Liquid Pain

Pain radiated through his body, beginning at the throat and soon wracking him head to toe with agony. He contorted and writhed, muscles spasming with near-bone-cracking force, and the only thing he dared spare the willpower to control was keeping the clay bottle of liquid pain at his lips. He wouldn't be charged with drinking less than every last drop.

The person watching him with a cruel smile had long ago forsaken human appearances. They wore only a collection of rags tied in place with rough knots or with mud daubed and let to harden. The cruel smile faded, swallow after swallow, into a mild boredom, and their eyes wandered around the dingy dungeon chamber of stone and mortar. He was drinking, his conviction was clear, so he held no more interest for his captor. Or they had never been interested, and the mask of cruelty was too tiring, or too boring, to continue wearing.

He came to, alone in the empty room, after something akin to a blackout, with only mist-shrouded memories of licking at the rim of the bottle, lest he be accused of leaving a single drop.

"I have your family," they had said. "Drink every drop, or they die after the worst pain they have ever experienced, each of them watching in turn until the youngest is last." These dry words, flavored with malice that has been used too many times like a destitute family's last teabag, gave him his conviction.

He went home, crawling until he could stumble, stumbling until he could run, arriving to a happy home disturbed only by his fear, his appearance. They had never been taken, never been threatened or in any danger. His partner gave him a note, delivered by anonymous messenger.

"Now you know how far you will go."

The Cat and the Key

Linsa was young, and she was beautiful, and she was rich. Naturally, everyone in the village wanted to marry her. To fend off the onslaught of suitors, she put a ring in a locked box, and the key she hung from the collar of her cat, Sweet Button. "Whosoever shall catch the cat shall have the key to my heart," said Linsa, "and shall wed me with that ring."

Many tried, but Sweet Button was both swift and canny. When they snuck up on where she sunned on a roof, she leapt down faster than they could follow. When they surprised her in the street, she ran through a fence and left them behind. The one who came closest got a claw across the face for his trouble.

Miriam did not chase the cat, she sat near her. She did not sneak up on the cat, she relaxed in the cat's favorite spots and let the cat come to her. In time they became friends, and soon they were inseparable.

Linsa waited, and waited, and one day said, "You have the key to my heart! Why not bring me the ring?"

"Why should I?" said Miriam. "I have the cat."

Dog Noir 6

I knew he was following me from the moment I left The Yard. He one tried to keep a respectful distance, but I sniffed him out before we'd gone ten steps. Much as I'd've liked to lose him or confront him, I had business that couldn't wait.

He was still there when I paused and, subtle as you please, dropped my package. It was a condensed list of everything important I'd gotten my nose into over the last day, and I left it where the right people would see it. Getting together in person wasn't possible, especially with this yahoo on my tail.

He'd been waiting for that. Before I could blink, he was on my deposit like fleas on... well. Clearly, he knew what he was getting into: He used a bag so he wouldn't contaminate the evidence.

At that point the table turned. He headed back to The Yard, I followed. I almost got the sense that he wanted me behind him, like he was gloating. I'm still not sure what he wanted, especially since he dropped my package right in the trash. Maybe he's trying to show me he's in charge around here.

We'll see about that.

The Second Best Time Is Now

Grant fired a burst down the corridor and pulled back around the corner for cover. So far, he was holding the rival military firm back. He sent another burst around the corner, and answering fire spanged off the metal corridor around him.

Reloading, his hand brushed the standard-issue grenade on his belt. That would surprise the invaders for sure. Timed right, it would figuratively and literally cripple them, letting Grant's firm mop up with ease. Figuratively. The literal mopping would, hopefully, fall to someone else.

But it had to be the right time. He fired again to keep them back. They had to be bunched up for the best effect. They were too spread out in this corridor, and he'd rather save the grenade for when it could have a real impact. Heh, impact. He fired another burst. He had a good spot here... but if they brought more pressure or flanked him, he might need the grenade for his tactical retreat. Better to hold onto it. Could be more useful later.

A metallic clatter dragged his eyeline to the floor, where a live grenade spun to a stop. Boy, they were going to feel stupid if they needed that—

The Gleaming Pin

Before a mirror, his voice resounded, he held forth, he was concise, assertive, and insightful. In the company of one other, he murmured, he hesitated, he was doubtful, unsure, reluctant to assert. In the company of two, he whispered, he stammered, he was withdrawn, self-sabotaging. More, and he vanished, he shrank to nothing, he was silent. With everyone around him, he was alone.

"What I will do," said his friend, "is force you to speak, make you involuntarily visible in such a great crowd you could not otherwise imagine it." She brandished a gleaming pin. "I will pierce you with this, you will cry out, and you will be seen and heard. You will not be nothing." He was reluctant, but agreed.

One by one, people joined them, and inch by inch, decibel by decibel, he diminished. Conversations sprouted and grew over him like an aggressive ivy robbing him of sustaining sunlight, and he wilted. The gathering grew into a social event, the social event bloomed into a party, and joy flowed between all who had come.

By then, nothing of him remained. When his friend again noticed the pin, she wondered why she had brought it to a party.

The One You Can't Say

Sam was reading off the names from the lunches kids' parents had sent with them to camp. "Janine! There you go. Bari! Here. Ssss—" She coughed, then swallowed. "Um, Alan, could you come here?"

Alan paused his own lunch call and walked over. "What?""

"This. I don't think I can read this." She held up a brown paper bag with a name on it in Sharpie: Slut Johnson. 

Alan's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "I don't think I could read that either."

"Can I have my lunch, please?" The twelve-year-old girl stood, patient and calm.

"Are you..." Sam's eyes drifted back to the paper bag.

"Yeah, I'm the one you can't say. You can just call me S."

Sam hesitated until the girl reached out for her lunch, and Sam handed it over. Her mouth moved trying to find words. "Why..." She drew the word out, uncertain how or what to ask.

"My mom's reeeeeeeal messed up," the girl said. "Don't worry, I'll get her back by putting her in a home when she's old." The girl took her lunch and ran off to eat with her friends.

Sam turned to Alan. "She's pretty well-adjusted, all things considered."

Journey from Iridia

Alise appeared in the dusty, moonlit attic with no particular fanfare, just a gasp, a book falling open to the floor, and a stumble as though she had just halted a headlong dash.

She was in shock, as was apparent to the zero spectators. Once she found her breath, she fell to her knees and, with a wordless wail, scrabbled back to the book. It lay open to a blank page. With a growing moan, she flipped through it at increasing speed, heedless of rips and tears, finding only blank paper. On the last page, she collapsed. All sign of the magical world of Iridia had vanished. She had no way back.

Alise tried to live a normal life. She reached out to the family she'd thought she'd never see again, she looked for a job. But each time she saw a book—not just any book, but a tome of weight and substance like that she'd traveled through—it arrested her. Her throat caught, her mouth dried, the book seized her thoughts until she opened it and found no Iridia within.

She never found it. They eventually found her in the local library, half-buried in a pile of books, weeping uncontrollably.