A Single Moment of Life

This one took me a while.

My prompt was "a drama" and it was given to me by Rachna Kamal, a woman with the most incredibly degree of empathy of anyone I've ever known. Her choice of profession - social work - fits her to a tee. I was utterly unsurprised to hear that she was planning on going into abuse and trauma therapy. You feel comfortable around her. She has that unnerving, but therapeutic ability to get you to spill your guts, and if you go out with her, you will inevitably end up discussing the darker points of your life, but at the end of the night feel better for it.

Rachna's major interest, in terms of stories, is "family drama". I struggled with that, for a while, because my family doesn't really have a large amount of drama, and when we do, it's not something I'd like to write about and put on the internet. The interpersonal drama in my life tends to come from outside the boundaries of my family. After I spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about this on the bus to the blind school, I came to the fairly obvious realization that your relationships are your family. Your friends are an extension of your family. So, I decided to go with the drama of a failing friendship. And aliens. Because I'd been wanting to write about aliens.

This harkens back to a very particular, still somewhat recent part of my life, during which, I was taking a class on Buddhism. The story is structured around the Buddhist idea of 3,000 Realms in a Single Moment of Life, something I was thinking about a lot when I found myself part of a friendship that was falling apart. The "world" that each dialog takes place in is numbered, and the prose parts go in the opposite direction. It's cyclical, theoretically, but mostly, it's kind of pretentious. Sorry about that. Now that I've done this, I'll go back to writing fun things.

A Single Moment of Life

1. Hell  

“Please kill me.” 
“You know I’m not going to do that.” 
“I wish you would.” 
“You don’t mean that.” 
“You have no idea how much I do.” 
“Is that why you keep asking?” 
“Yes.” 
“Why?” 
“It’s the only thing I have to look forward to.” 
“Asking a question?” 
“That one day your answer will be yes.” 
“Let’s begin.” 
“Please kill me.” 
“No.” 
“Another day.”

Another day alone, but it was alright.

M sat in the center of the quad and looked up at the sky. It was cloud, overcast, and altogether unfriendly. It was exactly the kind of weather she liked, even when it was pouring. Everything she had with her was soaking wet. Her bag, her books, the clothes on her back, even the camera she had taken great pains to wrap up and hide in her coat was now a wet, defective mess. And yet, she had no particular desire to leave her place in the grass. She liked the feel of constant rain prickling her skin, and had never once gotten sick from being out in the cold. Rain made more sense to her than sunlight - when she thought of the world, she thought of it raining.

She heard footsteps. They were cautious in the muddy rain, but aggressive. They belonged to someone with a purpose.

 M smiled. She wouldn’t be alone today after all.

A towel fell on her head. She sat up, and wrapped herself in it.

“One of these days,” said April, standing above her with an umbrella, “You’re going to die and I’m going to get no thanks from you.”

“Of course,” said M, gathering her soaking things up, “I’ll be dead. I doubt I’ll be thanking anyone by that point.”

She stood up, and joined April under the umbrella. Together, they walked themselves back to their apartment, carefully dodging any large puddles or mud patches along the way. At one point, a car passed, and April wound up almost as drenched as M.

“Your sympathy is noted,” said April, as M proceeded to laugh hysterically at her. Together, they looked like a pair of wet dogs.

“Hey,” said M, handing over her towel, “At least now we match.”

“That’s true,” said April, smirking, “And you know, it could be worse. It’s only water.”

“It’s only water.”

 2. Hunger  

“Water.” 
“You’ve had your water for the day.” 
“My mouth is like sandpaper.” 
“You’ve had your water for the day.” 
“It’s all I can think about.” 
“I’m sorry.” 
“No you’re not.” 
“You’re right, I’m really not.” 
“I can barely stand.” 
“I’ll help you.” 
“Water would help me.” 
“I can’t do that.” 
“Please?” 
“No.”

“No,” said April defiantly, “I can’t do this again. I can’t do another one. I’m just going to flunk, and that’s all there is to it.”

M looked up from the astronomy textbook and gave her a look.

“You said that last time,” she said, “And you got an A.”

“I got an A-” April pointed out, lighting a cigarette as she paced back and forth frantically across the living room. M, having watched her do this hundreds of times before a test, usually from the exact position on the couch she was currently occupying, simply laughed.

“Have you ever considered becoming a Buddhist?” she asked.

April looked at her like she had three heads.

“Why the fuck would I become a Buddhist?”

“Because,” said M, preparing herself for a lecture, “There is a Buddhist belief in ten distinct worlds of human experience, from Hell all the way up to Buddhahood, or enlightenment.”

“Ok,” said April, taking a drag, “So, I’m guess, what with me about to flunk astronomy and everything, that at the moment, I’m in Hell. That’s great. Thank you Buddhism.”

“But that’s not it,” M continued, “Buddhists who subscribe to this system believe in the infinite potentiality of experience. For every world you occupy, you have the potential to occupy every other world at that exact second. You can literally experience 3,000 worlds in a single moment of life. So, even though you might be in Hell, you’re also a Buddha. The capacity is always there.”

“So, I’ve just achieved enlightenment?”

“You just haven’t noticed yet because you’re distracted by the Hell.”

April took another drag, pondering this.

“If I achieved enlightenment,” she said, after a moment, “wouldn’t I already know what was on this test?”

“The test wouldn’t matter to you,” said M, “You’d be above it.”

April thought for another moment, and then grabbed the pillow from the side of the couch and threw it at M.

“Fuck that.” she said, and fell back onto the couch with her, “I think I’d make a shit Buddhist.”

“You probably would. But it did get you to calm down.”

“That was the nicotine,” said April, “Definitely the nicotine.”

“Right.”

April leaned over and rested her head on M’s shoulder. They sat in silence, half considering the basic concepts of Mahayana Buddhism while the other half contemplated their chances of passing the astronomy exam.

“You always become a lecture.” said April, finishing her cigarette. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” said April, “No, it’s cool. It’s just...you know so much about such random things. Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” M answered, quietly. She was thinking of other things. “I think I’m just interested in people. I like trying to figure out how they think. Should I stop?”

“Fuck that,” said April, “It makes you interesting. I’d be a bad friend if I asked you to stop.”

3. Animality  

“Stop!” 
“Shouting won’t do anything.” 
“Fuck you!” 
“What did I say?” 
“Stop! Oh god, please!” 
“I’m afraid I can’t.” 
“AGHH!” 
“Ow, my god. Biting me won’t help.” 
“No?” 
“....neither will scratching my face.” 
“I’M GOING TO SCREAM!” 
“Ow, ugh....sedative!” 
“NO!” 
“Sedative.” 
“No...I...why...” 
“That’s better.”

“That’s better,” said M, adjusting the picture on their TV. The gruesome scene became easier to see, if a bit more disturbing, with a small addition of brightness.

“Fuck.” April said, riveted, “He’s totally going to drop that toaster in the bathtub.”

As if prompted by the suggestion, a moment later the man on screen dropped the toaster into the bathtub. The result was a horrifying death by electrocution.

“Shit.”

“You know,” said M, “Most people would scream at this point.”

“Why the fuck would I scream?”

“Technically, it’s supposed to be scary.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to scream,” said April, indignantly.

“True.” M thought a moment. She reached down beneath the couch and opened a beer - as if somehow, that would help her.

“You know,” she said, after a moment, “horror movies are always so underrated.” “Well, everyone thinks they’re torture porn.”

“Exactly,” said M, “Like the entire genre is the Saw franchise. Usually I can’t get anyone to watch them with me.”

“I know what you mean,” April agreed, “But to be fair, a lot of modern horror movies are shit. You wouldn’t see something like The Shining in theaters today, it would have to be, like, Hostel 2.0.”

“And be targeted solely towards 12-year-old boys.”

“Exactly, like women can’t be into horror.”

M turned back to the film. The protagonist was scouring the derelict, abandoned attic for clues as to what was happening. The scene was almost silent, but the suspense was deafening.

“Anyone can be into horror,” said M, quietly, “You just have to be into mystery.”

“That’s true,” said April, “But I think, in particular, you need to be into mysteries with difficult answers.”

“Or no answers at all.”

“Exactly. Horror is about mysteries that can’t be neatly wrapped up. There either isn’t an answer, isn’t a conventional answer, or the answer is disturbing as fuck.”

“You’re left uneasy, but intrigued.”

“Right,” April took another sip of beer, “And that, not juvenile torture porn, is what makes horror so interesting.”

“You know,” said M, “not many people get that. I try to explain it to them, and they have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about.”

 April smirked.

“This is clearly why we’re friends.”

“What, because of horror?”

“Yes,” said April, “Horror. Not because we like each other or anything.”

“No, of course not.”

They sat in near silence for a moment, their attention theoretically on the movie, but more realistically on each other.

“I’m really glad I met you.” said M, after a moment.

April looked at her.

“Me too.”

They smiled, then, as if realizing how transparently sentimental they were being, turned back to the film. The protagonist was running now, resigned to her fate, but for some reason, still desperate to defy it.

