The Anti-Muse Defeated!

The writer rose from his desk, pencil in hand, and flashed a grin and a smirk. He knew the demon to be bad news, lovely female form or not, but he knew her weakness too.

"Sorry to disappoint you, babe. You won't be stealing my stories today."

Grabbing pencil and journal in hand, he pulled open the shade, and leaned against the window to let the sun shine down on the pages.

And then he began to write.

"You see, my dear, you can take all the stories I've ever dreamed of writing, but that doesn't mean I can't come up with more. A writer can find inspiration in anything - and here I am, faced with a being out of my darkest fantasies, most vicious nightmares. Here I am, faced with proof that there is more to the world than us mere mortals know? How can my mind not fill to bursting after an encounter like this?"

Obsidian eyes flashed hatefully at him, ruby lips curled into a snarl. But the vampiric form stepped away from him with every word. It could feel his imagination swelling into overdrive, could feel his mind filling with far more than it could handle.

The writer pointed his pencil at her, and she recoiled from the outstretched graphite as from a sword. "So you can go on and get yourself out of here, darling. You've taken your share and left your mark. I'm sure it wasn't what you planned to leave, but what's done is done - I've got no more time for you!"

The light shining into the room reflected off the small mirror laying upon his desk. Light shimmered through the room, and whatever spell had let him see into the world between mortal and magic... was broken. He could see the room again, in all its banality, and it was glorious and wonderful to him.

And though he could not see her, he knew that she was gone. And he knew that he may dismiss his memory of what truly happened from his conscious mind - but deep within he will always know it to be true, and carry that spark of magic - foul or fair - through all his works, and to his very grave.

And so a story ended, and so a story began anew.

The Anti-Muse Unleashed!

He felt it then; the tendrils drifting out from her, buried deep into his heart and soul. He felt the faint pulse of his lifeblood draining away - his stories, his tales, his dreams and memories.

She smiled, and gleaming fangs were seen beneath those ruby red lips. In her eyes there flashed an abyss, an empty hunger, thirsting to be fulfilled.

The room seemed to fill with the gathering darkness, and as the writer looked around, it seemed as though everything within his room went hazy and indistinct - the shelves and books, the journals, the pencil sharpener, the almanac that lay open on the floor, the broken snowglobe given to him by his first girlfriend... he felt them fading, and could see nothing but shadows all around, and the terrible figure that crouched over him.

"A shame," she crooned, as she fed on all the writings he would never write, "A shame that you saw me. And yet, somehow, it is all the more delicious. I can feel your heart thrumming, as you know what is happening to you. I can feel the motion churning through your brain at the knowledge, and it makes every drop in you all the more... poignant."

Hissing laughter sounded in his ear, and as he beheld her, she reminded him of every horror and nightmare he had ever known.

And that was her mistake, and her ultimate downfall.

The Anti-Muse Revealed

There she was. A vision born of dreams and memories, of auburn hair and pale green eyes. From whence she came the writer could not say, but caught upon the brink of the world of myth and magic, her visage was made known to him.

She hovered there, garbed in shades of gray, clad in fabric that seemed to draw the light - and sound, and sense, and solitude - in unto itself. Her piercing eyes rested upon him, and as she noted his gaze turn towards her, shock and surprise etched themselves across her features.

"How unexpected." Her voice could be called a monotone, but in truth, it was pitched at the perfect harmony to sink into his mind, almost bypassing understanding entire.

The writer looked upon her, and struggled to find words within himself - but was torn between too many things. Questions to ask, pledges to make, invectives to hurl.

The vision smiled. "I know what you are wondering, mortal man. I ponder myself that you can see me, but perhaps too long have I lingered here, and a bit of my own nature has spread to you."

"But!" he gasped, "Who are you?"

"Know you not?" She stepped in close, and lowered her lips to his ear, and spoke in a whisper. "I am the anti-muse, my little writer. I have come to take your dreams away."

The Anti-Muse: A Story in 4 Parts

The writer stared at the blank page in disgust. The words, they would not come. The stories were there, tales waiting to be told... but the words, they would not come. How to tell them seemed an insurmountable task, and the longer it went without his visions making their way to the page... the weaker the stories grew in his mind, till they faded away entire.

It had been like this for days. Hopeless, adrift, an artist bereft of his craft. Coffee and biscuits his only sustenance. Half hour periods spent failing to write, followed by brisk walks through the chill winter air. More coffee, more lack of writing, more walking. His days settled into pattern and lethargy, and nothing more.

