A Sense of Humor

Somewhere Rod could hear the gods laughing. That was the only explanation for what had happened.

It had started with a famine. His ancestors were fisherfolk: rough folk who had spent generations passing down techniques and skills. It was a poor life but a happy one, until the fish had disappeared. No one knew where they went; one day they were there, the next simply gone.

Rod's ancestor had made a deal, a deal that made him the best fishermen in that village. He had done it to save it, and save it he had. No one knew how, but he had a third eye when he came to fish. He always casts his net in just the right spot and his net always came full.

Image by David Grigg

Of course, he had never believed to the legend. He had always thought it was make-believe and folklore; such things were common in the small town where he had grown up; but one thing was for sure he: he and his family, all of them, were very talented fishermen. It was what they did; it was how they made their money, and how they contributed.

One day, he had been fishing. It was a strange day: .he had tripped on his way down the stairs, the café had been closed, and he had spilled coffee in his lap. Then he had climbed into his boat, where everything was supposed to go right, but the only thing that had gone right was that his net kept coming up full.

And then came the storm. It was so sudden so unpredictable; there was really no way to prepare for it. All he could do was get below deck and hope for the best.

When he woke up he was underwater; but he wasn't dead. In fact he could breathe just fine. Looking out he could see a vast expanse of smooth brown wood and yellow walls, the occasional portrait hanging from what he managed to be small nails.

In fact, he knew they were. He recognize this place. It was an exact replica of his own home.

 It was then that he realized way everything was so out of focus: he was in a fishbowl on the end table in the hallway. Then something caught his eye.
It took him a moment to realize he was staring into the face of a goldfish, hovering outside of his fishbowl, studying him.

"Well you didn't think I helped him for free, did you?"

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.

Thanksgiving

Infection for +Karen Shackles

They came from the sky. Thousands of them; too small to do damage, although large enough to be noticed. The astronomers never thought they would make it through the atmosphere, but they did; pebble-like, the size of a penny, burying themselves in whatever they hit.

The fatalities were minimal, luckily. Very few people were hit, and many of those that did survived. We thought it was over.

We were wrong.

As the years passed and life continued as though nothing had happened (aside from another mark on our calendars), we noticed changes. People, those struck by the objects, began acting strangely. They developed fevers; began striking out at there fellow man. A few went on sprees, killing and maiming whomever they came across.

We thought perhaps something in the objects... the Seeds, as people were beginning to call them... was driving them insane. And we were right, in a sense; but we did not know that until later.

The study of the victims and the seeds began in earnest. They tried to pluck them out, but found their dubbing had been more accurate than at first suspected; the seeds had joined with their nervous system, rewiring it for... something.

An EEG revealed new brain waves in operation, confusing and perhaps corrupting original thought patterns. We assumed these came from the seeds themselves, that they were some kind of intelligent parasite. If so, this would be at once a terrible and wonderful thing, as it would prove we were not the only intelligent species in the universe.

Again, we were wrong.

Have you ever wondered about the planet? Earth, a wonderful place, the only spot in the entire universe to
support intelligent life. Over the years we have fed from it, blown holes in it, dug in it, survived on it; which in itself is fine, as that is what it is here for; to nurture.

But what happens when your children get greedy? What happens when the punishment doesn't work? What happens when you get an infection that won't go away?

You strike back. You take antibiotics. You kill the infection off.

My name was Billy in a past life. I lived in Georgia. I was one of those infected. We survived because we were infected. The seeds grew in the planet and in us, binding us all together into a single entity. We survived because we rid the world of its infection.

404 words, 15 minutes

Code Green for +Pam Adage

The soldiers scurried about like ants in an anthill, the sirens screaming at them.  From high above, missles fell to earth, shaking the ground with each small explosion. They were panicking. They were trained for this, but they were never really ready for it.

Above the crowd, in a protected dome building, the Colonel looked out of his window.

"We can't stay here any longer, Lieutenant."  he told the young officer, standing at attention in front of his hardwood desk.

"I know, sir." replied the young officer. "But where will we go? They've attacked. They broke the treaty."

With every word, Lieutenant Jefferson's voice grew slightly more shrill. He was as stressed out as those soldiers on the ground; and with good reason, as he was as much to blame as any one of them if they were to die.

"Stay calm." admonished Colonel Jackson. "We'll get out of this."

What he didn't tell him was the Plutonians had not, in fact, attacked first. It hadn't been any of his men, for sure; but someone did not want peace between humans and the large, bear-like race that inhabited the tunnels below the planet. Who it was, no one could say for sure; but at least they knew where to start looking.

"Jefferson!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get the men back to their stations. We're going green."

"What, green?" replied his subordinant. "But that's an experimental procedure! It hasn't been tested yet!"

"It's about to be." replied the base leader promptly.

"Yes, sir." replied the young man, saluting.

After the salute had been returned and the Lieutenant had left, he stood staring out at the battlefield. He mulled over what he knew.