“So, do we think she’s going to live through the movie?” asked M, after a moment.

“Nah,” she said, grinning, “personally, I hope she fucking rots.”

4. Anger  

“I hope she fucking rots!” 
“Do you?” 
“Ugh, fuck...yes. I hope she dies.” 
“Do you really?” 
“She ruined my life.” 
“I thought you wanted to die.” 
“I didn’t until she came along.” 
“Really?” 
“I want something to tear her apart.” 
“Like this?” 
“AHHH, fuck. Yes. Just like this.” 
“Wasn’t she your friend?” 
“I hate her.” 
“Completely?” 
“So completely.” 
“I see.” 
“Fuck her. Fuck everything. I hate it all.”

“Fuck her. Fuck everything! I hate it all,” April narrated, passing the bottle of wine to M, “and I was like, ‘you know what the best way to fuck with her would be? Fuck me.’ It was only supposed to be a joke.”

M took a large swig. It was their second bottle, and April was already kind of drunk.

“Shit,” said M, gulping down the merlot, “What did you do?”

“We had sex.”

M nearly spat her wine out.

“With your cousin?”

“Just once,” said April, wistfully, “And it was the best either of us had ever had. We weren’t expecting it, Monte was just trying to get back at his mom, but about halfway through we realized ‘Oh shit, I’ve wanted to do this my whole life.’ and, well...”

M took another swig and handed it back to April.

“Jesus fuck,” she said, baffled.

“And that,” said April, chugging nearly half the bottle, “is my darkest secret. If you hadn’t already earned the best friend card, you’ve definitely got it now.”

“I’m honored,” said M, still reeling from the revelation, “Does your family know?”

“Of course not,” said April, “Once we realized it was real, we swore each other to secrecy. As far as I know, it’s him, me, and now, you. That’s it.”

“That’s a pretty small club.”

“We’ve got T-shirts, though.”

“Do we?”

“Oh yeah, “April grinned, “They’re sexy.”

With a flourish, handed the bottle back to M.

“Now,” she said, “What have you got?”

M tensed.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on,” said April, giggling, “Everyone’s got some sort of terrible secret, it’s normal.”

“I don’t have one,” M liked, unconvincingly, “I really don’t.”

“Then you, my friend, are extremely abnormal.”

5. Humanity  

“You’re extremely abnormal.” 
“No shit.” 
“Yet, you look no different.” 
“Except for my eyes.” 
“What do you think you are?” 
“I told you, I don’t know.” 
“Without the facts?” 
“...I don’t know.” 
“Do you feel human?” 
“Sometimes.” 
“What is human?” 
“I don’t know.” 
“Here, have some water.” 
“What?” 
“You’re pale. Have some water.” 
“...thank you.”

“Thank you.” said the little girl outside M’s living room window the first time the dog dropped the wet, slobbering ball into her hand. It was difficult to hear through the glass and the sound of the bonfire, but she sounded fairly excited to be receiving it - like it was a Christmas present, rather than a sopping, germ-ridden nightmare. She took it in her hand and gleefully threw it across the yard for the dog to chase after, to which the dog returned it and patiently awaited a repeat performance. But, while the dog was perfectly happy to do it over and over again, the girl had lost interest, the excitement of being handed a plastic ball having apparently dissipated.

And yet, the dog was still thrilled. All it would take for that dog to achieve complete and total happiness was for that girl to throw the ball across the yard. It would rush frantically for it, then return, patiently awaiting its next fix of euphoria - a perfect temporary happiness.

The kitchen door opened and slammed shut. A disheveled and tired looking April dropped about a hundred pounds worth of baggage on the floor before collapsing onto the couch beside M.

“So,” she said, “Has the kid managed to fall into the fire yet?”

“Nope,” M grabbed a beer from the six pack at her feet and handed it to April, “So far she’s just sat there with a dog. How was Christmas?”

“Awful,” said April, bitterly, “As always. Mom bitched about my weight, Dad got really drunk, my sister announced that she’d had a spiritual revelation and was joining a commune in New Mexico and my Aunt Rita reminded us all that there’s a very good chance she might be dead next year. It was a magical evening.”

“Was Monte there?”

“No.” April lit a cigarette, “He wisely decided to go to his roommate’s for Christmas. Lucky bastard.”

“Probably for the best.” said M. “Yeah, you’re probably right. The amount of bullshit going down at the dinner, who knows how we might have decided to blow off steam.”

“No pun intended?”

“Of course not,” April grinned, “How was it at your house?”

“It was good,” said M, “It was nice to see everyone again. I hadn’t been home in a while. My grandmother still refuses to call me anything other than “Emilia” but apart from that, nothing particularly upsetting happened. It was mostly my parents talking about light.”

“At least they weren’t talking about cults.”

“Fair enough.”

They returned their attention to the picture window. The dog was gone, and the little girl was gleefully tearing shiny paper off a cardboard box. A few moments and a significant amount of excited screeching later and the box was eventually revealed to contain a large, stuffed pony with a colorful mane and glittering tail. The little girl was so ecstatic she nearly threw the toy into the fire.

“Someone just made that kid’s life.” said April. “Who knew a stuffed pony was so significant?”

“Oh,” April suddenly moved off the couch towards her luggage on the floor, “I almost forgot. I got you something.” She dug through her bag and eventually unearthed a thin package wrapped in blue, snowflake patterned wrapping. She handed it to M.

“Happy, uh, whatever,” she said, sitting herself back down, “You can pick the holiday, it doesn’t really matter.”

M stared down at it, taking a moment to examine the impressive wrapping job. There were only a few things it could be, and yet, as she carefully removed the wrapping paper, she was shocked to find the album she had been looking for for months beneath the packaging.

“Oh my god,” she said, speechless, “How did you find this?”

“There’s this CD in my town runned by these two guys who I’m pretty sure killed someone a few years back. One of them is really into obscure 90’s industrial. He knew exactly where to find it.”

“Oh my god,” said M, again, “Thank you so much. I can’t believe you found this. I had just sort of assumed I’d be doomed to listening to awful rips of it on YouTube.”

“Merry Christmas,” said April, smiling. M didn’t know what to say. She’d never been so thrilled by a gift in her life. The excitement of it almost made her forget her own present.

“I don’t know if this will top that,” she said, hastily pulling the poorly-wrapped gift from under the couch, “But, um, Merry Christmas. Or Happy New Year. Whatever.”

April accepted the gift and immediately tore the wrapping to pieces. Beneath it was a clear, plastic box containing a detailed statue of an outrageously dressed man.

“It’s the Goblin King,” said M, a bit nervous, “From Labyrinth?”

“Um, obviously,” said April, “he’s only all over my room. Holy shit, M, this must have cost a fucking fortune.”

“My cousin collects film memorabilia,” she explained, “he had two of these, for some reason.”

“Holy shit,” said April, again, ripping the packaging apart and putting the statue on display on the coffee table.

“God,” she sighed, “It’s so tacky and ridiculous, but so sexy.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I fucking love it,” said April, staring at it, “this is so much better than anything my parents gave me.”

“I’m glad I got the right movie,” said M. She had never been particularly interested in the movie, or particularly attracted to it’s bizarre star, but she knew the mere mention of it excited April.

“Put on your album,” said April, staring happily at the statue. M hesitated.

“It’s industrial,” she pointed out, “It’s not exactly Christmas music.”

“Fuck Christmas music,” said April, “It’s New Years Eve. Put it on. If I hate it, I have the Goblin King.”

In an instant, M had the CD in her laptop. The first song began and she had to restrain herself from shrieking as joyously as the girl next door. The album was hard to find, but brilliant - a masterpiece of ambient and aggressive sound tragically lost to the ether of obscurity. She had wanted it for years, and had never imagined she’d actually have it in her hands.

“Thank you so much,” she said, for what felt like the thousandth time.

“Thank you,” April replied, “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year.”

Outside, the fire was almost gone, and most of the neighbors had gone inside. The little girl’s pony lay on a picnic table by the embers, forgotten by it’s new owner.

“So much for the excitement of a pony.”

“Kids,” said April, rolling her eyes, “Oh my god.”

6. Heaven  

“Oh my god.” 
“Hello.” 
“You came to see me?” 
“Yes.” 
“It’s so good to see you.” 
“Really?” 
“I missed you.” 
“You did?” 
“No one else will speak to me.” 
“Plenty of people speak to you.” 
“Not like you did.” 
“Like I used to.” 
“How did it get so bad?” 
“I don’t know. I think it just happens.” 
“I miss you.” 
“I miss you too. But I’m not really here.” 
“What?”

“What?” April nearly spit out the wine.

“I might not be human.” M repeated.

April took a large gulp, and laughed nervously.

“You’re fucking with me,” she said, “You’re drunk.”

“I never get drunk,” said M, “I’ve tried. It’s something human I’ve never been able to accomplish.”

