The Fruit We Never Eat

For many people, the really big, important choices they make are evident in their own lifetime. Having a child, starting a business, winning a war; these things are actions with directly apparent outcomes. Our modern world has made such results more tangible and readily dissipated. If you do something obviously important, word will get out!

There’s a flipside to this scenario, though. Some people go their whole lives without feeling like they’ve affected anything of genuine measure. They debate their own existence, never seeming to find a purpose for living. Vincent Van Gogh died believing his art was a waste. Franz Kafka wanted his writings totally burned upon his death, thinking he’d written disgusting nonsense. Johann Sebastian Bach died while considered a near-invisible footnote in the history of great composers, known mostly as a local German specialist to test out new organs upon installation.

Let that sink in for a moment – Van Gogh, Kafka, and Bach all shuffled off this mortal coil thinking they produced nothing of merit. How simultaneously incredible and deeply depressing!

Irises by Vincent Van Gogh

We can’t know how or why, but there are people alive today that will unfortunately never see the mark they make upon the world. The nature of the universe functions without any regard for fairness. And yet, the lives of these people are so wildly important. A young child might write a poem that pushes some future soldier to carry on for one more day, thereby saving countless other people in the process. Perhaps an old retiree with no family wills their entire estate to a charity that finally finds the cure for cancer many decades after their own death. A college student could compose the sweetest of all songs ever written, only for it to be hidden on a thumb drive in a shoe box for a hundred years, never to be heard by anyone even born yet.

The takeaway is this – the small and quiet things we do today are perhaps the most important choices of all. The things without fanfare, without notoriety, without celebration; these are the things that can change the world. Though you may feel like what you do has no merit and you walk the world without purpose, there is a much greater promise of hope. The sheer magnanimous importance of you being here on this Earth cannot be understated.

You may have been made to help people who aren’t born yet.

And so, as bleak as your short season might be, the seeds you plant today could grow into a tree that shades a weary soul tomorrow. A friend you’ll never meet will thank you despite not knowing who you are or why you were here. Is there anything more sincere than that?

The Importance of Writing Letters.

I’ll set the scene…

Pressing against your front door, you step into the foggy, overcast glow of a misty day. The birds are calling; the trees drip with water. A breeze brushes against your face, sending the hair on the back of your neck into a fervor. Minuscule droplets of rain grace the lids of your eyes. Briskly, you dart down your porch steps and strut along your driveway. Reaching the end, you drop the flap of your mailbox with conviction and reach inside. The anticipation is nearly unbearable. Your fingertips can feel the rough organic surface of a letter. Pulling it out, you close your eyes for just a moment. Where did it come from? Who wrote it? You open your eyes…

Could you feel that? That’s what millions of people experienced every day before the advent of mobile phones, the internet, and social media. The ardor of receiving a letter in the mail from a friend or loved one was the highlight of the day for many. It kept people together, despite the countless miles that may separate them physically. Much less, a letter represented the act of willing thoughts and feelings into existence. What once resided solely in the mind of the writer now had life; a letter was a tangible embodiment of sentiment.

I fear we’ve lost that crucial connection of sentiment in the Twenty-First Century. Never have people been more connected, but also more alone.

The older I get, the more I miss getting letters, cards, and postcards from friends, family, and pen pals. When I was a teenager, receiving mail seemed like second nature; it was a facet of life that I took for granted. Even receiving magazines in the post was something to get excited over.

Magazines… remember those? Nintendo Power and Wizard, I weep for both of you.

Barreling towards my forties, I miss what I once so carelessly took for granted. When I do receive a card or letter, it genuinely warms my heart. Thanks to the select few of you that still send me things in the mail; you know who you are.

Letters embody the purposeful communion of love and friendship between people. The effort to write down your ideas, address an envelope, purchase a stamp, and place the letter in a mailbox certainly isn’t a difficult task. And yet, that uncomplicated journey is a task with meaning. It takes motivation. Nowadays, one person can send another person a text message while using the bathroom, giving no further thought to the sheer magnitude of what they just accomplished. We can wondrously tweet and instant message and snap and kik and blow up our BFF’s Instagram simultaneously in the same time it takes to put on our shoes.

