Digging

Poor William spent his day sifting through the heap of disks piled at his feet. He crouched down and, holding each disk carefully, turning them around in his hands, separated the good from the bad. Some had eroded connectors, some had rust on the casing, other cracked - each a sure sign of moisture damage. These he tossed with a clatter into the corner. Those that passed inspection were carefully wrapped in old, anti-static bags and put into his satchel. His hope was to find some useful information on at least one of them.

The dank walls of this old data center had kept away most scavengers. The low ceilings - or, rather, high floors - kept the air heavy and wet. That same raised floor also was certain to be hiding pools of water, which had probably come in through the main entrance, and trickled down the deep tunnel into the main chamber. Most would think that the data in a place like this had rotted away like so much wood, but Poor William was sure a digital diamond might be found among the moldy rough.

A Letter Recalling Miss Clara Beaumont

May 21, 1901.


Dear Mr. Phinneaus,

I hope my letter finds you in good health and recalls me, Miss Clara Beaumont, to you.

I must first and foremost confess, ever since your visit to out little town of St. Charles Ferry, I have not been able to clear you from my mind. Your heroic actions, not unlike a Hercules, have also made a tremendous impression on me and the town as a whole.

Were you aware that the mayor has commissioned a statue, in your honor, to be placed in the town square? It is to be place very near to the monument to Fallen Soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic - a high honor indeed, sir. Your great reputation has you dealing with all kinds of other-worldly events for the most important of worldly men, that I would certainly not think poorly of you, if you have forgotten us.

Navel Gazing

In the beginning, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. I mean, think about it: no space, no time, no matter, just nothing. A whole lot of nothing. Or a whole little. Hard to think about, isn't it? But, that sort of nothing didn't last long^[1].

The Universe happened.

Go

"What happened to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Where the hell were you last night?"

"I was out."

"Damn it, Artie, that's not an answer."

"Look, Dad, you know I was out with Dak and his buddies. We were just hanging out."

"Until seven this morning? No, that's not acceptable. Not in my house. You will get ready for school and get on your way, right now. And as of right now, you are grounded. When you get home, I will tell you for how long."

"What? You're kidding me. I was just out late! It's not like we got into any trouble or anything."

"Grounded. Final. Go."

Drinks

Sunday morning.

"Oh. God."

The headache was split by the early morning light slicing through the cracks of the bedroom curtains, the payback for over indulgence the night before.

Simon rolled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, and waited for the resulting wave of nausea to pass. After a few minutes his body calmed once more, His head drooped and started. He had fallen into a half sleep while perched there, head in hands.

The night before: Dan's party. It's memory, vague, cloudy, uneasy, came in slow flashes. It started clearly, and quickly went blurry, as Dan's parties always do.

Titan

There are limits to the use of growth treatments, and Bill had certainly found it. His body bubbled with giant, tumors of muscle. His frame was huge to begin with - large bones, great height - but with these growths of pure strength, he was a titan. A titan with a door problem.

A Letter From the Society Regarding the Nature of the Monster of Kankakee County

December 15, 1903.

Dear Mr. Phinneaus,

I'm writing in regards to you recent conflagration with the Monster of Kankakee County. I know that you were called upon by the residents of the town of St. Anne, and I know that you faced - and received -  grave injury.

Yet, I and my compatriots - the Society for the Preservation of Mystical, Rare, and Otherwise Misunderstood Creatures -- a Society of renown, with respect to the understanding of said creatures - feel that your particular solution for dealing the Monster was excessive.  By excessive,  we refer specifically to your killing of the Monster. 

Fetish

I'll tell you a little secret. I'm in love with Lefties. I'm not sure why, it's just a thing I have. Guys, latter in life, spend the first few moments in a bar scanning left hands for rings. I spend my time scanning the left hands for ink stains.

I was on a date with this guy the week. He was great: funny, gentlemanly, good looking. We had a couple of drinks at the happy hour around the bar around the corner (Little Sonny's - best two-for-one Manhattans in town). We spent a good three hours talking and having a good time with the interview date.

Only, he made the mistake of paying with credit card. The minute I saw him sign the receipt, I knew I wouldn't be calling him back. It was too bad, too. He had so many nice qualities.

If only guys would pay in cash on the first few dates, I might be hooked. It would be too late to have right-handedness be a deal-breaker.

Bargain

The stench of the place was a wall. The room stank of death and decay, of sulfur and burnt flesh, of things base and unnatural. One went from the faint smoky smell of a hall into a foul, rank space in the moment the threshold was crossed. There wasn’t even a hint of its odor before entering the room.

Equally foul was the room itself. It was a mockery of a pleasant, late-eighteenth century apartment. Its grand windows covered by stained, decayed curtains, the splintered and dusty wood floors covered in tattered carpets of indeterminate age. Stains of blood, oil, feces or worse were splattered here and there, not in an afterthought, but left as reminders of past crimes.

This was the entrance, this foul foyer to the apartment, to a court, the Devil’s court, where favors were granted, bargains were struck. I was here out of a last resort.

Muse

The click-click of the typewriters filled the air. The sound permeated everything. Any conversation was almost drown out by it. It had almost become a background noise.

This was the sound of monkeys, banging away at the keys, stretching off into the distance.

They were here for a reason. The were the Universe's creative team. A series of random jumbles typed across random pages, occasionally forming an idea.

The shift-change horn screamed out, and the clacking ceased. Monkeys stood up and trudged out. It was an organized effort, for the second shift needed to be at their stations in five minutes.Fresh faces greeted their first shift counterparts with grin and a wave, or an occasional howdy-do.

Phil reached his typewriting station with a cup of joe and a fresh pack of cigarettes. He never said hello to it's previous occupant. George was a bit of a slob. He was also a bit of a bastard, but that was another issue.

Top to Bottom

Whistler spread before him, waiting with virgin snows. The thin air was sharp in his nostrils. The wind whistled a little, giving a sound to the place. It fluttered through the sprigs of hair peaking out here and there from beneath his stocking cap.

He stood at the edge of the run on his board. The anticipation of the decent made him shiver. The cold of the air only made the shiver stronger.

Fear began to creep into his thoughts. At first, it was the slight thought of pain, that minor little nagging idea of falling, badly, and breaking a limb. The fear began to grow into larger injuries and obstacles: trees, boulders, beginners. He tried to suppress the fear, but it needed to be let out.

His breath grew ragged as he tried to pull in more air. This only added to the fear. There was only one way to get more air, and he knew it.