Home by Adam Boenig

Image by Preston Reed, Submitted by Catherine Maguire

When he woke up everyone was gone. There was nothing left; not even empty, smoldering shoes. Not even their clothes were left in the closets. Nothing was left save the structured that they had lived in.
Gerald was lost and confused. He sat on the edge of his bed in blue jeans and a white shirt, his face cradled his hands, his long brown hair spilling about his head and shoulders. He had no idea why he was left; all we knew was that he was alone and not alone scared him. He had always stood as an outsider; the tall lanky man with the wild blue eyes. They often joked that they expected him, one day, to be standing on a street corner holding a sign.
"The end is near."
But now it seemed the end really was here, and it had left him behind. Behind with his bed with its wrinkled sheets and pale blue blankets, with his closet full rumpled clothes piled on the floor, with his boots thrown carelessly beneath the single window.
He sighed, stood up, and pulled a pair of sneakers out from beneath his bed. He pulled them on, sockless. Picking up his backpack, he loaded it full of clothing and food. Filled as it was, he pulled it on, feeling its weight settle on his shoulders. He walked to the door, took a deep breath, and opened it.
Outside was just as he had left it. The holes were long, white, and sterile. There were posters on the walls behind glass and white tile floors. Fluorescent lights lined the center of the ceiling, giving the whole thing a kind of glow. The normally full halls echoed with his footsteps, giving more emphasis to its emptiness as he followed it to the front entrance, taking turn after turn in the familiar building.
Only when he arrived, there was no door. No exit; no chance of leaving.
He began to panic, hyperventilating at the plank wall where the door should be. Sweat dripped from his forehead and for a moment, he wondered if he was as insane as they all thought.
But he couldn't. Of course not.
He stood up, shouldered his burden, and began walking. Along familiar pathways, he passed open doors, revealing the empty rooms and their contents. The only comfort he thought was the site of light and trees outside. It made him happy to know that somewhere there was life.
After hours of searching; hours of thinking; he realized there was no exit. Rather than wasting his time, he went back to his room, climbed into bed, and slept. While he slept he dreamed of a doorway, a sheet of darkness framed in light. He walked toward it, and tentatively pushed on the pressure bar, swinging it wide open.
The next morning, the building was empty. All that was left was a single room, with carelessly flopped boots and a closet full of dirty clothes piled on the floor.

"A Lovely Corpse" by Adam C. Boenig

 It had been 20 years since the death of Snow White. Twenty long, cold years. Since then, the Queen had ruled, for the most part, well: but, like all dictators, had come, especially in recent years as her beauty began to fade with age, to become a victim of her own pride. One by one, soldiers came to the stone building and straw huts of her subjects, capturing young women of beauty and grace whom, as the years passed, the mirror had declared "fairest in the land".

The Huntsman, Geoffrey, had visited the body of Snow White every day for those years. She sat, propped on her altar, her body decaying in its glass coffin; a testimony to time and the transience of life. He had seen it; day by day, hour by hour, as the body slowly wore down to nothing but the bleached skeleton; and every day, he had wished that, somehow, he had been there to save her from taking a bite from that apple. He had been searching for a way to turn back time; a way to bring back what had, at one time, been a lovely woman, a woman he had loved at first sight; but had found no magic capable, no artifact able to restore what had been lost on that fateful day.

He fell to his knees, weeping at the foot of the stone altar the dwarves had built. So lost was he in his misery, he did not come to see the person walk up behind up, and looked up with a start when he felt a hand upon his shoulder.

The woman, if you could call her that, was smiling. She had long, blond hair hanging to her waist, and wore a formal, dark black dress full of ruffles, leaving her shoulders bare. Her eyes were a deep grey with slotted pupils that contracted and dilated vertically in the varying light, her long, sharp ears framed her hair, and her fingers ended in sharp, pointed claws.

"Fret not, frail human." she started. "What has been done can be undone."

"Who are you?" he demanded, standing upright and drawing his dagger.