They had come to this planet not to fight a war, but to trade for resources. These men were not fighters, although trained they were, as all soldiers were. There was no reason for this battle to be occurring at all; but there you were.

The explosives had gone off at the exact moment.  Someone had planned this well, and for a very long time.

When the lieutenant returned, he informed the leader that everyone was in their place. The word was given; the sirens began blaring "code green." As the ground shook, a half empty bottle of scotch fell from the top of a small chest in the far corner of the room, rolling across the floor while the captain steadied himself on the wall.

His foot landed on the bottle and flew out from under him. His head hit the ground with a loud crack.

When he awoke, he was in the hospital on the base. "Did it work?" were the first words out of his mouth.

"Yes." replied the Lieutenant. "Although not quite as expected."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the nanobots were programmed to move the base in whatever way was most practical..."

"So?"

"So they gave it legs." he laughed. "That's right; the whole base, every building, just got up and scuttled away."

_497 words, 20:33 minutes_

The River Runs Red for +Bianca Lee

The river ran red. It was beautiful, in a strange way; the leafless trees arched over it like claws, and the white snow was tinted pink at its bank.

She liked to come here and just stare at it. At one time in her life, when it was normal water, she could remember coming here to fish with her father. She could remember pulling up carp and catfish, often bigger than she was; but now they were all dead, forced belly-up by what was in the water.

She had decided, not long after it happened, to find the source of the red. She had put on a dark blue jacket, a her pink backpack, and a colorful winter cap over her brunette hair. She could remember how she looked so determined, how her mother had laughed at her, saying she was "so cute."

But why didn't anyone care? Were they just going to let the river remain like that?

"No." they said. "We're just waiting for the authorities."

Waiting? While the river turned red?

That's what she thought now; as a child. she just accepted it. She was a curious little girl, though; so she set off down the river bank, stumbling over rocks and branches, with her little pink backpack filled with sandwiches.

She never did find out what made the river red.

Now she was an adult, though. She was taller, faster, and had lost her baby face. But she was still curious. And so she started down the bank once more.

The snow crunched under her feet as she walked. It was just as rough as she remembered it; there were spots where the trees were so thick you could barely make it through; she had to get down on her hands and knees and begin crawling. In other spots, there were large rocks that one had to climb over; in these slippery winter conditions, a dangerous proposition,  but she couldn't lose sight of the river. She didn't know the countryside as well as when she was little and could get lost easily.

So she climbed and she crawled to get to the source of the red. The beginning of the insanity that had started in her youth. She crested a hill, and found something unexpected; a cliff. It continued on, deep into the black; the bottom black and twinkling with what looked like stars.

But they couldn't be, could they? The river couldn't be flowing out from the gap?

Was the Earth bleeding?

Do It For Your Country for Jel Ena

The screaming wouldn't stop.

The man sat along in the waiting room. They called it that; it was more like a cell, really. No windows, no decorations; just a plain, cement block with a few chairs bolted to the floor.

He sat in one of those chairs, doing his best not to worry. Besides, what could he do? All he had were a patient's gown and slippers. There were two armed guards just outside the door.

But the screaming wouldn't stop.

Since the war had started, they had been picking up the homeless in a white van. They had been promised food, shelter, even money; and they had gotten it, after going to a laboratory and receiving shots.

Then they started dying. One by one, each with different symptoms; some pustules, some rashes, one guy even died of cancer; but not just one or two, he swelled up like a balloon, looking like a grotesque monster before he finally died, nurses scurrying around him like cockroaches.

They said it was for the greater good, of course. They said it was for the soldiers overseas. They said it was patriotic, as though somehow that justified all the killing. But the screams remained.

He wasn't sure what was going to happen when he walked through that door. He was convinced, however, that he would not come back out. No one had; not yet.

But he could do nothing. And so, he waited and listened. The screams continued until they stopped suddenly; whereupon a man dressed in surgical scrubs emerged through the heavy steel door in the front of the room.

"15394." was all he said.

They had taken away everything. Not that he had had much to begin with, but at least he had had a name.

He had waited too long. The armed guards stepped in and gently ushered him through that door. Halfway he tried to get away, to run...

But they knocked him out and dragged him.

Anthropology for +Marc Jensen

"And this is the Great God Molokai!" announced the tour director, pointing to the blocky, colorful figure in the leaf costume. "He was the Ancient God of Construction and Road Rage."

"I've read about him!" piped up a small child.

The crowd gathered  on the polished floor in front of the strange idol. They had come here on a field trip, so most were small with an adult or two to keep an eye on the children.

"O? What did you read?"

"Well, I read that a long time ago, people had these things... like imaginary friends! And they would talk to them and ask them for advice."

"That's right. Did you also know that they built giant buildings called 'skyscrapers' to him?"

They were all listening intently, especially the small child.

"O yes! No one knows how they did it. The going theory is that they had giant birds back then, capable of being domesticated and trained to lift these heavy stones. The birds would have had to be able to lift tons of rock though! Isn't that amazing?"

"And what were these birds called?"

