No Answer

Nettie heard the sound drifting through the chilly air. Deedle-dee-eet-dee-deedle-dee. A snippet of a popular song, tinny and electronic. She glanced around; the stores were all dark. The sound had come from her left, from the small grove of trees planted in orderly rows between the road and the shopping center.

Deedle-dee-eet-dee-deedle-dee.

Nettie stepped cautiously forward. She reached out and touched the bark of the tree that didn't fit the grid, the tree that hadn't been there yesterday.

Deedle-dee-eet-dee-deedle-dee.

The phone glowed beneath the bark, half-embedded in the wood.

Nettie hurried away, rubbing her fingers vigorously on her pants.

Deedle-dee-eet-dee-deedle-dee.

Children of God

There are probably more dangerous gods to offend. Tzitrak, the god of lightning, for instance. Or Pucril, goddess of disease and infection. Even the placid ones like Dolo, god of stone, or Etervy, goddess of wealth, can put the kibosh on you pretty good if they want to.

I figured Batrach, god of toads, was a fairly safe bet. No teeth, no claws. Plus, we’re in a temperate zone: no poison arrow frogs. I thought I’d be okay.

But that’s why the curtains are drawn. It’s the eyes I can’t stand. Hundreds and hundreds of gleaming little eyes, always watching…

Eternally Vigilant

We all watched the tiny figure cling to the overhead light fixture. It was black as tar except for the jewels on its mask. "So it doesn't try to attack you or anything?"

"No. It just... stares." Chet had lost a lot of weight. His hair stuck out at odd angles, as if he'd been tying it in knots.

"That's not so bad, then. Small price for violating that ancient burial ground, right?"

"I want to die," Chet said.

Reggie shrugged. "So do it."

"I tried!" Chet glanced over his shoulder and shuddered. "I think it called the paramedics."

Tracks in the Sand

When he woke in the morning, the tattoos were gone. He couldn't say he was surprised. Even through the hours spent with gritted teeth, cringing from the needle in the overheated back room, he'd suspected what would happen.

He munched a piece of toast and idly doodled on his hand with a permanent marker. He wrote his name, and watched as that, too, faded into his skin

The steak knife, dirty by the sink, caught his attention.

No. He'd find a way to leave a mark. He glanced at the knife once more on his way out.

Not yet, anyway.

Flogging Tin

Oh, it'll cut, never fear. Right through bone like it wasn't even there. Cutting your own limb off? It'd take psychotic dedication... or a very sharp blade. Got all four of 'em, in the end, and his head for good measure.

Cursed, of course. Turns on you the moment it can. But what's the good of a curse that no one ever suffers? That's what the carrot's for: to make you risk the stick. What would you risk to hold something sharp, something well and truly sharp, just for a moment?

I just have two words for you: oil can.

Fulfilling the Requirements

“This is futile,” said Catastrophe, the Glass Blade. It hung from its scabbard on the saddlebow, since the prince could hardly be expected to wear it just now.

Prince Ailu, perched somewhat precariously on his saddle, licked a paw and preened his whiskers. “I don’t see what’s so hard about this. I’m a prince, the third of three sons, bearing a magic sword and laboring under a terrible curse. I’m a natural choice for the quest. Princess Lazica is as good as rescued.”

“The Dark Lord would likely be more concerned if his sworn foe had opposable thumbs,” said Catastrophe.