She laughed; it was, at odds with he appearance, a light, tinkling thing. "There is no need for that. I am merely a merchant; but, unlike the humans with whom you are use to dealing, I am capable of far greater things; for a price, of course."

"You could bring her back?" he asked, his dagger still drawn.

"Indeed." The smile never left her face. "All I require is something of equal worth."

"What? What is it?" He asked, cautiously. His blade was hanging by his side now; ready for use, but not expected.

The demoness shrugged. "A new life requires another. You will have to sacrifice someone; be it yourself, or others. Is this acceptable?"

The hunter thought, sheathing his knife. An idea dawned upon him; he smiled back.

"I accept." he replied.

Her smile lit the forest, seeming to make it all the more lovely. She drew close to him, the smile never leaving her face as her suddenly revealed, sharp teeth dug into her tongue, causing it to bleed, and she forced it into his moutth, her hands pulling his face to hers with unusual strength as those same teeth bit into his lip, their blood intermingling as he was forced to drink.

"We have a contract." she smiled. "Fulfill your end, and your princess will be returned to you."

Then she was gone, as though she was never there.



A month passed. It had taken that long for him to get each of them alone; there was no way he could take them all at once for, as diminutive as they were, they were dwarves and possessed a magic well beyond his own. He had had to take them by surprise, and singly; which was far more complicated than one would expect, as the seven were rarely the one, the two, or even the three.

Now, they were lain in a row at the base of the altar, each mutilated in a different manner; one had  multiple punctures from a spike-lined pit; another was beheaded; still another, full of arrows as he chased him, the branches of trees bending to protect the small creature. It had been strangely satisfying, killing them all; in truth, he blamed them for the death of his princess, and now the thought could trouble him no more.

"Well, demon?" he shoutted at the sky. "I have done as you asked. Where is she?"

"Look." came the directionless voice, echoing off the trees and stones. "Watch as I fulfill our bargain."

As he stared, the skeleton slowly grew flesh; the eyes slowly opened; the arm reached up, pushed open the lid, and sat up. She looked at him, smiling.

"My Hunter." she said. "I have missed you in my time in Paradise. Come, kiss me!"

He rushed forward, a surge of joy in his heart, kissing her cold lips. The made him pause, looking into her eyes; black as night, seemingly lacking pupils.

"What's wrong, my love?" she asked, her face expressionless. "Does it not please you to see me alive and well?"

He backed up, suddenly convinced that there was something wrong, tripping over one of the small corpses in his haste. Looking down, he saw the hand that clutched his ankle; the small, red, glowing eyes as they glared at him.

"And you brought my friends to visit me!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands to her chest. "How delightful!"

She laughed gaily, watching as her companions began chewing the flesh off his bones, watching him scream and try to escape as muscle and tendon are ripped away from bone. Thus began a reign far more horrible than anything the kingdom had previously faced: this time, not the reign of an evil Queen and her vanity, but the reign of an undead Princess and her dwarven guards, slowly consuming the kingdom, their victims rising to consume still more, while a demoness watched and laughed.

Morning has Broken

I woke up early, with the sun slanting through the windows that formed a single-file line on my pill-shaped home. It was a beautiful morning, with casts of orange, red, and purple cascading across the sky, as though God had saw fit to bless us with His latest painting.

I yawned, sat up, stretched. In the mirror across from the bed I saw the same man I did every morning; young, fit, brunette, a little hairier than I liked, but certainly within tolerance that I did not pray for hair loss at church every week. I turned to the left; my feet hit the smooth, white floor, slightly warm to the touch.

I placed a hand on the oval on the wall, which yielding disintegrated, temporarily, from the inside out. Inside there were clothes of cotton and leather, and a few of woven steel strands; but today was not a hunting day, so I would not be wearing those. The clothing I chose was instead green and brown; a dark green shirt and brown pants that were pulled tight at the waist by a set of strings and resulted in a large, brown bow. I then slipped my feet into a pair of wood sandals; antiques from the old world, before the God who made it anew and made life so easy for us. 