I feel disgusting for that last sentence; please forgive me for momentarily talking like a modern teenager.

Writing letters teaches us patience, sincerity, and gratitude. It humbles our sense of self in an ever-expanding world of technology. To think, words that could require months to arrive, as recently as a mere thirty years ago, can now be shared in an instant. By increasing the quantity of words that we share, have we not lessened their quality? A letter carries weight by sheer necessity, projecting the most important and heartfelt invocations of humanity itself.

Modern technology is fantastic. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to reach you with this very article. That being said, the use of technology also carries a measure of personal responsibility with it. As a collective society, we’ve lost a part of our identity to technology – our ability to project sincere feelings, to create bonds, to maintain relationships. We’ve practically become disposable to each other, much in the same way that we disregard the deluge of instantaneous dispatches that flood our cell phones, timelines, and feeds. Letters circumvent this pitfall by forcing us to take each other with earnest regard. As such, I recommend sending pieces of handwritten mail to your friends and family whenever possible. Not only is it a delight for the receiver, but it’s also a healthy alternative to throw-away cables sent over the internet. Writing truly is terrific for your spirit.

I know I’m fighting a losing battle here, but that doesn’t mean we can’t at least try to turn this ship around. When I send someone a piece of snail mail, I’m trying to establish a connection. Sometimes it works out, but more often than not it doesn’t. Ultimately, I’m left asking myself…

What will be left to salvage of our civilization when the majority of our conversations carry such negligible significance?

If you would like to exchange mail with me (and I would hope you would), then let me know in the comment section below.

In Plane Site.

I'm pregnant with your child.
Oozing bags of puss are weeping from my fingertips.
D.B. Cooper is my real name.
I own not one, not two, but three magic bullets.
The Bermuda Triangle is where I found Jimmy Hoffa.
My left foot has seven toes.
Oranges make me sneeze official Nickelodeon slime.
When I was seven, I conquered Mars with a pencil.
Green is really a futuristic camouflage to hide two dimensional butt pirates.
I can walk on water, but only when it's really cold.
There's a colony of stranded alien cow-probers in my tool shed.
Stonehenge is just a fancy toilet for druids.
Not only have I found Atlantis, but I sold it to mermaids.
Yes, I know mermaids.
Roswell was a cover up for an all-night rave hosted by DJ Boomin' Truman.
The Lost Roanoke Colony just got bored and went to play golf.
I like to play croquet at Redpath Mansion.
Drive-in theaters were invented by lazy, perverted slashers.
Your mom called; she wants you to meet your real father.
Numbers stations are where I find all of my best recipes.
Once in a lifetime you'll take a road to nowhere and find a psycho killer.
I always tell the truth when I'm lying.

The Upside To A Lost Cause.

Waiting.
Gulls fly overhead, silently mocking.
Sitting along the boardwalk, sand between my toes.
A cold receiver on the pay phone around the corner.
Anticipation is dreadful.
Disappointment is worse.
Being strung along is a funny thing.
You're not going anywhere, that much is guaranteed.
Hope finally eclipsed by acceptance of the truth.
A tryst no more; an assassination of sincerity.
Curiously, the pit stops along the way are your pittance.
Cafes and bowling alleys.
Malls and movie theaters.
Amber sunsets on the ocean.
People.
Talking and dancing their troubles away.
Total structural collapse just below the surface.
All they've got is right now.
Tomorrow is just an eight-letter word for never.
We're all fighting a war that can't be won.
Some of us can luckily see through the fog.
Every unanswered call a hushed gift delivered in secrecy.
When there's nothing left to lose, you've got everything to gain.
Starting with today.

A Short Ray Bradbury Documentary.

I just don't have it in me to write this evening. I'm not sick by any means... I just seem to be trapped under the rubble of the world's biggest wall of writer's block. Those of you that read my article about writer's block a few week's back will certainly be able to understand. I always promise to entertain you on the weekend, though. As such, here's a fantastic little self-produced documentary about my favorite author -- Ray Bradbury. Enjoy!