They were silent. The mood on the couch was frustratingly tense, and M’s heart sank as she realized she had probably just made a terrible mistake. She had never told anyone this, and had felt April deserved to know, but it was a gamble. Most people picked up on her peculiar nature without even having to be told. April was rare in that, not only had she noticed there was something odd about M, but she liked it, and just thought it made her more interesting. She was the closest friend she’d ever had, and M was desperate not to lose her.

She sighed, prepared for the worst. April stared at her, clearly working through something.

“Is that why you have two different colored eyes?” she said, finally.

“What?”

“I’ve always wondered about that,” she continued, “Because plenty of people have un-matching eyes, you know? It’s a legit condition. But there’s something different about yours.”

“No one’s ever asked me that before,” said M, “In baby pictures, both my eyes are brown. My parents never told me when they changed, or why. They actually haven’t told me that much about my childhood at all. And there’s a lot I don’t remember.”

“So, are you, like, an alien?”

“I don’t know,” said M, “Sometimes I feel so human, and I’m sure I can’t be. And then other times, things affect me in a way they shouldn’t, like how I can’t get drunk. I went to the dentist with my cousin once, when I was a kid, and I could see the x-ray. Everyone thought I was crazy, but I swear, I could see it. It was like a stage light.”

“Have you seen, like, an actual doctor?” April suggested.

“My parents never took me to one,” said M, “Ever. They can’t even remember the name of the hospital I was supposedly born in. I’ve never even seen my birth certificate. To be honest, I’m terrified of doctors. If I see one, I have no idea what they’ll find.”

“But wouldn’t it finally answer the question of who you are? I feel like it would take away a hell of a lot of inner turmoil.”

“You have no idea how badly I want to be human,” M insisted, “I try so hard to connect with people, to feel like I understand them, but this weird...I don’t know, otherness that I have always gets in the way. I’ve never been able to keep a friendship going. If I find out for sure I’m not human, there will be no point in even trying anymore. Relationships define life here, if I can’t form them, there will be no point in living.”

M turned, and met April’s uneasy gaze.

“I know this is bizarre, and it probably sounds kind of crazy,” she said, “But, as weird as it is, I really don’t want this to change us. Will it?”

April stared at M’s uncoordinated eyes. She had thought of them as eccentric. They were distinctive, they were one of the many things that made M who she was. Now they were a little unsettling.

“No.” she said, defiantly, “It won’t.”

M smiled.

“Good.” she said, “I was hoping it wouldn’t.”

They broke eye contact. April handed the wine over to M who, despite having just admitted that she was incapable of being drunk, drank a fairly impressive amount of it before handing it back.

“So,” said M, with a burp, “Fucking your cousin was the best sex you’ve ever had?”

April rolled her eyes.

“Shit, don’t give me that again.”

8. Realization
  
“Don’t give me that again.” 
“What happened?” 
“I saw things.” 
“It was only a sedative.” 
“It makes me see things.” 
“Are they nice things?” 
“They’re exactly what I want.” 
“Then I’ll give you more.” 
“No. I don’t want to see things that aren’t real.” 
“Why not?” 
“I want to feel every bit of torture.” 
“Why?” 
“Because it’s real.”

“Because it’s real!” April shouted into the phone, “Wasn’t that what we’d said? Or was that just me? Are you fucking kidding me? You know what, fine, go off and do whatever it is you need to do. Fuck it. I don’t care. Just don’t plan on speaking to me, or fucking me, ever again!”

April pounded at the “End Call” button with more force than was probably necessary and lobbed her phone at the Labyrinth poster across the room.

“Sorry, Jareth.” she said, bitterly, as if the man on the poster were real. M raised an eyebrow from her place on April’s bed.

“That didn’t sound good.”

“Fucking asshole,” April muttered, furiously lighting a cigarette, “he’s like ‘I’m getting back together with my ex’ which is bad enough considering he told me he loved me last weekend, but then on top of it he’s all ‘but we can still fool around in the meantime’ like I’m still going to want to fuck him even though he just dumped me for the possibility of being with the chick he dumped last year. What the fuck?”

“If it helps,” said M, “if he does get back together with her, I have a feeling that relationship isn’t going to end well.”

“Motherfucker!” April flopped onto the bed next to M, eyes fixed on the Labyrinth poster she’d thrown her phone at.

“Why can’t there be more men like him?”

“The Goblin King?”

“Yes,” said April, with anguish, “god, he’s like, perfect.”

“Ok, first of all,” M began, “I’m pretty sure the guy that plays him is in his sixties now. Secondly, If I remember the movie correctly, doesn’t he kidnap what's-her-name’s brother, trap her in a mostly rigged Labyrinth, and then drug her with a peach?”

“Well yeah,” April admitted, “But he re-orders time for her. And, have you seen his pants?”

“Yes.” said M, remembering them as an image she consistently wished she hadn’t seen. “But, again, he’s as old as my grandmother now.”

“I’m not talking about the actor, I’m talking about the character.”

“The character that isn’t real?”

“The character that should be.”

“Really?” M was skeptical, “If he was, I really don’t think it would result in a particularly healthy, or functional relationship.”

“Thanks for that, M,” said April, suddenly terse.

“What? It’s true.” said M, confused, “You always seem to be attracted to these guys that come with some sort of toxic obstacle, like a girlfriend, or a drug habit, or a passing resemblance to a villainous goblin king. It’s like the Monte thing.”

“Monte!” said April, suddenly, “I wonder what he’s doing tonight?”

“April, no.” said M, firmly, “You two broke it off, remember? You’re cousins.”

“But I love him,” said April, matter-of-factually as she began a desperate search for her phone.

“No you don’t,” said M, “You’re in love with the idea of being in a taboo relationship. You’re attracted to the obstacle.”

April stopped searching. She glared at M with the same intensity she’d had on the phone.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s like every other time you end up back in a bad relationship,” said M, slightly anxious from April’s glare, “And then, when it ends badly and the guy turns out to be a dick, you hate him with every bit of passion you’ve got in you. You and Monte decided what you had was unhealthy and you broke it off, why don’t you keep it that way so you don’t have to hate him? Shouldn’t good, real relationships be simple?”

 April just stared.

“Fuck you.”

“What?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m sorry?” M was baffled.

“You heard me,” said April, “Fuck you. You have no idea what the fuck this feels like.”

“Then talk to me,” said M, “What are you feeling?”

“No, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Well you can’t just sit around and stew.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you do it’ll just keep eating at you,” said M, “I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing, but I keep watching this happen, and I don’t want it to destroy you.”

April was silent and still, and yet somehow still managed to give off the impression that at any second she would burst. The negativity radiating off of her was practically visible.

“Get out.” she said.

“What?”

“Get the fuck out of here,” April repeated, “I don’t want to talk about this, you won't understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

“You can’t!” April spat, “You’re probably physically incapable. You only want to understand because you find it interesting, not because you actually give a shit. You just want to feel more fucking human.”

“April, I -”

“No, I can’t do this, if you won’t leave, I will.”

Before M could stop her, April stormed out of the room. M stood alone, anxious, and for the first time since she’d met April, afraid.

“What just happened?”

8. Realization  

“What just happened?” 
“We’ve called in a few more experts.” 
“Did you?” 
“Yes.” 
“It won’t help.” 
“We’re getting closer to results.” 
“Are you?” 
“Yes.” 
“Then why are you calling in backup?” 
“Second opinions.” 
“You don’t have any results.” 
“Yes, we do.” 
“You’re just going to keep testing me and testing me.” 
“We’re going to reach a conclusion.” 
“I’m going to be in more and more pain.” 
“We’ll figure this out.” 
“And you will never know what I am.”

“You will never know what I am?” April repeated, mockingly, “Are you seriously pulling that, M?”

M sat in a somewhat unattractive heap on the floor of her bedroom. The floor was cold, and for the first time, she wished she had taken April’s carpeted room upstairs. Or, at the very least, invested in a rug. Anything to make the situation warmer.

“Please calm down,” she said, quietly.

“And that!“ April shouted, “You know nothing pisses me off more than being told to calm down.”

“I’m sorry.”

 “Stop saying sorry!”

“But then, what do I -”

“I don’t know!”

April ran her fingers through her hair, “just...say anything else.”

“I apologize, April,” said M, seriously, “Profusely.”

April paced back and forth. She alternated between taking short, irritated drags from her cigarette and biting at her already short fingernails.

“I just can’t believe you did something like that.” she said, quietly.

“It didn’t work though,” M pointed out, “Did it?”

“Yeah, thank god you’re probably a fucking alien.”

“April -”

“M.” April sighed, “Just...when something’s wrong, when you’re feeling, you know, like this, tell me. Talk to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“What the fuck?” April took a particularly long, desperate drag, “Where the fuck do you think I’m going?”

“I don’t know,” said M, “I’ve had a lot of friends decide they can’t deal with me. It’s a huge burden to have to deal with someone who doesn’t even know what they are. Sometimes I feel like I just wasn’t meant to be here..”