I left through a larger, arched door that opened up in the same manner as the closet. I live alone, so I didn't have much furniture; a single couch, just underneath the single-file line of windows that spanned half the round room, was grown directly out of the wall and floor, centered around a low, half-circle that had been grown, mushroom-like, from the central area. Across from that was a flat wall that served as a display when transmissions were received.

In the wall on the other side of the display was another arched door that opened to the touch. Inside were a series of open, honeycomb-like shelves that contained various fruits, vegetables, and meats, as well as a long counter and a few classic bar stools; a rare thing that I had found while wandering the Wastelands to the east. They were less comfortable than the organic furniture I was use to, but I love the steel legs and the plastic, green covers. The windows continued over here, the sun lighting up the kitchen.

I took some fruits from the shelves; a red one, a green, and a yellow; and put them on the counter, pulling a knife of bone from one of the small shelves in the counter, and began to cut: the red one had a light-pink, pulpy center, and every cut squeezed out a goop of seeds and juice; the green one was seedless, with a small stem in an indentation at the top; and the yellow one was much more rubbery to the touch, so much so that I slipped and cut my finger, spilling red on the white top, which began fading as quickly as my cut was mending.

Looking up at the wall, I noticed the tree mosaic; a large, brown painting with twenty-four branches, each with six smaller branches and each branch with ten leaves. As time passed, the leaves would fade from green to yellow to red, and then green again after the twenty-fourth hour. Eight branches had already faded,

I finished eating quickly; I had an hour to get to church. I left out the front door, ran down the hall, and summoned the elevator, waiting a few minutes before sprinting down the spiral staircase.

Outside, my steed awaited; a large equine with metallic haunches. I quickly mounted and rode away, sparks flying as steel hooves encountered rocks and pebbles.

Unholy for Pete Wheeler

When she had arrived home, she found her infant son crying in his crib. Beside him, a man hung from a rope thrown hastily over the rafters. She had no idea why he had hung himself; as far as she had known, he had been happy in their marriage; they had plenty of money and a good life. She could not understand why he had chosen to end it.

Then she saw it. It was about four feet from the ground, crouched and hissing; a beast that was almost gorrilla-like in form, bright red horns covering its arms and down its spine. It spoke to her in whispers that made her shudder, and she understood.

She was out the door before it could stop her, the baby in one arm and the cross around her neck cletched in her other hand. She had to move, and move fast. She let go of the crucifix for a moment, reaching out to grab the hand on the door; it sizzled and blistered her skin.

She made her way down the road, running as fast as she could, stumbling on the dirt and rocks.  She fell once, landing on her knee and one arm; she swore she heard laughter, and forcer her to her feet, urging her forward.

The laughter continued; an insane kind of laughter that echoed in the deepest recesses of her soul as she ran.

As soon as she got to the highway, she waved at the cars. They did not stop, they just kept moving. She kept trying, kept beggiing for attention; and eventually one stopped. In the chair sat an older woman, likely a mother herself.

Without an explanation, she told her she needed to get to the church.

"Why?"

"Just do it!" she yelled, looking behind her where the creature was sitting, quite calmly, watching her, his laughter echoing.

The church was an old stone building, with a well-tended yard and trimmed bushes. It was quiet and calm, comforting; and every instinct told her it was her only safety.

She had never put much faith in God until that moment. It was her husband who had been the church-goer; the man who had seemed so happy that somehow had ended up so lost.

She ran up the sidewalk, opened the door and slipped in. She walked slowly up the aisl between the pieus, revelling in the silence, all the way up to the crucified Jesus which looked down at her with kindness and understanding.

She fell to her knees then, unable to run anymore, and prayed. The infant in her arms stirred, looking up at her, rubbed its eyes with its tiny hands, and smiled. She hugged it close.

Then small, sharp teeth dug into her neck.

470 wods, 15 minutes

Continuum for +Azmaria Dei Post

Alexandria stood alone in the rain, looking out at the crowd but really only paying attention to one man. She was thinking.