"Swallows!" replied the man, grinning broadly. "Their ability to lift and carry large objects is well documented in an ancient record, which also states that Frenchmen, a strange subspecies of human, disliked Kings."

"What else does it say?"

"It also says that Sir Lancelot, a saint of the time, had a favorite color. It was blue; and so, blue was considered the holiest of colors by this ancient race. In combination with red and white it was considered particularly good luck."

He smiled, gesturing to the next platform. "Moving right along, over here is a portrait of the great Saint Gaga and her many, many psalms of truth and love..."

Sacrifice for +Andrea P

The world never made sense, diid it? it was only an
illusion, a falsehood, a thin veneer of reality that fell
down over your eyes when you were young, put there by
generation after generation of humanity, convinced at
their own superiority.

She kneeled down, looking at his grave. She had been in
the car that night; she had seen everything. The truck
crashed into them from the intersectioin, the smashing of
the frame, the screaming. And then there was blood; so
much blood...

And here she was, weeping over his grave like a lost
child; for that was, indeed, what she was. She gets up,
wiping the tears from her eyes on her wrists, and walks
away.

That night, sleep doesn't come easilly. In her mind, she
sees the crash over and over in her head; a stark
reminder. She hears the screaming, the crash, the
crunches; and then he is there, looking at her, his eyes
accusing.

"It should have been you."

No, no no no. The voices screamed their denial deep in
her mind.

"Yes." he answered, looking down at her. "It is your
fault. You want to know why?"

"Why are you tellilng me this?" she cried, her voice
echoing in the empty space of her mind. "Why?"

"I'm supposed to be alive, Carrie." he answered. "But you
killed me."

"No!" she covered her ears. "That was an accident!"


"You wanted it to happen."

She stopped. Of course she had wished it on him several
times; why? Because he had been horrible. He had done
things to her. Terrible, terrible things.

All she had really wanted was to get away.

"Yes." he answered. "And instead, I'm dead. You did it.
You killed a man."

"I didn't kill anyone!"

"It's okay." he smiled. "I forgive you."

"Really?"

"O yes. I was a horrible person. Now It's all better.
Here, let me show you my world! I'm so happy now..."

They found her the next morning. She had thrown herself
off the top of the apartment building, dying with a
strange,k peaceful smile upon her face.

348 words, 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.

So That's How They Do It victimized by +Tejas Richard

"Sir, I think there's a problem."

"What now?" the man sighed. He had just gotten off the phone with his boss, who was asking about the delays on the construction of a new theme park.

"Well...you remember how we hired 'only the best robotics engineers' to make a large display of animatronics?"

"of course I do. That's the main attraction; I checked it over myself. What are you getting at?"

"Well...the guy we hired? He did exactly what he promised. He made them as realistic as possible."

The man puzzled over what he meant. What could possibly have gone wrong? "I have no idea what the problem is, Matt."

"Well...you'll have to see for yourself." the technician replied.

"Lead the way."

As they walked, they discussed the problem.

"Well, you remember what the engineer promised?"

"Bunnies. Unicorns. Dancing bears. Smiling suns. A light show." replied the manager.

"Yes. Well... he delivered." said the technician with a half-hearted laugh.

They arrived at the door. The first man held it open while the boss pushed through.

In the middle of the stadium, a small group of animatronics sung a happy song. A unicorn, a bear, and yes, even the sun. From somewhere. a holographic rainbow projected.

Then the manager saw where it came from. A small pink bunny was masturbating furiously, the rainbow projecting from between it's legs.

"No..." muttered the manager, as his head throbbed. "God no..."

The technician shook his head. It was going to be a long day.

Time: 8:51 249 words.

An Unusual Accident for +Abi Grey

It had been a long day at the coffee shop, and she had had to close. When she finally locked the door, her feet were killing her and she was ready to climb into bed.

She walked across the parking lot, the snow glistening and her shoes getting moist from the water collected on the asphalt. She unlocked her door, opening it and using the switch inside to unlock all four, opening the back door and taking off her apron and throwing it in. Slamming it shut, she climbed into the front driver seat. Her car started on the first try. She slammed it into reverse, backing out a bit faster than she should have and driving out of the parking lot.

She turned on the radio after a few minutes; she wanted the sound, needed it to keep her mind awake and sharp. It blasted out the latest pop hits; she barely listened, had no interest. The curves of the mountain road and the trees seemed to hypnotize her; but, at least she was awake.

Her car hit something with a thud. Her eyes snapped wide open as she hit the breaks. She sat in the car, breathing slow, steady breaths, and looking in the mirror.

It looked like a man.

What is he doing out here? she wondered.

And then he moved. it was just slight movement, but it was enough. She got out of the car, ran up to him.

"Are you okay?" she asked, getting out her cell phone. "I'll call someone, we'll get you to the..."

But she stopped as he groaned, her eyes adjusting to the pale moonlight. She wasn't sure she trusted them, but here it was; the small horns, the furry legs, the hooves.

Who does one call when one hits a satyr?