The Lust.

What crawls from 'neath the bubbling muck
Renouncing oblivion to ravage amok
Oozing stale gasps of long captured souls
Dropped deep below to bygone holes
Bursting through forests and deepest of lakes
Terrors to give you the chills and the shakes
Encroaching the fields of our schools and homes
Flesh intended to fill catacombs
Nothing is safe and nothing is sacred
From shambling horrors rancid and naked
Teeth and claws left dripping with gore
Entrails aglow on the moonlit floor
Life reduced to fleeting ephemera
Death endures to dance in the viscera
An unholy fable formed by acrid chrysalis
Fetid revulsion with a stench limitless
Plunging the surface to rip at the hide
Sloughing off layers no relief implied
Encircling putrescence denies your escape
Hunger unbound their mouths all agape
Piece of you here and a piece of you there
Truth be told there's plenty to share
Rest easy tonight the struggle is over
Better to die than live without closure
A burden to walk the black earth eternal
Cursed to feed a lust most infernal

The Dividing Line.

Slicing the air with joyful fingers
Each one dancing to its own beat
The slightest stretch pulsating with life
Cupping the full-blown blast of the highway
Neurons firing eager trumpets of triumph
Easing my mind as I barrel along
Packs of roving bison and leopards
Mechanized behemoths of the new world
Boxes brimming with unbridled meat
Steel automaton docking complete
Open roads the only elixir
Punch-drunk bender full of techno innuendo
Solar streak goes west from east
Hues of violet usher the glow of lanterns
Guiding us to a forlorn pit stop in the fog
Endless layers scanned and wiped
Glossy flickers of nocturnal guardians dashing over
Atonement unlocked in these vivid reflections
Photon mass swirling in the metallic paint
Release the discord with miles piling high
A question not of whom or when or even why
Where does the human end... and the vehicle begin?

Writer's Block And Humility.

There's one universal trait shared by all writers, no matter how proficient, successful, mundane or awful. We experience a moment where we simply can't think of anything to put into words. Hence, the eponymous writer's block. This is one of those evenings for me. I've stared at my computer monitor for nearly forty-five minutes, lacking any real sense of inspiration for a subject. I've scanned US and international news reports. I have spent ten minutes researching duct tape. Hell, I even watched a video on juggling flaming knives. Sometimes, you have to admit defeat and walk away from the keyboard. There's no shame in failure.

Writing is essentially an exercise routine for the brain. Like any other muscle in your body, it can grow strong and healthy. Using your brain regularly has actually been shown to stave off Alzheimer's disease in your later years. Day in and day out, a writer drags their brain into the proverbial gym. Ugh, let's lift bro! Five hundred word reps! Bench press a thesis! Ride an elliptical around your opening paragraph. WORK OUT!

And yet, just like going to the gym, some days the gears in your head don't click into place. Something is off. You can sense it in your gut. That's writer's block, standing in the corner next to the frozen smoothie stand with his overly damp Strawberry Shortcake towel in hand. He's yelling at you in a high-pitched voice, doing his best imitation of Gilbert Gottfried on bath salts and too much Red Bull.

"Give it up clown! You suck!"

You know what? He's right. You suck... today. Not everything a writer pieces together is a masterpiece. In fact, most of the time, a writer creates something that's already been done. Or, they craft a work of complete crap. Worse yet, there are some moments when nothing is written at all. That's the way writing goes, though. For every Wuthering Heights and Brave New World, there are hundreds of terrible novels like Fifty Shades of Grey. Writing, like anything else, is an exercise in humility. Fruitful writers are honest with themselves and their readers, confessing personal shortcomings and working to improve them. They know when to throw in the towel and submit to writer's block.

So what's the take-away from all this? The persistent writer will rise to fight another day. He'll walk into that mental gym and kick writer's block squarely in the nards! Na-ah. Not today, buddy. On this day, I say "You suck, clown!"

Huh... I guess I didn't have writer's block after all.