Should she kill him?

It shouldn't be that complicated a a question. she thought to herself.

But it was. He had a family, a life, a home. He didn't know what he would do, what he would have to do; he could not see the ripples as they spread down the continuum.

Unfortunately, she could. She sighed. She was stuck between a rock and a hard place; if she killed him, especially now, the world would be led into a string of wars that would bring about poverty for the entire race for centuries. If she let him live, he would create a weapon that would result in the destruction of life itself.

She had considered simply talking to him, but she also knew what follies that would lead to. He could come by the equation faster, or he could never come by it at all and his son or grandson, who both follow in their father's footsteps, will; and at that time, she may not be around to see it.

What would she do? What would his child do? Or his children? She could see, of course; but it was only glimmers, that history; it was changing even now.

If he died, his wife would mourn and over the years life would keep getting worse. If he lived, it would be destroyed.

So, which was worse? Poverty or destruction? Misery or...nothing? She could not make up her mind.

And so she waited, she watched, and she hoped.

Time: 09:15 Words: 284

One Million Spots of Light for +Nina Pelletier

All was dark when she opened her eyes. Not a star dotted the sky; not a voice interrupted the silence. She felt the ground, glass smooth beneath her feet; so black it blended into the horizon.

She had no idea where she was.

She stood up, walking; alone, unsure, her hands in front of her. Every so often she would yell a "Hello!" and listen for an echo; listen for an end, a change. She eventually started running; faster and faster until her heart beat in her chest and she was sweating and crying as she leaned on her own bent knees.

Then, a spot of light lit up on the horizon. She looked toward it, then began running.

Then another appeared. Another, and another; until the sky was filled with stars. She looked toward them, began walking towards one; as she drew closer, the star grew brighter and brighter, until it should have burnt her eyes but it didn't.

Instead, it left behind a sparkling length of dust, shimmering like the milky way. She took a step onto it; it seemed to have no more texture than the ground she was on, but it was change; and to her, that was all that mattered.

She felt the spark of hope, and allowed herself to be guided along the starlit path as around her the sky lit up with tiny dots.

---

"What happened?" asked the man, looking down at her.

"It was an accident." replied the doctor, still in surgical scrubs. "She's stable, but..."

The woman in question was nearly hidden by all the bandages swaddling her face. She was hidden under the covers of the hospital bed. From her arms and mouth protruded various tubes.

"But?" asked the man.

"Well... she's in a coma. There is no way to tell when she will come out."

Author's Note: I had a hard time with this picture. Oddly enough, my inspiration was not the woman herself, but the darkness surrounding her. Huh.

Home for +Ayoub Khote

Daniel's truck bounced down the old, rough rough country road. It was autumn; the trees lining the side were a display of red and orange, raining down their leaves into the grass below.

It had been a long time since he had been home. Since joining the Army, he hadn't really had a chance; he had spent most of his time overseas. It felt good; right, even; to be back in the country, smelling the crisp air on a chill morning, seeing the trees. You never appreciated trees until you had lived a year in the desert.

He turned on the road, feeling his truck sway underneath him. It was old, a gift from his father when he first graduated from basic training. It to smelled of home.

After a few minutes, the trees grew more sparse and became field. Out across the rolling hills of grass, he could see the home he grew up in. He remembered himself and his sister playing in the yard; the trampoline and how it was always covered in leaves this time of year, and the sound they made as they flew up and down with every bounce. The texture of it when they stuck to his back, and how often he had fallen.

He got closer; there were no lights in the house.

He had played tag in the yard; it was rather large. There were trees in the back that they often climbed, often perilously; one time, he remember, one broke with him on it and he fell on his back into thorny weeds; but he was thankful he had missed the fence.

There were no cars in front of the house. He pulled in to the parking area, strolled down the sidewalk to the gate in the fence. He opened it and went to the front door, his combat boots clomping heavily on the floor.

He stopped at the door and thought for moment. He thought about what he would say. Then he unlocked it and stepped across the threshold.