“Don’t say that!”

“I’m sorry -”

“And don’t say sorry! Fuck, M.”

“I just...” M sighed, “I wish I could make this have never happened.”

“Well, you can’t.” said April, bitterly.

“I know.”

“So what do we do?” April lit another cigarette. She was burning through them.

“How many more of those are you going to have?” asked M.

“Are you really going to tell me what to do after this?”

“How many?”

April reached into her back pocket and pulled out an entirely new pack. She unwrapped it and flashed its complete contents at M.

“Just a few more today.”

9. Bodhisattva  

 “Just a few more today.” 
“I overheard your conversation.” 
“Which one?” 
“The one with your supervisor.” 
“I don’t know what -” 
“You don’t have results.” 
“As I said -” 
“You’re going to lose your job.” 
“I’m not the only one on this project.” 
“And so will they.” 
“So, I’ll keep trying. I’m a professional.” 
“And as a professional, you know its useless.” 
“Nothing is useless.” 
“This is. It’s alright. I’ll take care of it.” 
“I can’t let you -” 
“Just leave it there. Tell them I took it.” 
“But -” 
“It’s alright.”

“It’s alright,” said M, nodding to give April her approval to enter the room, “But no, I haven’t seen it.”

April glanced around M’s room. She seemed annoyed at having to be there.

“Are you sure?” she demanded.

M sighed.

They were coexisting. She couldn’t really call it anything else. They rarely spoke outside of basic questions, and rarely spent time together outside their rooms. Somehow, the shift seemed natural. And yet, their lingering, mostly ignored tension was starting to gnaw at them.

“I’m sure.”

April stood in her doorway, scanning the bedroom. There was a pause. M watched her.

“If you did take it,” said April, after a moment, “You should really just tell me.”

“Why would I take your vodka?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Much as she didn’t want to admit it, April had a point. On a particularly bad night, M had stolen a good portion of April’s vodka. Predictably, it hadn’t even done anything. And yet, despite her obvious guilt, M still felt slighted by the question. Yes, she had done it before, but this time she legitimately hadn’t. April should trust her.

She stared her down.

“I did not take your vodka.”

April looked away.

“Fine,” she said, “whatever. Just stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like that.”

“The way I always do?”

April glared at the floor. Somehow, the fact that she couldn’t look M in the eyes made it all the worse.

“Fuck this,” she said, “I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Do what?”

“This.” April looked like she about ready to get violent. M could feel their tension like a tangible force - another moment like this, and it would strangle them both.

“I’ll go check my room again.” said April, suddenly.

“Fine.”

They turned away from each other, April towards the hallway, and M towards her desk. In another time, they probably would have glanced back, and wondered about each other. Now they knew everything there was to know about the other, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

An anguished, frustrated scream came from upstairs. M heard something break, and tumble downwards. She turned, and at the foot of the stairs outside her door lay the remains of the Goblin King. At an earlier time, she would have been upset. But now, she understood.

She put her headphones back in, and found the playlist with the album April had given her last Christmas. She hadn’t listened to it in months. She tried to tell herself she could, that in fact, she had every right to.

 “But,” she said, sighing as she switched playlists, “I can’t.”

10. Buddha  

“But, I can’t -” 
“You should use that word less.” 
“Should I just -” 
“Everything is alright.” 
“But, we’ll never know.” 
“You’re not meant to.” 
“...you’ll never know.” 
“I’m not meant to either.” 
“Don’t you want to?” 
“I don’t want anything anymore. I don’t need it.” 
“Should I say something?” 
“Like what?” 
“A prayer?” 
“If you’d like.” 
“I don’t know.” 
“Then just let me go.” 
“I’m going to inject you.” 
“Thank you.” 
“Thank you.” 
“Tell April...” 
“What?” 
“Tell April, I’m glad I met her.”

“I’m glad I met her,” said M, moments away from hyperventilating, “Am I?”

She could swear the walls were closing in on her. The room was smaller than her closet, and the restrictive handcuffs weren’t helping. She had been worrying about this moment since the beginning. And yet, there had been a significant amount of time in which she had honestly been convinced it would never come.

But of course, here it was.

Coming downstairs and not finding April hadn’t been too much of a shock. April rarely left her room these days. She hadn’t noticed anything was going on until she checked her phone.  

Not surprised you didn’t answer my last text. Being fucking polite is only human. If you survive, don’t try to contact me again.

M had spent about three minutes contemplating the meaning of the text before it became abundantly clear.

There was a knock on the front door, and within minutes, she was escorted from the apartment and thrown into the back of a van. Inside, everything was confiscated. If April had anything she wanted to say to her, she would never be able to.

And now she was here. Alone.

Things had gone so wrong. A part of her had known it would, but another, more emotionally charged part had so badly hoped it wouldn’t. There was a time when April could understand her better than anyone else. They had needed each other - they weren’t just friends, they were dependents. Every element of their daily lives had included the other one, and for the longest time, that’s how they were comfortable living.

For the longest time, M had actually felt human.

How it gotten so bad? How had they reached this point? Weren’t friends supposed to last forever? Isn’t that what they taught you in movies? If you formed a connection with someone, it meant you were connected, didn’t it? It couldn’t just go bad, like rotting fruit, there was something special about it. Wasn’t there? Or was it just, as everything else was, a matter of potentiality?

Because, of course, every fruit has the potential to go rotten. By that logic, she reasoned, every friendship had the potential to fall apart. No matter how profound your relationship might seem, for even moment you’re in Heaven, there’s the potential for Hell.

She wondered where April was now - what she was doing and thinking. Their relationship had become toxic, and had ultimately led to where she was now, but for some completely inexplicable reason, M still wanted to see her. Somewhere in the irrational part of her that had honestly believed she would have a best friend forever, she was still clinging to the idea that they could work it out. There had to be a way, she just needed to talk to her.

The door opened and several doctors entered. They took turns looking her over, paying specific attention to her eyes. They discussed tests and funding and the ways in which this project would inevitably change the future of scientific thought. M barely listened. With every word, her future was more solidly confirmed.

She would never see April again. Her life as she had recently known it, was over. They would never speak, and never patch things up. Every relationship has the potential to be the greatest of human experience, and theirs had always had the potential to go to Hell. She understood that now.

But, did that make her human?

She sighed, and realized she no longer cared. Despite whatever the doctors were about to do to her, there was a good chance she would never know. She was, inevitably, right back where she started.

Four Times

This story came from two very different sources. The first, was a Texan named Michelle, who I knew from the beginning had a propensity towards romance after we caught her reading the second Fifty Shades of Grey book. She was a fun, flirty, sometimes hilariously inappropriate person who had been to Colombia before, and due to her Mexican heritage, regularly wowed us with her ability to speak fluent Spanish. When she first arrived, it was during a dead period in the apartment, and I was, basically, the only person available to go out with her. Unfortunately for Michelle, I'm not really much of a clubber, and so for several nights we wandered around going to bars and chatting about our lives until one night when she literally told me "I don't think I can do another bar. I need to dance." Luckily, a large group of new people moved in a few days later and wanted to party. Michelle finally got to go clubbing, and I got a night to stay home, drink hot chocolate, and write about people getting their dicks chopped off. Everybody won.

The second is another person who wishes to remain anonymous, which is funny since in real life she has about three different first names. She spent a good portion of her stay here horribly ill, and didn't even get the opportunity to go volunteer until a week after she got here. Her coughing is fairly legendary - its not the kind of cough that makes you think "Oh, she's got a cold, she should probably drink some water" it's the kind that shakes her entire frame and makes you think "OH GOD SHE'S GOING TO DIE." Luckily, she didn't die. She was, however, the only person that managed to put up with me during the week I was the primary English teacher at the blind school - a job I should, by no means, ever have again. No matter how insane and stressed I got attempting to plan three lessons completely in Spanish every Tuesday and Thursday, she still came with me, and provided some much needed company and weird joking around. She was, and still is, determined to be married by age 25, and thus her prompt for me was "I want to be a princess and end up with a tall, handsome Asian man, preferably Korean." Eventually, I got her to drop the princess part, but everything else was still the same.

Since Michelle's prompt for me was "a love story with a happy ending" and I'm really not very good at writing that kind of thing, I decided to combine their requests into one story so I wouldn't have to try to write two happy romances in a row. This thing was a bitch to write, and I'm sure it's cheesy as all hell. Sorry. Despite that, though, I am glad I got the opportunity to write out of my comfort zone. No matter how much I hated doing it.

Four Times  

The first time she met him, she was stoned out of her mind.

She hadn’t intended to be, of course. She was coming out of a meeting with her adviser which was, generally, not a place for one to be stoned out of one’s mind, but, circumstances being what they were during that period of her life, she was. Quite so, in fact. She had spent much of the meeting contemplating such stimulating questions as “Is my mind nothing more than a screen to be broken?” and “What would happen if I were to take one of those M&M’s?” She could barely remember what her adviser had been trying to tell her. Later in life she would remember the moment she stumbled out of the office, only distantly aware of her surroundings, as somewhat of a low point - though not lower than the moment she had decided it would be a good idea to be stoned for an adviser appointment in the first place. Decision making had not been her forte at the time.

