I'm sitting at my kitchen table, chugging my 4th coffee spiked with Red Bull for the evening. My heart is already racing, and I'm breathing too fast, but I keep drinking anyway. I can't stomach the thought of getting murdered again. I'm only delaying the inevitable, though; eventually, my body will sleep. I haven't slept in three days. If I do, that kid is going to show up with some devious new way to kill me. He hasn't missed a single night since he started 3 months and 14 days ago. I flip through my dream journal. I started keeping it after the first week. I don't know why I feel driven to record these dreams—I sure don't want to relive them—but it feels important. I flip to the first entry: Every night for the past week, I dreamed that this kid killed me.Posts: 1796 | Registered: Jun 2007
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Dren tore Emeo’s flannel shirt off and slammed him into the ancient, dragon scale votive table. Smoky sanctuary air chilled Emeo’s naked chest. Mother should be here, but would not attend the travesty. I will remember who I am. Dren rumbled, “Light yer birthday candle and wish, damn you. Wait, and you won’t see twelve.” Blue letters floating above the votive read, “Birthdays must wait for an acolyte.” Worshipers in age-polished wooden pews turned, worry for Emeo on every face; dark wishes began with dark treatment. Peaceful and patient, they would not interfere. Emeo smiled to assure them. I am Aguarian.Posts: 1796 | Registered: Jun 2007
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# 3 The Library Beneath the Sea ===================================
“Daniella! Daniella!” Richard found the cleaner in the kitchen. “Isn’t the beach supposed to be private? I’ve seen a woman there. Swimming.” “Swimming?” Daniella folded a tea towel. “When I rented this house the owners said the beach was private.” Richard thought of the woman on the beach, dark hair and dusky skin. Nothing like Alice and her pale blondeness. “I’ll have Giancarlo speak to her,” Daniella said. “No, no, that’s fine,” Richard said. “I’m sure I won’t see her again.” He went to the study and did some paperwork. Two more weeks and the job would be finished and Alice could join him. He wondered what she would think of the beach. He couldn’t imagine her sitting in the sun, her hair falling down her
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Billy had the ability to change the color of his skin. His mother first noticed while nursing the newborn. She looked down as he suckled and saw his skin change to the different colors of the rainbow. His mother thought he was ill and screamed. The doctors ran tests on the child, and much to everyone's surprise, concluded he was not sick at all, but had a super-power, or rather a stupid power. The staff got a kick out of that joke. At the age of eleven Billy was sent off to the Academy of Super Powers, as was customary for a child of power. It didn't take long for Billy to find out just how useless his really was. Sitting in Defense Class 101, the kids cheered on as Metal Boy deflected a bullet with his metallic skin. Billy remained quiet. He sat in the back of the class, waiting with dread for his name
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# 5 Jaiden and the Dragons ========================================
And why do you think we should invest in your company?” Jaiden looked across the den’s “dragons” – the British entrepreneur, the American marketing guru, the Silicon Valley executive and the Aussie investment angel – and then directly into the camera behind the American. “Because it’s the most significant investment anyone could make, anywhere,” he replied. “Do you want to know if life exists out there, somewhere in space? This venture may answer this ultimate question – are we alone in the universe? And you could be part of it.” The American nearly choked on his drink. Jaiden acknowledge him with a nod, and maintained eye contact just long enough to show true faith.
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# 6: The Beast and the Boy ======================================= “Heed the boy!” croaked the decrepit prophet. His words faded as the three warriors and child stepped through a portal far beneath Tintul’s Great Library. They reappeared on Mount Aeroth, home of the beast that had long plagued their territories with its dark curse. The sun had begun to sink into the desolate plains of Midago behind them; time was short. As if summoned from the rocks, the beast reared up on elephantine legs and roared: a promise of death. Markelle raised his spear at the sight of its scarred and bloodied underside, but Emeus motioned to hold. The behemoth came down on its forepaws with a force that shook the mountain, sending rocks tumbling. Jesva sniffed, “This will be fun.” She brushed the thin scar on her cheek and tested the tension of her grappler. Markelle
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# 7: Not Til Tuesday ====================================
“I don’t care what you smell, you damn fools!” shouted the new Squad Leader, Greff. “We’ve got to get that boulder off that portal or we’ll die in here like the rest of them!” Four Merc squads lay strewn about with their heads melted off their shoulders. Burned and decimated tomes of ancient knowledge and forbidden magic from the shelf-lined walls lay over them like filmy death shrowds. Bright flashes of lazer fire scraped just inches above their heads from the line of Automaton guards. The last five Mercs of a fifty-strong rescue party were pinned in an alcove of a cavernous Great Library that held the Wizard’s Doorway. “May I ask a question?” asked Drawk. None of his rescuers heard him over the noise of the pounding lazer cannon blasts.
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I’m fairly slender for a dragon. I could pass for human, except for the tail, the wings, and you know, the face. So it should have been safe, enough. I borrowed one of their cloaks, and it is nighttime. So why is it, exactly, that I find myself running for my life through cobbled streets, with an angry mob chasing me? Story starts a few weeks ago, on my first visit to the Olfactory Library. Seems they need a diminutive dragon like me to be a new Keeper for the place. They tell me that all draconic knowledge is stored in the enormous honeycomb structure. Normal dragons can’t fit inside after their first month; I suppose that’s why they need a true runt like me. There must be billions of cells, and each contains a very specific scent, an entire story. Now I’ll admit I was thoroughly enchanted. I wanted to sample
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I'm not wearing a parachute. That's part of the experience. Twelve thousand feet above the ground, wind howls through the open hatch of a skydiving plane, freezing my pale skin. "You ready?" my Lifeguard yells. I turn. Those behind me have disappeared. I swear there were others. I'm alone. I nod. My Lifeguard tells me how long to impact. He says my life will flash before my eyes close to the ground, and gives me a shove. My hands death-grip the safety bars within the Life Flash simulation capsule. Bone-cold wind blasts me and I'm conscious of my body for a brief moment before resubmurging into the simulation. I expected cartoon-like images, boxy-green pixels, triangle
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#10: Beyond the Boundary =================================
"Can I help you?" the ghost whispered. It drifted behind the dust-covered reference desk, an insubstantial wisp with a hint of long hair wrapped in an untidy bun and the barest glimpse of wire-rimmed spectacles. I tried not to stare. It had been decades since anyone had required corrective lenses. And, well, she was dead. She wasn't supposed to exist at all. I cleared my throat. The sound echoed in the library's cavernous skeleton. "I'm . . . looking for a book." It seemed colossally stupid, standing there among the empty shelves and cobwebs. The barest hint of old lemon wax hung in the musty air. I almost touched the dust on the reference desk's broad top, curious to wipe away the grime and see the grain of the
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# 11: Three Reasons Why Superheroes Suck ================================================ #1: A Superhero Killed My Best Friend My case worker Ms. Campbell said I should be grateful. “Flyboy saved you from that fire, Kevin,” Ms. C told me. “Try to focus on being more grateful, won’t you? He did the best he could, you know. He’s only human.” Ms. C was right about that, at least. The superhero dispatched to my foster home that night was just a regular guy with a flight suit. He hovered outside our fourth floor bedroom window while our apartment burned, courtesy of my chain-smoking foster dad. Flyboy wore yellow spandex with his super-name emblazoned across his chest, and he needed a shave. “Let’s move it,” he yelled. “Pass me the smallest kid first.” My best friend Colby handed Jamal over. At three, Jamal was the
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