Laqunah: Part VI

Bursting through the curtains behind the shop counter, Ova beamed with absolute delight. She wore the mark of admittance on her sleeve, letting the entire world know about her success. Hultran sat huddled behind the kitchen table, attempting to eat a slice of minced marigold pie. Just as he was about to take the first bite, she squeezed his neck with the force of a giant vice grip.

“You're in?”

A smile ear to ear...

“I am in!”

“I'm so very proud of you. What a treat!”

Pushing the tart dessert down his throat, he couldn't help but grin along the way. To be the parent of a Persimmon student was highly regarded within the walls of Laqunah. More so, to have a child attend was a source of personal pride. Yes, he had done a great job raising the child after all. Though, to be fair, Ova had just as much of a hand in raising Hultran. They were a finely tuned pair, father and daughter, ready to overcome any hurdle thrown their way.

Next to Hultran's plate sat a peculiar book filled with drawings and photographs. Along the cover were intricate swirls of silver and cobalt against a deep orange hue. Hultran flipped through the pages as he ate. Ova peeked over his shoulder as her curiosity got the best of her.

“What an odd book. Where did you get it?”

Hultran pushed the empty plate away, bringing the book front and center.

“I received it in trade while you were at your meeting. A poor soul claiming to be without money asked for a card reading. They offered this book in lieu of payment. I figured why not... it's been a slow day anyway.”

As they marveled at the fanciful tome, their eyes widened at the sights held within. Page after page filled with scenes not of their world. Metal tanks rolling through lanes straddled by stone towers. Creatures highly similar to Ova appearing to be happy, standing alongside great stretches of coastline. Flying animals and beasts with claws. Massive statues adorned with gold and teal. A large white castle barricaded behind a fence.

“Where is this place, dad?”

At a complete loss, Hultran closed the book and set it aside.

“I've no clue, my dear... but it's giving me a headache. Perhaps we can revisit it after dinner?”

How Did I Get Here?

Trapped in a Dodge Nitro
Spinning wheels on the way to an Indigo Girls concert
Where did I leave my man card?
Back at that Motel 6 in Tulsa
With the cute desk attendant in her second year of vet school
She liked my chocolate brown polo shirt
Said that gator was 'cute'
Twelve hours and too much tequila later
That former beauty queen rolled off me like primary school insults
Meaning she didn't
My dad is going to love you
Mama is dead, she got hit by a cattle truck
I felt sorry for her again
Just like I had the night before
Lost in a thought... sorry folks
Are there apologies in poetry?
I digress
Barreling down the highway at a thunderous 55 MPH
Seemed like a good idea at the time
Just like nipple piercings and buying a Yaris
When do we get to LA?
My mocha frappa double whip no sugar soy milk caramel whatsamajig
Needed a top off... I was tweakin'
TWEEEEEEAAAAKIN'
I don't know her name
I'm gonna call her Lucy
Lucy puts down her spicy chicken sandwich and asks
"Where do you see yourself in five years?"
Waiting for my demon spawn outside his charter school
Dad belly and tissue in hand
Crying
The closer I am... to fine?

You're Gorgeous, But Can You Translate?

Sometimes you fall into a deep hole swirling of susurration
Pulling you below as the robin drawn to a writhing worm
No emergency cable to insure your speedy recovery
Plunging beyond the sixty-first minute of the twenty-fifth hour
Uncharted edge of reason wrapping around itself
Warped and shattered the universe divided
Perpetually splitting the inexhaustible sequence

A syndicate to misery with the finest artillery
Left to ponder the metallic flood in your throat
All havoc tastes the same when your tongue is missing
The rising tide on the sanguine sea lifts your hope
To be the last man on Earth without any rope
But plenty of branches from which to swing

Flickers of bronze scattering the late day sun
Flat on your back with nowhere to run
The line between worlds concealed to most
"Hey, great impression of a minefield ghost!"
And there at the bottom you can't seem to recall
Dusk relieves the burden of the incalculable fall