He looked around the empty house, the dust collecting on white walls and counters. There were still some picture hanging on the wall, but they stared blankly at him, purposeless. A few had fallen to the floor.

"Mom... Dad..." he muttered. "I'm home."

They didn't find the body until a month later, when a homeless man tried to take shelter from the oncoming blizzard. Daniel Halbrook was buried in the Arlington Cemetary, where he rests to this day.

While in Iraq, he had lost his wife, children, and both parents.

Time: 20:57 Words: 430

Kids Say the Darndest Things for +Lynda Giddens

"Mommy, there's a weird creature in the bathroom."

"What?" replied his mother.

Diane was a 30-something, blonde, stay-at-home, divorced mom of three. She was harassed and overworked; her feet were killing her and her head ached as she lent over the counter, scrubbing at dishes.

Michael, or Mikey as he was affectionately known, was a 10 year old with too many questions. She was often irritated by him, but did her very best to be patient and answer his questions.

"Ya Mommy. Come see!" he replied, grabbing her elbow and plaintively tugging it.

"Not now. Mommy is cleaning; we can see it when I'm done."

"But mom!" he cried out, giving her an innocent, wide-eyed look.

She sighed. "Alright, hold on."

She took off her rubber gloves and dried off her hands, walking after the boy as he ran down the hall. When she found him, he was standing in the open doorway to the bathroom, looking inside curiously. Inside, she could hear weeping. Approaching him, she put her hands on his shoulders, looking into the room.

In the large bathtub, about 5 feet deep, a man was curled up in a corner as though hoping not to be seen. He was frightened, and looked very out of place in the deep basin.

"Silly boy." she smiled, patting the withers of his horse-like hindquarters. "It's just a human. He must have snuck in when it rained outside."

Beautiful for Bliss Morgan

She had said it would make him beautiful. She had also mentioned a price; but he hadn't cared. He had given her her money, taken the potion, and left the old crone in her alley.

Jim had been a homely man, to say the least.  Long ears, long nose, and a uni-brow were the defining features of his existence. He had been teased for his looks for years, and it had left scars on him; he was afraid to go outside, afraid to meet strangers. He would complain about his love life but that would imply he had one to complain about.

So he had taken the potion, thinking anything could be better than this. He needed something; anything.

He drank it without thought.

Now he stood in front of a mirror, looking at himself. He was handsome; no, gorgeous. He was a sculpted Adonis of a man, perfect in all aspects. And he was happy about it, flexing his new muscle and falling for himself in the mirror. However, he knew that the only way for it to matter was for him to go out.

Getting dressed in an old pair of jeans and a button-up shirt, he took a deep breath and stepped outside into a world he had feared so long. He walked down the hall; people staring as he moved, taking in his breathtaking beauty; and he knew it was good. He made it to the door, opened it, and for the first time in a long time, looked out over the sun-lit streets unafraid.

Now people were staring. He felt proud. They didn't say much, they didn't stare for long, but they certainly liked looking at him. Which is the point, right?, he thought to himself.

He strolled down the sidewalk, catching eyes and turning heads, enjoying the air off the tree-lined street and the view of the red brick buildings in the historical sector where he lived and worked. He made it to a tiny local bar, his destination in which to test his newfound glory. He opened the door and stepped in.

Everyone stopped. They turned and stared at the new face that had just stepped in. All eyes were on him; he could feel it.

And then they went about their business.

He was mildly surprised, but thought nothing of it. He sat down at the bar, feeling happy and like he "fit in" for the first time in his life. He offered to buy an attractive woman a drink; because, that is what you're suppose to do, right? She ignored him as though she didn't hear him.

He tried again. She still ignored him.

He waves his hand in front of her face. Touched her, poked her. Eventually he grew frustrated and pounded the table; soon, he was throwing furniture.

The crowd complained about the broken furniture, but not him.

That's when he realized: the price. He would be noticed, yes; but only once. He was beautiful; but no one cared.