Weeks passed, and again he finds himself here. At the table, pen in hand. Notebook - a new one, he kept buying new ones in search of one that he could write in. But... no words. Just despair, a feeling that, perhaps, his time has come and gone. What worth a writer who will not write?

He turns and casts his gaze into a small hand-mirror that rested upon his desk. His features, hollow and weak, stare back at him.

A motion in the mirror catches his eye. Drained from lack of sleep and emotion, he drifts half between the waking world and the world of lore... and she is revealed to him.

It is now that he sees her, and knows where his inspiration has gone.

Tales of True Story: The Cursed Name

I once was filing a directory of individuals in a certain department that shall go unspoken of.

Within that catalog of names was listed a boss and his assistant director.

The boss was named Jack Dragon. I was like - "Whoa! Dang, now thats one awesome name."

I mean, you can't have a name like Jack fucking Dragon without inherently having an aura of supreme coolness about you, right?

The assistant director, however... was named Oglethorp Pimblebottom.

I mean, damn. That sucks. That's like, the worst name in the world, man. His parents must have hated him.

And to make matters worse, he has to work for Jack fucking Dragon all day long. That must totally bite, seriously.

Of course, it could be that the names are themselves the lie - Oglethorp could be a badass after years of persecution, and Jack fucking Dragon is just some dork in a tie.

Maybe one day I'll find out... but till then, all I've got to go by are the names.

And Jack fucking Dragon beats out Oglethorp Pimblebottom any day of the week.

Heroes and Villains

The knight emerged from the dull and brackish waters of the swamp. The sludge fell off his armor, almost eager to be away from it, to lets its gleam challenge the dim surroundings. Even as his feet landed on dry ground, he was again the polished, perfect figure of a hero.

His eyes darted through bushes, trees, muddy pools and roots that entwined through the ground. His gaze searched for the beast that had flung him into the depths of the bog, and then fled.

"Please," came the guttaral hiss of the beast, "Why can you not leave me here, in peace?"

The knight turned towards the voice, and smiled. His teeth shone white as a ray of sunlight broke through the darkened canopy of the swamp.

He replied, his voice booming out as he strode towards his foe, sword at the ready. "What is meant to be, is meant to be. You are an abomination! A freak of nature - your fate has been sealed since the moment you first entered into life. So it is written."

"I mean no harm!"

"The fangs and claws you were born with give the lie to your words. You were made to cause havoc, and 'tis only a matter of time till you do."

"No!"

"Yes."

The knight strode forward. The beast sprang from the shadow, claws outstretched, fangs bared. The golden sword flashed once, twice... and then, no more.

The Challenge

Wayne Johnston was an ordinary man.

He worked an ordinary job, from 9 - 5, in an ordinary office.

His chosen vehicle of transportation was a 1993 Honda Civic of no especial note.

For all these reasons, it came as a surprise when a message was left at his doorstop, challenging him to join the Race.

The Race was a treasure hunt stretching across the entirety of America. Through each of the fifty states! Through the frozen northland of Canada, through the blazing jungles of Equador! A year of journeying, and to the victor goes untold fame... and to the losers, only death awaits.

Wayne Johnston did not know why he was invited to such a thing. But as he read the details of the Race - of the treasures that awaited, and of the many grisly and painful demises possible along the trail - something began to awaken with him.

Perhaps, he thought, someone had seen something inside of him that he had not. Something strong. Something fast. Something tough. Something willing to step up to a challenge... and survive.

Wayne Johnston entered the Race, and never looked back.

His next door neighbor, Rodrigo del Torgo, world-reknowned explorer, learned about the Race a month too late, and exclaimed, "Fuck!"

Late for a Very Important Date

James Hobbleton was a very special person.

He was cursed, you see, to always arrive late.

He spent much of his youth trying to overcome this, and always - always - failing.

It wasn't until he was a young man that he learned that his tardiness was not his own fault, but the result of a magical curse laid upon him by an evil witch when he was born.

And that was when James got to thinking, you see.

He was a smart guy, James. And if fell to reason that a magical curse was, well, absolute. And operated in terms of absolutes. If he had an event scheduled, he would arrive late. It would do whatever was necessary to ensure that such a thing came to pass.