Turn out the light when you leave
Time to go to sleep

01010000 01101111 01100101 01101101 00101110

Electric circuits glowing with passion
Pushing harder, farther, faster
A swarm of numbers flooding the horizon
Spilling over a jagged cliff of VGA monitors
Into a crypt of dial-up modems and Zip drives
The old replaced with the new
Layer upon layer of humanity's latest and greatest
Here today, gone tomorrow
Never a dull moment
In the tomb of zeroes and ones
Necessity is the key to survival
Every cassette tape and 5 1/4 floppy disk
From dot matrix to coding BASIC
Nothing is sacred in the land that time.gov forgot
And yet, a peak behind the wizard's curtain reveals the formula
If everything is obsolete
Then nothing is

What Is Trash?

What is trash?
Leftover bits of life tossed to the wayside
Your life stacked here
Their life stacked there
Piles and piles of unwanted memories
Floating along their winding road of ruin
The debris overlaps and smothers
Broken promises and tools of lackluster skill
Refrigerators and picture frames
Electric sorcery of every kind
Cobbled together in a depressing salad
That no one wants to eat
Garbage can be a funny thing
So much of our trash isn't damaged at all
And the only thing that's broken
Turns out to be us

Magenta And Blue.

Wrapped together like braided rope
Thrown longways across a neverending bed
There, watching the most wondrous colors
Through a window, magenta and blue
I lost sight of me and faded into you

In my dreams I floated elsewhere
To a home nestled in a valley, surrounded by mountains
The flood had come, sending water to our doorway
And yet you swam in the deep mountain rain without worry
Just let it all go, you told me over and over
Peace begins with opening your own cage
And learning how to be free

I awoke to the coming of the cool, breezy night
But somehow, I emerged on the other side of the window
Though the color had faded, I could now see with clarity
My mind saturated with magenta and blue
Finally found in a dream, envisioned with you

Laqunah: Part V

Hultran, by any degree of measure, was not wealthy. Born to a demon mother and stone imp father, he'd worked his way through the recesses of Laqunah's Limbo Quarter as a simple messenger. Being a shard demon of impure blood, Hultran wasn't well accepted among his peers. Finding work as a messenger was one of the lowest positions available to those of his kind. One of Hultran's travels deep into the city led to a chance encounter with a professor from the Persimmon Institute. This professor, a Sir Talroy Talltale, took Hultran under his wing as an apprentice. During this period, the professor shared with him the secret art of vision card interpretation. Through a mystical perceptive ability not fully understood, Hultran gained the power to see faint shadows of the coming future via enchanted cards. These cards bore various totem sigils, each indicating a potential action or result. Talltale emphasized one simple rule, though – never was Hultran to use this knowledge to see his own fate. Abiding by that principle, Hultran purchased a run down lot at the edge of Laqunah and set up shop.

For years, Hultran had used various vision card techniques to make predictions for his clients: when love would blossom, if a bone sacrifice was going to prevent a plague, or how successful a potential necromancy harvest would be. Considered one of the best and brightest future seers in the city, Hultran had garnered a moderate but dedicated group of clients. While being a vision card reader wasn't revolutionary, it was enough to pay the bills and keep a roof over his head. For that, Hultran was quite grateful. Sir Talltale had rescued Hultran from a life of poverty and despair, whether he realized it or not. In the city of Laqunah, that was a powerful measure of gratitude that does not often come along.

The Lin -- Between -- es Of This Poem.

How did I get here
Every map has a hole where my home should be
Left is the same as right
Lets escape before the sun hits these bars
On the verge of collapse under these stars

Caught in a thunderous storm of falling ash
Rising and falling with the breath of a sleeping demon
You wait ever calmly for a break in the waves
Slicing your way through a patch of briars
Thorns create memories that scars can't heal
Atop a mountain of pulsing hearts
Last to die is the first to live

The Toilet Poem.

