons quietly reading.

A demanding, confused lot of people confronted her.

"Can you help me do my taxes," a questioned asked ten times in the last six hours.

"How do I file my taxes?"

"Do you know what this form means?

She started pointing to the tax form table without saying a word when people approached.

"I need help," a gentleman said. He was unusually tall and tilted his head to one side as if contemplating a great thought.

"Yes," she said and extended her finger towards the table while calculating the minutes left until this night was over.

"I want to cheat on my taxes." His words caught her as funny and she let out a nervous laugh.

The Oval Office was filled with annoyed Democrats. Tom Daschle threw a stack of papers down on the desk and shook his finger at the man sitting there.

"What on earth do you think you�re doing?" he shouted.

President Obama looked genuinely surprised. "I thought you would welcome an audit," he said. "I should think if you owed over $100,000 in back taxes, you would want to know it. You didn�t know you weren�t paying all you needed to pay in taxes, did you?"

"Who let this neophyte in the White House?" Daschle cried. "Who let him near the magic lamp?"

"Everybody gets a turn," Barney Frank said. "We just didn�t think one so inexperienced would wish to be president."

"I wished to be a good president," President Obama said.

"It�s your fault too, Tom. We all thought you�d wish to be president," Hillary Clinton said. "Did you? No. You wished for another Michael Moore movie."

In that magic time between night and morning, between Christmas night and Christmas morning, the toys and ornaments came to life.


The electric angel sat on top of the Christmas tree. She was dressed in blue satins and lavender silks and she held the Christmas star high above her auburn hair. She was the most beautiful ornament on the tree. The straw angels that had hung beneath her on the Christmas tree fluttered around her playing beautiful music that only imaginary creatures could hear.


The fashion doll danced with the teddy bear. Tomorrow she would belong to the little girl and he would belong to the little boy. Their worlds would never cross again. They looked up at the statue of the Infant of Prague that sat on the mantle over the fire place.


"Come dance with us, Infant of Prague," the fashion doll called. "Tonight is the night of Christmas Real. You can be real too."

"Ok," Madame Zelda said in a voice soaked in boredom, "it's $14.95 for the first ten minutes and a dollar a minute there after. I don't predict lottery numbers, I don't read tea leaves, and I DON'T do birthday parties. All predictions are for entertainment purposes only and all customers, that's you," she said, pointing at the man sitting across the table from her with a manicured finger, "are advised to seek legal counsel before acting upon anything Madame Zelda tells you. Payment is required prior to any services. No checks but cash or credit cards are gladly accepted." Madame Zelda narrowed her heavily shadowed eyes and took a long draw on her cigarette. "Now, what can I do for ya, hun?"

Karen Willis stepped off the curb and headed back to her office building. She had a hot cup of coffee in her hand and started running across the busy road. Chad Burns watched in silence. She was wearing her dark grey power suit with a light pink blouse and her hair pulled back.
“She is always dressed to kill,” Chad said out loud to no one.
He and Karen made eye contact a few seconds before the truck came speeding around the corner. Chad opened his mouth to warn her but nothing came out. The impact of the truck slamming into Karen’s fragile body made a horrific bone crunching sound that played over and over in Chad’s mind. Then he woke up…

My head hurts. I don’t know why my head hurts. I can’t move my hands. I wish I knew what was going on. It’s dark. It stinks. It’s hot. Why does my head hurt? I wish my head worked better. Sometimes I can think and think and not get anywhere. I wish I was smart. Maybe if I start at the beginning I will know why my head hurts so bad. I close my eyes tighter and think really, really hard.