She was contemplating the way the grass looked along the quad when he approached her. She couldn’t quite remember if she was standing up or lying down - in fact, at the time, she probably wasn’t terribly aware of which either - but she did recall looking up at him, and noticing immediately how the sun seemed to change the color of his eyes.

“Jay,” he said, “My name is Smith.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Smith,” she replied, still preoccupied mainly with the light in his eyes, “Can I help you?”

“I believe we’re supposed to be lovers.”

Now, even if Jay’s mind hadn’t been running slower than average at that particular moment, it would have taken her a bit of time to adequately respond to a statement like that. It wasn’t every day someone tried to hit on her in the middle of the quad, let alone with a line like that - it was confusing even in a moment of sobriety.

“Um,” she began, “Do you...you know, have any proof of that?”

“Well, there was that past life we shared.”

“What?”

She was only barely following the conversation as it was. The idea of a “past life” didn’t entirely register immediately. All that was really making an impact were, again, his strangely fascinating eyes. There was something about them, something in the way the light hit them, in the way they animated his expression - it stirred something in her, that she wasn’t quite sure she was in the right state of mind to deal with.

“Um,” she said again, “could we, maybe do this another time? I really need to, you know, get out of the sun.”

“Of course,” he said, “Just let me know.”

He smiled, and stepped away. He may have helped her up, but the surreality of the moment was a bit too much for her to focus on. The rest of the day was somewhat of a blur. Somehow she made it back to her apartment where, after relating the experience at the quad to her roommate, she proceeded to get even more blazed than she already was before passing out on her living room couch to the soothing, repetitive sound of reality show reruns.

The second time she met him, she was hungover as fuck. And, of course, a little stoned.

The cafe at the back of the student center was virtually deserted, and yet she felt as if the noise was going to tear her in half. She clutched a coffee in her hand for dear life, but had yet to decide if she was feeling up to actually drinking it. Her throat felt like there was acid sliding down it, and she was sure something horrifying was twisting and bubbling in her stomach.

Naturally, it was at this attractive moment that he decided to sit himself down across from her.

“You’re looking well.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’d rather not.”

Of course, had she been honest with herself at the time, and not preoccupied with the sting of the student center’s fluorescent lights on her throbbing brain, she would have admitted that she was rather glad he didn’t fuck off either. She had been waiting for a moment to see him again, and to stare like an idiot into his frustratingly intriguing eyes - in part as a way of convincing herself that he was real.

Unfortunately, she was really not in a state to stare at anything other than her pillow, nor was she feeling particularly up to contemplating the reality of a man who seemed to draw out emotions he hadn’t realized she was capable of experiencing. When thinking back on this moment, she would forever recall it as being beautiful and unreal, with specific emphasis on the beauty of it. At the time, she was more concerned with the reality of it - a reality she was beginning to realize was becoming more and more fractured by the day.

“What’s your deal?” she demanded, not even bothering to raise her head off the table to look at him, “Are you crazy, trying to hit on me, slipping me something, or do you really think we’re reincarnated lovers doomed to find each other at this shithole of a university?”

“I think,” he began, “that I’ve known you the entirety of my existence, and that somewhere in the very base of my being, I, for lack of a better term, burn for you. I’ve dreamt of you. I wake in the middle of the night expecting and hoping you’ll be there, and when you’re not, I physically ache. I have never felt anything more profound in my entire life, despite knowing intrinsically that I’ve felt it before. I would die for you.”

“Uh huh,” she said, “Well, that’s, you know, great. But, just for the record, I’m really not feeling up to all this burning and aching and dying and shit, I really just want to go back to bed, so, can we maybe, you know, like last time, not do this right now?”

“Um, I guess so?”

“Alright.”

She got up, somewhat unsteadily, and attempted to make as close to a graceful exit as she could.

Unfortunately, given the state of things at that particular moment, she went about as far as the trash can to the right of his seat before plummeting to the floor in an uncoordinated heap. She could never entirely remember what she said at that point, only that it was probably more filthy than it needed to be. He offered a hand to help her up.

Without thinking, she accepted it, and immediately collapsed backward again.

She felt as if she had been waiting for his touch her entire life. It was familiar and perfect, and made her feel for the first time as if she were complete - as if, there was nothing wrong with her. She wanted it all over her, constantly, touching every part of her until the end of everything.

“Who the fuck are you?” she demanded.

“I’m Jun,” he said, somehow just as breathless as she was, “And yeah, I felt it too.”

She climbed up. Her mind was spiralling. Between the hangover, the sleep deprivation, and what was clearly an infuriatingly physical hallucination, she was falling apart. Without saying a word, she ran out of the student center, stumbling over tables, chairs, and even people without bothering to give a shit. All that mattered was getting to her apartment. And possibly having a cigarette. Or fifty.

She nearly broke down the door to her living room. Her roommate lay on the couch, bowl in hand, watching Toddlers & Tiaras.

“I’m so fucked up.” said Jay.

Her roommate nodded, and took a hit.

“Aren’t we all?”

The third time she saw him, she barely knew where she was.

She would never be able to remember what she had done that night. As far as she knew, she was supposed to have been working on a paper, but had obviously elected to do other things - namely, things that probably should have killed her.

And it nearly did. She felt death claw at her mind that night - tearing it slowly into a thousand shattered pieces.

She may have grasped at space. She fell, fast, and tried to hold onto something. Nothing was still, everything swirled like a hurricane, and she couldn’t keep steady. This was the last night, the end of all things - her existence lay blackened and torn in the dizzying sphere around her. Reality had crumbled and gone, and in one last attempt to reach for it, she screamed.

But the silence was deafening.

And yet, there may have been sound to it. Distant, mangled - more noise than sound, she may have heard something.

“Jay? Jay? Are you ok?” They might have said. But of course, they didn’t. Nothing existed to speak, nothing was real.

She felt a warm touch. It was familiar and, in her current state, overwhelmingly electric, but it was nothing. It grew in intensity, but she was sure it wasn’t there. It couldn’t be.

And then lips touched hers. Her shattered world exploded as she lost herself to the feel of something she couldn’t even begin to put words to. It took her down and brought her up all at once, and somehow, ever briefly, managed to calm the disarray.

She was flooded with memories that weren’t hers - of some sort of perfect love she was sure didn’t really exist, and yet, she was certain she had experienced. As she fell further into what might have been a kiss, she thought of Smith, or Jun, or whatever his name was, and wondered, even though he wasn’t real, if he would ever know if she were to die here.

Her last piece of reality cracked. She knew Hell. Nonexistence clawed at her, and in a moment, she was gone.

The fourth time she saw him, he was real.

She felt plastic sheets beneath her. Fluorescent lights beat down on a sterile smelling room. Someone sat in a chair in the corner, anxious as he slept. She coughed, and he stirred.

“You’re awake.” he said, “How are you feeling?”

Jay took a moment to examine herself. She was attached to an IV drip, and for some reason, had several scars and wounds on her arms and legs. Her head felt like someone was driving a jackhammer into it, and, of course, there was the fact that she had absolutely no fucking idea how she had gotten there. None of these variables signified that she was in a particularly good state, and yet, for the first time in quite a while, she felt almost fine.

“I feel like shit,” she said, “But I think I’m ok.”

“Jesus fuck,” the guy in chair said, “You scared me so hard.”

“I did?”

“Yes.” he stood up and came to the side of her bed. He was tall, and muscled in a light, attractive way, with neatly tousled black hair, and the slightest hint of a five o'clock shadow. His eyes held some sort of unusual tint to them - dark, but inconsistent under the flourescent lights. Something about them was inherently puzzling, or even possibly familiar.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Byung-hun,” he said, “I found you under a tree in the old fields by the basketball court. I thought you were dead.”

“What?” She had no memory of being anywhere near the old fields, or even anywhere on campus last night. Her last, coherent memory was of taking a hit off a bowl with her roommate, casting aside some assignment she had no intention of doing. Everything else was a strange mix of nightmarish half-recollections and nonsense. She remembered being paralyzed somewhere, ready to die, until -

She looked up. Suddenly Byung-hun was the most familiar man in the world. She saw him both as he was now, and as he had once been. Different, but always hers. Slowly, and with considerable effort, she reached up and poked him. He was solid. Real. He took her hand in his own and studied it for a moment, as if having a similar revelation.

“Have I met you?” he asked, baffled.

“I don’t know,” she said, smiling, “My name is Jay.”

“Jay,” he repeated, almost reverently, and, as if not quite realizing what he was doing, he bent down, closed his eyes, and kissed her.

No matter who she was, who he was, or who either of them had ever been - on whatever strange, surreal plane of existence they happened to be on - in that moment, both of them were instantly sure of one thing. They had met before, they had loved each other before, and now, they were in love again.