Down and around and back again
No way of knowing why or when
Aches and bubbles gurgle 'round
The pain inside can make you frown
Rushing, running, speeding fast
Grip your belt and start to blast
Uh-oh it's time to take the seat
Made of white to hold your meat
Hang on tight and spread 'em wide
A mighty force to change the tide
Grit your teeth to hear a splash
Leaps from you in a flash
First one, then two, then many more
Nothing to be sorry for
Relief has come, no need to blush
Just remember to always flush
Wash your hands and dry them too
No one wants to touch your poo

Laqunah: Part IV

“Not much farther. Don’t quit now.”

It had been a rough couple of city blocks. Feeling as if he’d run through a war zone, Jobe couldn’t help but barely drag himself along. His energy had long since left him. Sheer will alone now pushed Jobe to keep moving. Without it, he’d already be dead.

“How did this place get the name Garfield? There’s nothing cartoonish about this hellhole.”

One of the more notorious communities within Chicago, West Garfield Park served as the home of the roughest the Windy City had to offer. Only the strong survived here. So far, Jobe was failing miserably. While cupping an exposed rib protruding from his left side, he’d managed to tread the filthy sidewalks without getting mugged or shot. Stumbling against a nearby brick wall, he rested for a moment. Swallowed by the dank alleyway, he caught his breath. The smell of mildew-covered bricks and rotten fish rushed his nose. As it invaded his head, Jobe ever-slightly gagged and tasted the bile in the back of his throat.

“Damn, that burns.”

Whispering into the dark alleyway, Jobe spoke to himself with candor. The taste of stomach acid doesn’t sit well with anyone. It didn’t help matters that the bile was also mixed with a little blood. Jobe knew better than to linger too long. Pulling himself off the wall, he stepped forward again and started moving once more. Crushing a few chirping, unsuspecting cave crickets beneath his shoes, the snapping of their exoskeletons seemed to echo into the aether.

The crickets wouldn’t be the only things that died tonight.

From the darkness itself, translucent hands tore through the atmosphere and gripped the back of Jobe’s head. Making no sound, the hands squeezed tighter and tighter. Jobe wasn’t able to let out a whelp, even if he’d wanted to. The dark hands fully engulfed his head, locking his jaw closed. Pain ripped through Jobe’s face as he felt one of his teeth begin to shatter. Both hands increased their pressure, making Jobe’s pain pulsate deeper and harder. Instead of flashes of his life, Jobe saw only his next move. Jumping purely on adrenaline and willpower, Jobe left the ground a few feet. Now given the freedom to dangle his legs, he swung backwards and donkey-kicked his attacker. An unforgiving shrill erupted from the unknown foe, letting Jobe know he’d landed his blow. The hands released half of their pressure, giving Jobe the chance he needed. Falling on his knees as the silent aggressor dropped him to the ground, Jobe absorbed the shock. Not giving the mystery threat a moment to spare, Jobe swept his legs around and turned to face the villain.

Emptiness. All he found was emptiness.

Not one to waste time, he took cover against the nearest wall. With a solid surface against his back, he could at least protect his rear position. Still wincing from his broken rib, Jobe pressed the cold bricks against his skin and braced for another attack. Usually prepared, Jobe uncharacteristically did not have one of his trusty knives on his person. If he was going to use a weapon, it would have to be one that was improvised. Looking around quickly, Jobe tried to find something that would efficiently dispatch his attacker.

“Trash can lids, old hubcaps... nothing but junk. I need something with some weight.”

Looking again, Jobe scanned for anything with enough bulk to actually do some damage. It seemed the luck was not on his side. Slamming his back against the wall in disgust, Jobe let out a sigh of anger as he gazed towards the stars. What a shame some old, rusty fire escape blocked portions of the heavens above. Then a brilliant thought struck him. The fire escape’s ladder was dilapidated and in poor shape. Some of the rungs were hanging loosely. Surely, Jobe could twist one of the bars off and use it as a baton. Jobe set to work before his aggressor returned.

“If only this thing will snap loose. Ughhhh... got it!”

Finally breaking the rod free, Jobe gripped the rusted piece of metal and again took a defensive position. It was surprising that his assailant hadn’t already tried to take him down. It wasn’t just surprising. Strange was perhaps a better word to describe the situation.

“Come on you bastard. Show yourself!”

