The Boy Who Never Grew Up

"The worst part is knowing it's even possible, y'know, doc?" The youth scrunched into the overstuffed chair. "If I went off my meds, even for a day, I could fly again. I feel it, even if I don't believe it. That's what really bothers me."

"And have you had any more... hallucinations?" asked the psychiatrist.

"No," Peter lied, glaring at the fluttering fairy over the doctor's shoulder.

"Good. Well, we'll see you next week, okay?" He began shuffling papers – the traditional end to their sessions. Peter wasn't watching. He was staring at the window.

"I don't believe that," he whispered.

A Prescription for Doomsday

The modest three-story building in the office park was left almost miraculously unharmed in the conflagration. Doctor Rouster served the desperate and dying as best he could.

On June 17, a shadowy figure strode calmly into his office and presented a small scrap of green paper.

"It is done, doctor, as you requested," the thing rasped. "But I still feel terrible."

Rouster stared at the prescription slip. "Jason? This is a prescription for Droperidol and the date of your follow-up appointment."

"Oh. A medicine? I thought... well, your terrible handwriting has to take some of the blame here, I say."