And so, after spending a significant amount of time taking a fucked up break from her own life, Jay, through the strangest of means, rejoined the real world.

Creative Control

So someone I met here, who wishes to remain nameless due to the delicacy of the situation, was wronged. Terribly, horrifically wronged. Despite being an overall badass of a person - in particular, one willing to fight for her right as a woman to do construction work in a place with really good churros - she was informed a few days after arriving in Colombia that her boyfriend had cheated on her. Her response of "I want to chop his dick off" was pretty justified, I think. Cheating bastards are rarely people deserving of healthy genitals.

 That being said, my entire prompt for this piece was, literally, "Can you chop my ex's dick off?" I almost put it in a different story I was writing about a boat and a vagina with teeth, but eventually decided to do something different after realizing that boats aren't terribly interesting, and my prompt was "chop his dick off" not "bite his dick off with a vagina". So I went with this. It should be noted that, though I did use the bastard's actual name, he is not, in fact, a musician, but rather is studying some form of engineering. I don't know the first thing about engineering, so I wrote about music - particularly the music industry, which I also don't know that much about. We can assume that, were we to enter an alternate universe where this asshole was a musician rather than an engineer, this is exactly the course of events his life would take.

So, in conclusion, don't cheat. It makes you a bastard, and you might get your dick chopped, or eaten, or symbolically cursed by a badass construction chick with a pretty intense sweet tooth. Who is, in fact, also an engineer.  

Creative Control 

Sam lingered at the entrance to the tunnel.

Nothing about this was what he had expected. Being invited to the home of a hugely successful record producer was generally something of an event. They lived in lavish Manhattan apartments or LA mansions, only descending into the ground level ranks of up and coming bands to charm them into submission.. Bands would get so seduced by a producer’s luxury and affluence, they would immediately do anything to please them. One minute they would be something new and interesting, the next second they were a heavily marketed boy band. Sam had seen it a thousand times. Most record producers were glorified retail manufacturers - more advertisers than artists.

This was, of course, not the case with Tatiana Eris.

She was the music industry’s most enigmatic and successful producer. Despite rarely being seen in public, the bands she signed were legendary - perfectly polished groups with some of the most interesting and unique sounds of the past decade. She famously gave each of her artists full creative control over their music, and it showed. If an album had an Eris Records stamp on it, it was guaranteed to be the music of a generation - forever played and replayed as an example of the popular culture of the times. To be scouted by Tatiana Eris was like getting a chance at immortality - no one refused a meeting.

So when Sam was asked to make an appearance at Tatiana's personal home unaccompanied by the rest of his band, he went. Instantly. Without the blessing or good wishes of his bandmates. It hadn’t been his fault, after all. The lead singer always got most of the attention in these situations. He was the face of the band, after all. He was the only one in the group with a well-crafted stage persona, a unique look, and a dynamic voice. It wasn’t his fault his bandmates just weren’t as interesting, right?

That’s what he was trying to tell himself. In all honesty, a part of him wished he didn’t have to do this alone. As confident as he was, Tatiana was a big name, and her strange choice of residence wasn’t doing much to calm his nerves. Choosing to live in an abandoned subway tunnel was, he thought, a bit more than simple artistic eccentricity. Sam didn’t like being in active, functional subway stations, let alone dark, empty ones.

But then, who was he to judge? She was the one about to give him stardom. Eventually, he would be big enough that he could leave her behind, and this would all be just a funny story to tell in an interview. His first bizarre brush with fame.

Footsteps echoed up the tunnel. A beautiful, familiar woman stepped out of the darkness and extended a hand.

“Delilah Smith,” said the woman, “I’m Miss Eris’ personal assistant. She’s very glad you could make it.”

Sam grinned, and studied her from top to bottom. He recognized her from his gig the other night. Built like a supermodel, she was tall and curvy with dark hair and deep red lips. She wore a black dress that clung to her in just the right places with matching, sharp stiletto heels, and a necklace dangling tantalizingly close to her cleavage. When she had spoken to him at the club, he remembered thinking how nice all her clothing and accessories would look on the floor, rather than needlessly covering up her body.

He smirked. Maybe when the contracts were signed. He was about to be a rock star, after all.

“Miss Eris is just this way,” she said, “If you’ll follow.”

“I’d follow you anywhere.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She turned around, slowly, and began the journey down the tunnel. Sam took a moment to watch her move. Her hips swayed with all the subtlety of a porn star, but with a strange, alluring sort of class. It was as if she had been designed specifically to be sexy - the kind of woman he thought only existed in legends and Playboy. He wondered how many soon-to-be stars had followed behind her, hoping she would be their introduction to the wild, sexual exploits of the music industry.

She turned.

“You are coming, correct?”

Sam caught himself. He had been ogling her.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, trying to remain composed, “yeah, I’m coming.”

She turned without another word, and he followed closely behind, trying to focus on the atmosphere around him rather than the fantasy walking in front of him. They stepped onto an old, dusty platform, rotting and withering with age and decay. Pieces of rusted equipment and decades old garbage littered their path, scuffing his pants and shoes. The air smelled of rancid shit and mold. He could swear there was a rat scurrying around every two feet.

“Not to make a bad impression,” he said, “But is there any particular reason Miss Eris lives down here?”

“She likes her privacy,” said Delilah, walking confidently through the rubble despite her thin heels, “She is passionate about the industry and the musicians she employs, but beyond that, dislikes the spotlight and chaos of the outside world. It interferes with her work. She finds this place suits her needs better than anywhere else.”

“Alright then.” said Sam, narrowly avoiding slipping on a decades old piece of rotting fruit.

“You know,” continued Delilah, “If Miss Eris signs you, she will require you to do all your recording exclusively in her studios which are, of course, built into these tunnels.”

“Oh.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Oh, uh, no.”

In reality, of course, he hated subways. He hated being underground, in the dust and the dirt in small, airless tunnels. Everything about subways systems repulsed him. But, in the end, it would only be temporary. It would insufferable, and difficult, but it would make him a star.

“Excellent,” she said, stopping at the edge of the platform, “If you’ll just follow me down.”

“With pleasure.”

Unlike the station platform, which remained as disused and empty as one would imagine an abandoned subway station to be, the tunnel itself was well lit, clean, and decorated with portraits of every band Eris Records had ever signed. Sam recognized most of them; Heart's Lesson, The Oxymorons, Kelly Jupiter, The Cherry Tree Experiment, I ONE IX HE DIE - all sorts of different, bizarre acts allowed to explore their creativity and style without having to sell out to some generic corporate image, all discovered and produced by Tatiana Eris. Sam could easily picture some young, wide-eyed musician walking down this same tunnel past his own portrait. Delilah would smile and relate the exact moment he was living now, of Sam before the fame.

As they walked further through the tunnel, Sam began to hear music echo towards them - music he was eventually pleased to realize was his own. He wondered where she had gotten the recording. His band wasn’t exactly mainstream, they hadn’t even released a single yet, let alone a whole album. Maybe Delilah had made a recording at the concert the other night? Whatever the case, Tatiana Eris was listening to his music, preparing to sit down and discuss his future.

And his girlfriend said he should pursue engineering. Right.

Delilah stopped at a stairway. Another platform loomed above them.

“Miss Eris is up there.”

Sam looked up. This was it, this was the moment. His entire life would change the second he stepped up those stairs. Could he really do it? Could he turn away from the life he’d always known - from his bandmates and his girlfriend - and accept a whole new life? Fuck yeah, of course he could. He stepped up.

Tatiana Eris sat in the center of what had to be the largest, most elaborate subway station on the face of the planet. Expert tile work covered the station’s strangely ornate architecture - filled with gold arches, spiraling pseudo-Roman pillars, and elegant, technicolor mosaics. His music - or rather, his band’s music - played on an antique victrola next to a large, velvet couch. The enormous station was filled with a strange and eclectic assortment of seemingly random things, scattered unevenly around, yet with a certain unusual order to them. Overall, it looked less like the home of a wealthy music producer, and a bit more like the lair of the Phantom of the Opera.

“Sam,” said Tatiana, “It’s so good to finally meet you. Have a seat.”

Once again, Sam hesitated, if only to take a few moments to study the appearance of a woman so many people knew of, but had never actually seen. She was not at all what he had expected, especially after meeting Delilah. He had imagined she would be classically seductive - a sort of femme fatale figure who lured bands in with a sultry appearance and the tantalizing prospect of artistic freedom. Instead, Tatiana was somewhat stylishly unkempt - short, but trendy bright orange hair with a long, slightly ruffled black coat, a white, button down shirt, and a pair of boots that had to be from a thrift store. The effect was classy, but unexpected. A bit like the rock music coming out of her antique victrola.

He took a seat.

“You’re quite thin.” Tatiana observed.

“Oh, um, am I?” Sam had never really considered it. “It’s, uh, an honor to be here, Miss Eris.”

“Is it?” Tatiana’s face was an interesting mix of puzzled and amused, “Why is that?”