Growing slightly agitated, Jobe blinked as the sweat on his eyebrow ran into his eye. The salt burned ever faintly, but enough to irritate Jobe. He wiped his forehead with his dirt-covered arm, leaving a smear of filth across his face. As he did, Jobe began to notice a soft burning smell. Darting his eyes around the alleyway, Jobe knew where the smell was emanating from.

“The gigs up. I know you’re out there. I can smell you!”

All but the dank breeze fell silent for a moment, letting the ghetto’s putrid odor whip against Jobe’s face. Without any rumbling or forewarning, a truly demonic figure burst forth from the wall against Jobe’s back. Bricks, mortar, mold and grime dissipated into the night. Bits of various pieces of matter flew in Jobe’s eyes, blinding him momentarily. Swinging wildly with his makeshift baton, Jobe could feel his despair begin to set in.

He knew he was about to die.

Not one to simply give up without fighting back, Jobe tried feverishly to strike his unearthly attacker. With bricks from the broken wall beneath his feet, he was having a hard time maintaining his balance. Finally stumbling, he prepared for the sharp impact of the rubble. Shockingly, he did not fall. Something halted his descent.

“I couldn’t have you die from wounds I didn’t inflict. Your demise will be my pleasure and mine alone.”

With his large, scaly palm wrapped tightly around Jobe’s right shoulder, the fiend raised his prey to eye level and sneered gleefully. Not being gentle, the beast grinned as he made a sudden jerking motion. Jobe’s arm popped out of socket. Making another quick snapping motion, Jobe’s arm crackled like a crushed can. Jobe yelped with horrendous pain as his arm became clearly dislodged from his skeleton. Dangling by pure flesh, he was at the whim of his captor. Like a kite in a windstorm, the demonic apparition whipped Jobe back and forth with no effort at all. As the beast let Jobe dangle, he shoved his free claw into his victim’s stomach. Cutting deep, the grotesque and malformed nails of the creature’s claw entered Jobe’s abdomen. Writhing through the intestines and organs, the fiend staunchly took hold of the crimson bowels and yanked them forward. All Jobe could do was whimper as his entrails shot forth with massive force like a cannon blast. Blood and organ meat exploded into the night, leaving chunks scattered all about the ground. With little life left in him at all, Jobe stared at what would be his last sight. Jobe could see the fiend begin to savagely shove his innards into its massive mouth. Had he still possessed a stomach to vomit from, Jobe would surely have done so. Feeling his heart slow, Jobe could no longer hold out. Fading away, his life force extinguished.

The wind slowed. Crickets began to chirp once more. Yet, they could hardly be heard over the aberrant slurping and licking of the bestial chops.

Laqunah: Part III

For Ova, the two days of waiting passed in a flash. Around her stood startling recreations of Persimmon's greatest alumni, represented in massive statue form. Beasts and creatures of great diversity were immortalized in stone, both peculiar and terrifying all in the same breath. Then again, growing up as the sole human in Laqunah had taught Ova a valuable life lesson – what's horrifying to one is beautiful to another. This keen sense of balance shared by the city residents is what held them together, even when cultural or social disputes arose. Live and let live... even if you're a member of the undead. She walked past the statues while following the admissions department secretary, a delightful harpy. Ova made small talk with the winged beauty; concurrently, the harpy's coppery wings created an elegant sparkling effect on the walls and ceiling. Up a long staircase and down a very narrow hallway they went, the walls ornately decorated with banners of ancient conquests and kings. The hallway grew thinner the farther along they went, much like the tip of a spear. At one point, the harpy's wings began to scrape the walls, which left a faint golden streak. It was obvious that she'd not been there before; the walls were clean. Ova assumed that she must have been a new employee. Finally, the hall ended at a simple, unmarked wooden door. The harpy extended one of her claws and parted the door open. She smiled at Ova, revealing a row of sharp teeth, then walked away.