Can you imagine what it would be like? To have a connection to the inner workings of time, like that? One meant for aggravation - but there is power there nonetheless. Can you imagine what you could do with that power?

James could.

And that's the origin of Jimmy Speed, the fastest man in the world.

There is no lesson to be learned here, no moral tale, no clever truth. This is story only and nothing more.

In the land of Narsis there lived two brothers, each a prince.

One brother was fair, with skin like ivory and a gentle nature.

The second brother, born seconds after him, was dark as the night, with obsidian eyes, and was prone to passion and rage.

It came to pass that their father, the old king, passed away when they were both young. A regent was appointed - a wise man, who had traveled the seas of the world and learned the teachings of distant lands before returning to Narsis, his home.

The Regent watched the boys grow, and saw a bitter rivalry between them. "One day," he told them, "You will have to prove which of you shall be king. Until that day, however, you shall never shed each others blood or bare your teeth in anger. You must live as brothers, for the good of the people."

And so the brothers grew into young men. The older brother, fair of skin and mind, took up the arts and culture, and taught himself much of the way the world worked. The younger brother had no interest in such things, and caroused among the people without care.

The Regent pondered the matter, and thought of a way for the kingdom to not be hurt when one of the brothers ascended to the throne. So great was his distraction that he noted not the ambitions of nearby Allair, another kingdom that coveted the lands and harvests of Narsis.

An assassin was sent, and though his own life was taken, the Regent was slain by his hand. Narsis suddenly faced danger and war, and no longer had a leader to tell them what to do.

The fair haired brother wept when he buried the Regent, for the man had been as a father to the brothers. Yet despite this, he wiped his tears away, and began studying the ways of diplomacy. He called forth his kingdom's greatest scholars and sought out what could be offered to make peace with nearby Allair.

Yet his younger brother would have none of it. He wept no tears for the Regent, but swore a blood oath of vengeance. He went out among the people and spoke to them of blood and pain, of violence and war. As the ivory prince traveled to Allair in search of peace, the obsidian prince raised an blood mad army.

Upon his arrival in Allair, the elder prince and all his entourage were ruthlessly killed. Days later, the army of Narsis arrived, and wiped Allair from the land, and the younger prince was crowned as ruler of the kingdom to the rejoicing of his people.

The Wilds

So, a priest, a rabbi and an astronaut all walk into a bar.

That actually isn't important - however, the bar they are walking into is.

St. Johns Tavern for the Weary, reads the signpost out front. A haven for the strange and unusual. A bar that can be found in any number of cities, and is never in the same place twice. Take your gaze off of it for more than a minute, and it may well be gone when you look again.

We've had a stakeout going for four days now. Professional watchers, all. You know that scene in "A Clockwork Orange" where they peel the guy's eyes open? Yeah, we've all been there.

And we've kept our orbs locked onto the bar since the assignment started. Don't know who hired us, or why - you don't ask questions in this business, not if you want to stay in the business, if ya get my drift.

But weird stuff is happening. That place wasn't meant to be held still, and every now and then we catch a glimpse of it trying to leave, a glance at alleys and streets behind it that aren't the ones there now.

Dangerous business, this. A place trying to be in two places at once... or two places trying to occupy the same locale at the same time... either one of those could be a recipe for disaster.

But you don't ask questions, and you don't worry 'bout the consequences. You take your money, and you do your job. Asking questions is fer folks living a normal life in a normal world. Ain't no place for that sorta thing... not out here in the Wilds.

Distant Dreams

When I was a child, I dreamed a child's dreams, of toys and playtime and the occasional monster.

When I was a young man, I dreamed a young man's dreams, of hormones and worry and lust and desire.

When I turned two and twenty, I no longer had dreams.

Each dawn I'd awake as fresh as can be. Filled with energy, confidence, vitality.

I'd go through the day with fervor and grace, but still always felt the faintest feeling of loss.

I'd long to be tired, to close my eyes, to hope for a moment a dream would arise. I'd spend the day dreaming of dreaming, to no avail. My life went on turning, the dreams remained unsung.

Ten years have gone by, and sometimes I wonder if I ever truly had dreams at all. Does my memory lie? Has this always been my state? If not - what went wrong, and will it forever remain?

There you have it, there you are - my fondest hope and desire. A single night's dreaming is all I require. Grant me one dream, grant me my wish, and I'll return to my daily living and shut up about this.

Chess

"So."

"So."

The two gentleman sat across the table from each other, negotiations having come to a halt.