Sam was taken aback. How was that even a question? Was she not aware of her own fame? Maybe she just wanted to hear her accomplishments listed back at her. A lot of powerful people did. As stupid as it was, he would he happy to indulge her. There was no shame in a bit of ego stroking, she hadn’t drawn paperwork yet, after all.

“There is not a single person who doesn’t know your name, Miss Eris,” he began, “You’re a symbol for artistic freedom. You’ve changed the game by signing and marketing artists without interfering in their work. You let musicians be musicians, no matter how strange, or fucked up, or needlessly unconventional they might be. Everybody in the industry is dying to work with you. You would have to be completely insane to not feel honored to be in your presence.”

“Yes, I suppose you would,” Tatiana agreed, “It’s an interesting concept, though, isn’t it? Artistic freedom.”

“Uh, yeah,” said Sam, stumbling, “I guess.”

The conversation was somewhat unpredictable. Desperately, he tried to think of something more intelligent to say, something that made him sound a bit more profound and professional, and less like an uneducated amateur.

“It is interesting,” he agreed, after a moment, “It’s something that should just be given, you know? Like, automatically. And it shouldn’t be limited or made generic.”

“Do you feel your music is generic?”

“No,” said Sam, instantly, “but I think most of what’s on the radio these days is.”

“Interesting,” Tatiana mused, “And out of every band in the world, every bright, new musician determined to be special while clawing their way to stardom, you believe your group has created something new?”

“Um, yes?” Sam was getting anxious. “Why else would I be here?”

“Why else indeed?” said Tatiana, “Certainly not because of your band.”

Sam’s face fell.

“What?”

“Your band, “ repeated Tatiana, “What are they called? The Nonsense?”

“The Nonexistence.”

“Yes,” said Tatiana, nodding, “The Nonexistence. Non-existent is a good way to describe them. The sound is more generic than a reality show boy band. The cheap attempts at “grittiness” and “realism” sounds like a depressed thirteen-year-old’s impression of middle school, and I can guarantee you every “shocking” and “ironic” lyric has been written better before. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Sam didn’t know what to say. He was sure what they had done was unique - on a different, higher level than anything on the mainstream pop charts. That was why they had gone into music, after all. Everything sounded like shit, and they were going to change that. They’d spent years making sure they would. Where the hell had they managed to go wrong?

“Of course,” said Tatiana, “Without the band, you’re something else entirely.”

Oh.

Sam relaxed. He had forgotten, briefly, the circumstances of his invitation to the abandoned subway home of Tatiana Eris - his specifically solo invitation. It was true, his band may lack any sense of originality or excitement, but he wasn’t just his band. He was more. He was better.

That’s why he was here.

“Thank you,” he said, confident once again.

“Of course,” said Tatiana, smirking slightly, “Your band may be the most derivative thing to have ever walked the earth, but you? You have potential. I can see in you the next great star, the perfect success story. Would you like a drink?”

“Oh,” Sam smiled, surprised, “Um, sure.”

“Excellent,” she reached for a bell next to her seat, “Let me just call Delilah and we’ll get your contract settled.”

The bell rang, and Sam watched as seconds later - as if she’d simply been lying in wait for Tatiana’s call - Delilah descended slowly and enticingly down the steps of an elaborate archway.

“Miss Eris.”

“I would like the contract I drew up earlier,” said Tatiana, barely glancing at her assistant, “as well as a glass of Merlot, and whatever it is Sam drinks -”

“- Jack and coke, if that’s cool.” “And a jack and coke. Thank you.”

Delilah nodded and stepped away silently. Sam shot her a wink, which she responded to with a decidedly “come hither” look of her own. He grinned. What a day he was having. Getting her alone later would be the best way to end it. She disappeared up the same dark, arched stairwell she came down. Sam wondered how large the complex was. Delilah had said there were recording studios down here, right?

He turned back to Tatiana. She was studying him with some sort of strange intensity - not as someone appraising new talent, but as someone reviewing a recent purchase. It was as if she were checking for scratches or dents, appraising him to be sure she’d gotten her money’s worth. It was strange behavior, Sam thought, for someone renowned for their hands off approach to producing music. But then, she was an innovative recluse. She had every right to be eccentric.

Not that it wasn't making him nervous. Everything about her seemed to make him nervous.

“Delilah told me you have all your musicians record exclusively down here,” Sam began, hoping some conversation might make the air less strange and anxious, “is that true?”

“Indeed it is,” said Tatiana, her gaze unwavering, “I allow my artists complete creative control over their product. Once they’re signed with me, I rarely find I need to tell them how to work. In exchange, however, as I still like to feel involved, I only ask that they record exclusively where I can watch them. I’m sure you’ll find my facilities sufficient. I’ve spent a significant amount of money making sure they are the absolute state of the art.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” said Sam, taking a moment to, once again, examine the lavishly refurbished station they were sitting in. Renovating the complex must have cost a fortune.

“I do have to ask, though,” he continued, “why a subway? I know you don’t like the spotlight, but couldn’t you have built a skyscraper or a big complex in the desert or a private island or something? Why an underground train station?”

“That’s quite the story,” Tatiana began, “At the turn of the eighteenth century, this line, and in particular, this station, was built as a showpiece for the new subway system. It was designed to be unique - bright and elegant where the underground was dark and murky. It had five architects, all leading scholars on Romanesque revival architecture. It’s opening was an event attended by the city’s most elite leaders and celebrities - far more akin to something in the music industry than the transit authority. In the 50’s, however, the subway began to change, and the setup of this station became dangerous and antiquated. Due to its complexity, it couldn’t be renovated, and only certain trains could safely stop here. With so many other stations being built nearby, and this one rarely being used, the city deemed it redundant, and thus, had it closed down in December of 1955. For decades it went unused, except for one train that would loop past it while making its way back uptown in the middle of the night. You could only see it if you managed to stay on the train’s complete run, which I did, one night when I fell asleep and missed my stop. I was captivated. It just sat there - all this unused, untapped glory, forever doomed to waste its potential as a late night loop station. I realized this station was like music, and all the artists missing their opportunity to use their potential until I allowed them to. Instantly, I recognized that it was my destiny to fall asleep that night, it was my duty to give this place the same chance I give to my musicians.”

“So, what?” asked Sam, bewildered, “You bought the line?”

“I bought the line,” Tatiana nodded, “and I transformed it into what it always had the potential for - true art.”

Once again, Sam was at a loss as to how to respond. On one hand, the story of this station was incredible - a flawless example of everything Tatiana Eris stood for. The world had tried to keep this place hidden, cut off and underground despite its splendor, and it was only until Tatiana came along that it was allowed to be what it was, something above and beyond the average dust and grime of a subway station. She took something with great potential and allowed it to be great. It was, in a way, exactly what she was about to do for him.

And yet, it was also completely fucking insane. She bought an entire subway line and turned it into a recording studio - which she lived in. She was reclusive and strange, listened to metal on a victrola, and despite enormous wealth, looked like a hobo with access to professional hair products. Nothing about her was remotely normal, everything was alien and unsettling. Was artistic freedom really worth putting up with all this?

Delilah returned with two drinks and a stack of papers. She placed the tray on the table and distributed everything accordingly - the entire time making sure to bend further and further forward to give Sam a better view down her dress. Any subtlety she may have exerted was gone. When she passed his drink towards him, slow and enticing, he simply couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed her hand.

“Any chance I could see you later?” he asked, “Maybe buy you a drink? No matter how nice it is to watch you hand me one.”

She grinned, a small, alluring smirk.

“As soon as you’re done here,” she said, “You’ll find me.”

She stood slowly, clearly intending to give him a show. She took an unnecessarily deep breath, her chest rising to the point where it looked as if it would fall out of her dress. To his disappointment, it did not. He watched her go, admiring the way her hips moved in time to his own music on the victrola.

He glanced down at the contract, then back at the space in front of the table Delilah had just occupied. This was totally worth it. Whether Tatiana was crazy or not, he was going to be a rock star. Nothing else mattered.

“Where do I sign?”

“You’ll want to read that first, won’t you?”

“Nah,” Sam waved away her concern, “I’m sure I’ll figure everything out as I go.”

“And you’re aware this contract is for you and only for you?” she reiterated, “I have no interest in signing the rest of your band.”

“Me and me only,” said Sam, reaching for the pen, “Gotcha. The guys will get over it, we were moving in different directions anyway.”

“Indeed,” said Tatiana, “Then, if you would just sign the last form, we can finish our drinks and I’ll show you how we do things.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He picked up the contract and flipped to the back page. It seemed fairly long, but then, he really had no frame of reference. He hadn’t even seen a record contract before, let alone flipped through the fine print of one. It couldn’t be that complicated. It was a record deal - a record deal with an orange haired woman who lived in a subway station - but a record deal, nonetheless. He knew what to expect. Contracts were like itunes agreements, he was sure no one really read them.

He found the last page and signed. Dropping the pen, he picked up his drink and leaned back to relax.