Ova entered the room, which had no windows to brighten the space. The only source of light was a series of lanterns hanging above a lone desk. Below the lanterns sat an indescribable, pulsating mass. Situated between immense stacks of dusty papers and books, the glob contorted and twisted like electrified jelly. The poor illumination made it hard for Ova to even detect the color of the creature. Perhaps it was dark blue, maybe green or black. She simply couldn't tell. Eventually, the quivering lump poured itself more prominently onto the desk. As if trying to burp, a series of bubbles gushed through the semi-transparent pile of slime. The bubbles slowly rose to the surface. One by one, they popped, each revealing some part of a face. First an eye, then a nostril. Another eye erupted, followed by a snout and another nostril. Trails of slime started to form below the snout, creating the appearance of gelatinous prison bars. A salty stench escaped from the pit forming some sort of mouth on the creature; Ova fought her gag reflex to remain respectful.

“Sit, dear child.”

Droplets of the creature's mass were lightly sprayed upon Ova as it spoke. Her gag reflex grew stronger by the second. In a moment of uncertainty, Ova located a receptacle next to the desk, just in case her lunch wasn't going to stay down. Firmly planted in a chair, she scooted it back a few feet as a precaution. The bellowing beast continued to greet her.

“Ova is it? From where do you come? I've not seen anything like you before.”

Clearing her throat, Ova explained “Well, there's no one else in Laqunah like me. I came here as an infant from another world. As you can see, not all of me made the trip.”

Ova pulled her coat off to reveal that her right arm was missing, taken cleanly above the elbow.

“I was taken in by my father Hultran. He found me screaming behind his shop, wrapped in a quilt and bleeding terribly. I traveled through some sort of portal, but it closed before the last of me could completely pass through. Thankfully, he fixed me up and decided to take care of me.”

The jelly-like globule smacked its mouth hole and made a subdued slurping sound.

“A tasty morsel left behind. What a pity. Well, your aptitude scores for admission were more than satisfactory. Your father has done quite the job raising you.”

“He has,” Ova replied. “I'd be dead without him.”

Laqunah: Part II

Afternoons for Ova were usually spent cleaning the card shop and taking care of the cooking. It's not that Hultran made her do any of these things. In fact, he had a penchant for complaining when Ova didn't allow him into the kitchen. She took joy in the simplicity of preparing a meal. Each dish was a small work of art, only existing for a few moments before being eaten.

One of her favorite meals was Twiggle Cream Cake. It was the first recipe she ever prepared with Hultran as a young child. Every bit a generational delicacy, Hultran's mother had taught him the recipe before he'd grown his first scale. The cake required only six different ingredients: two gargoyle eggs, a heaping handful of parallax dust, fresh minotaur butter, a thoroughly crushed Artorian vector seed, a cup of lilac dew, and the corpse of a recently vacated Twiggle. The only real challenge in preparing Twiggle Cream Cake was finding the Twiggle! If Ova was lucky, she'd locate one or two at the local butcher shop. If the butcher was out, she'd raise a net into the sky with her electric kite and catch a Twiggle herself. They were the most devious little creatures, flapping about like intoxicated bits of leather dotted with spikes. Covered in endless rows of spines and poisonous barbs, the Twiggle was notoriously difficult to apprehend without getting at least a scratch for your troubles. No matter the cost, Ova had a way of seeing the recipe to fruition, much to the pleasure of Hultran. According to him, Ova prepared the cake better than his own mom!

As the evening rolled on, Ova stuck to her normal routine. Today was different, though. Being accepted as a new student to the Persimmon Institute was a high honor. Considering her human lineage, it was an extraordinary accomplishment. Only the best and brightest creatures of Laqunah were granted admission, but Ova was extremely out of place. Being the only human to ever breach the void and enter Laqunah made her quite the oddity. Ova simply couldn't get the swirling fascinations out of her head. To leave the card shop and become a star-launcher or silver warden? Such positions of esteemed honor would be a marvelous benchmark in her life. There was no way of knowing what the future held until her primary interview with the admissions overseer. That was a full two days away. The only thing Ova needed to worry herself with at the time was shoving the partly alive bragger worm in the oven and keeping it there. She shut the stove and stood at ready, knife in hand.