On one side sat "The Player," an elderly man with flowing gray hair. His identity was shrouded in secrecy, but he was known as the greatest chess player the world had ever seen.

Opposite him was Robert Hutchfield, game developer. His current project - "Battle Chess 2020!", a virtual reality game world of epic scope.

"I ask zou again, Robert, what have zou to offer me? Money is nothink. Fame I have not ze need for. All I am beink concerned about is ze purity of chess, and nothink more."

Robert sighed, and looked down at the blank check he had signed, which he had thought would be enough to handle the process. "I know you feel our game to be an atrocity, sir. But you know that the kids of today cannot care for anything without flashing lights and power swords! This is your chance to ensure that something of your game continues - a game designed to appeal to new and old players alike."

"Ah." The Player steepled his fingers before him, and stared resolutely into the polished tabletop. "But perhaps it would be better to be lettink ze chess to die, than to condone such a... perversion?"

"The game will happen one way or another. If you come on board... you have the chance to influence it. Should you step aside, a hundred years from now, this may alone be the chess game that is remembered - and you shall be forgotten, sir."

"Threats, is it beink? Well. Well, well, well. I shall play ze game of yours, Mr. Hutchfield. And let us see what we can be creatink together."

The two stood up and shook hands, and prepared to launch into the preparations for what could have been the greatest game of all time...

But it was too late. Five minutes earlier the deal had been set for "Parchesi: The Wrath of God!"

And when that was released, the world would never be the same.

Adventures in Dialogue - "A Meal To Die For!" starring Frank and Bob.

"What's on the menu today, Frank?"

"Sez here 'Blackened Chicken Parts', Bob."

"Oh God. Thats disgusting. Do they just pour out its entrails and toss them in an open flame? How can they expect anyone to eat that, Frank?"

"I dunno, Bob. Dem chickens some mighty fine eatin', Bob."

"Sure, chicken, fine. Chicken parts? The discarded wastes of a poultry carcass? It's vile, I say, Frank, simply vile!"

"If'n ya say so, Bob. Don't be seemin' any diff'rent fer me than eatin' any other part of th' chickens, though."

"Very well, you brute. Enjoy your meal of assorted chicken intestines. I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON THEM, YOU CALLOUS FOOL! Enough of this, Frank, I shall pursue my dietary options elsewhere. Hmph!"

"Alrighty Bob. See ya same time next week, y'hear?"

Changeling

It was a warm summer's night, and the two faeries flew through the air beneath the alabaster moon and the brilliant starry sky. The grass blew with the breeze of their passing, and whispers and buzzing trailed among all the night's animals and insects that watched them go.

They flew in through the window, left open to allow a cool breeze to soothe the sleeping child. They perched upon the crib - two figures clad in stardust, with opalescent eyes and shimmering lavender hair that floated around them of its own volition.

The first wore a crown of rosepetals, and had strands of ivy entwining her body, and she reached out and stroked the infant's silky hair. The child quietly opened his eyes and stared in wonder.

As those eyes gazed upon the fae, they were transformed, and drifted from a dusky grey to a brilliant, blazing purple. The faerie lady smiled, and leaned back.

Her kinsman hopped down into the crib. He carried the scent of sweet apples, and had a thorn strapped to his side by a band of gold. He drew the thorn like a sword, and touched it to the child's chest - and as he passed it over the skin, darkness spread, until a swirling crescent birthmark adorned the boy.

The child replied, softly, "goog."

With a grin, the faerie saluted the child with the thorn, then his wings hummed as he soared back up to hover above the crib. As his companion joined him, the child giggled softly at them both, before drifting deeply into slumber once again.

Out the window they went, the sounds of the night clamoring around them for attention.

"Look at me," howled the wolf. "Come dance with us!" sang the moths. "Come play! Come play!" arose the chorus from the land.

But the faerie lad and lass laughed them all away, and soared back to their home, speaking only to each other in their faerie tongue, a language of chimes and bells and hidden, cheerful sounds.

"Another one," sang the lady, sadness and satisfaction in her words.

"They'll think we replaced him, as they always do," and the faerie shook his head at the foolishness of man.

"Still the same, still the same, but for how they see him."

"There is greatness in difference, and a beauty in a change, if only they could see it."

Laughing, the faerie took each other in their arms and whirled upon the wind, dancing and singing of their little ways and little mischiefs, and of all the things they do.