Tatiana held up her wine glass.

“Welcome to Eris Records, Sam.” She took a sip. “Cheers.”

Sam grinned. What a day. He was having a drink with Tatiana Eris, and later, he would get to tear the dress off her beautiful assistant.

Everything was turning out as it should.

“How is your drink?” Tatiana asked, casually.

“Perfect.” Sam answered, and everything went black.

When he woke up, he was in a place that looked far more like what he imagined a dark, abandoned subway station was supposed to, with the exception of a bright, white light assaulting his eyes. As he tried to shield himself from the intensity of the light, shivering despite its heat, he realized two very distinct things; one, that he was firmly strapped down to a cold, metal table, and two, that he was naked. It took him a few moments to process this, and when he finally did, he screamed.

“Oh,” said a familiar voice, “Hello, Sam. Glad you’re awake on time.”

He squinted. It was Delilah. Despite being dressed in medical attire, she looked far less like the sexy nurse he had expected in this situation, and a bit more like a horror movie villain. Was that what she was into? Was that all this was? Had he just had too much to drink?

Then Tatiana appeared, similarly attired, but about a thousand times more frightening.

“Good to see you up, Sam,” she said, her orange hair peeking out wildly from the edges of her surgical cap, “Sorry you have to be awake for all this, it takes some preparation, and I don’t like to roofie people more than once. The pain will probably knock you out in a bit anyway, so you won’t suffer too long.”

“What are you doing?” Sam demanded.

“My job,” said Tatiana, reasonably, “I’m molding you. Like I did this station. I’m going to turn you into exactly the pop star society wants right now.”

“What?” Sam shouted, too terrified to form a more eloquent protest, “What happened to creative fucking control?”

“Oh, you will have it,” said Tatiana, “I just need to transform you into someone I feel is worthy of it first. You’re nearly there - you’re thin enough, and decently cute - but you don’t quite suit my purposes yet.”

“What?”

“It’s an interesting concept,” Tatiana mused, sorting through various pieces of intimidating looking medical equipment, “Artistic freedom. I was fascinated by it in the beginning. An artist allowed to simply be an artist. It’s beautiful. No limits or obstacles - I wondered how I could make it work for me. How could I allow artists their pure right to create while still getting the music I wanted?”

“You could try holding auditions,” said Sam, shakily.

“I could go back to that,” she said, “I suppose. But even then, no one was ever perfect. I would have had to interfere and stifle them to get what I needed - or rather, what society needed. I realized the best way to do it, was simply to transform musicians that were close to my vision into whatever kind of artist we needed at the time. That way, I don’t have to worry about disliking or not approving of what they do - because everything they do will be exactly what I want. No interference necessary. I get the exact artist I, and popular culture as a whole requires, and my musicians get total creative freedom. Everybody wins.”

“But doesn’t that complete fuck up the purpose of artistic freedom in the first place? You’re taking away my ability to be myself.”

“Oh, what is the self?” asked Tatiana, flippantly. She pointed to something across the room for Delilah to bring her. “It’s not as if anyone ever really knows. I’m just making sure that what you want to do creatively is what I want you to do.”

Delilah found whatever it was Tatiana had wanted. Though Sam was no medical expert, he could clearly see that it was long, metal, and terrifyingly sharp. If he squinted, he was almost positive he could see rust.

“And you know, Sam,” continued Tatiana, “even if you hadn’t already agreed to this, I can’t imagine you’d be too opposed to it anyway. If you really wanted to keep your current level of artistic integrity, after all, you wouldn’t have come here without your bandmates and agreed to record exclusively in a studio I know you find strange and off putting. You were on your way to this table from the moment you entered this tunnel. Now, I think it’s time we begin.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Well, at the moment, there’s a large market for young, thin, reasonably attractive male singers with a slightly effeminate bent to them. High tenors, long, interesting hair no one would ever really wear - you know the type. They’re looking for someone very attractive, but utterly unthreatening. No one’s looking for the dangerous, drug-addled, artistic sexpot right now. Artists need to be cute, different enough to make them want, but not sexual enough to make them worry. This is why, unfortunately, we’re going to have to do the worst part of the surgery first. Delilah, if you would be so kind as to lift it for me?”

In a moment he had previously only fantasized about, he felt Delilah’s deft fingers wrap around the tip of his penis, and despite his loud protests, lift it slowly upwards. He felt metal graze the bottom of his genitals, and screamed. This couldn’t be happening, and yet, here it was.

“It will be over soon.” Delilah said. He screamed again.

Tatiana stuffed a sock in his mouth to muffle him. He closed his eyes.

“Are we ready?” he heard Tatiana ask. He wondered if he ever would be.

The blade sliced him away. His muffled shrieks died slowly away as the world around him dissolved into blinding, unimaginable pain - and within moments, he was gone.

Five months later, a young, thin, scruffy haired pop singer sat for an interview to discuss his wildly popular debut album, and his already sold out tour. He was dressed in trendy, bright colors.

“Sam, tell me how it feels to have such a passionate and admiring fanbase?”

He gave a small smile, and adjusted his quirky, but attractive bow tie.

“I’m extremely honored,” he said, his voice light, “it’s unbelievable to think so many people are enjoying my work. I’m truly blessed to have been given this opportunity.”

Strong Independent Oddity

Medha Devkota, my exotic roommate from Nepal, was the impetus for this one. She and I met after spending nearly twenty minutes sitting next to each other in complete silence before one of us finally noticed the other and decided to say hello. She described herself very early on as somewhat of a mad scientist, which given my eternal love of mad scientists, endeared me to her almost instantly. She had the extreme misfortune of having her bag stolen while we were at a bar one night, and thus she spent a significant portion of her time journeying to various banks and Western Unions in an attempt to acquire her lost money. At the time I remember thinking "Damn, that sucks. I hope that doesn't happen to me!" and thus, naturally, two days after she left my wallet was stolen on the bus, leaving me in an almost identical position. Karma.

Given my last two stories, and the stories I had been working on before this, Medha really challenged me here by asking for a "relatively normal story". Her exact words were, "normal, but still interesting. Eccentric." This is the part of the request I may have completely failed to accomplish. The other request, and by far the most important part, was that the story star a strong, independent woman who "don't need no man!" This last part was very Medha - who is, indeed, a strong, independent woman who certainly doesn't need no man. I wrote this story today - literally in about four hours - while listening to David Bowie. I wanted to go to a coffee shop, but since all my money had been stolen, and I wasn't really feeling well, I ended up with this instead. Here is my attempt at eccentric normality.

This opening line is based on something someone said to a completely different friend of mine from New York. Well, actually, New Jersey, but I knew her in New York - the fabulous Ashley Keane. 

 *

Strong Independent Oddity

 “I can see you put a lot of emphasis on your hair.”

Gemma Ascari put down her copy of Feminist Magic and glared at the man who had unceremoniously sat himself down across from her. He was thin, with dark, slightly unkept hair and green eyes with a few flecks of gold in them. He was well dressed and decently attractive, but nothing particularly impressive. If she was in the market for a person of the male persuasion at the moment, she may have engaged in a passionate, one night fling with him and called it a night. At the moment, however, she couldn’t really be bothered.

 “I don’t, actually,” she said, picking up her magazine and attempting to find her place. She was hoping he’d be a relatively intelligent man and she wouldn’t have to do anything rash. Apparently he was not.

“That’s surprising,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket, “it’s really quite beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she replied, as uninterested as possible. She reached down to grasp the handle of her coffee mug, but was thwarted when the man got there first. His hand held a card.

“Christopher Woolsely,” he said, as if she couldn’t read the business card he had just thrust into her hand, “Audio/Visual Media. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Gemma pulled her hand away and dropped the card on the table. To say she was unamused was somewhat of an understatement.

“I don’t appreciate people grabbing my hands without permission,” she said, “Particularly men. What right did you think you had to do that?”

“The right of a man in love.” he said, smiling the same intolerably smug smile she had seen on so many men in this position. Generally by this point they were telling her she looked great standing up, but would better on her back. They rarely jumped straight to love.

This was going to take longer than she thought. She put her magazine down.

“You love me?” she asked, amused.

“You could call it that,” he answered, predictably, “I see you here a lot. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but you always seem to vanish before I can.”

“I have a habit of doing that.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

“You’re a woman of mystery.”

She smiled.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

The man leaned back in his chair, his expression clearly intrigued. The easy part was over, now came the more troublesome steps. She would need some more coffee.

“Have you seen the waiter?” she asked.

“I haven’t,” he answered, not bothering to look. “Are you single?”

“That’s quick.”

“I waste no time.”

“I can see that.”

She glanced around, the waiter was frustratingly absent. She sighed.

“I’m single.”

“Yes!” said Christopher, clasping his hands in a celebratory gesture, “That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.”

“Was it?”

“Indeed,” he raised his eyebrows in a way she assumed was an attempt to be flirtatious, “I was beginning to think you weren’t into me.”

“Who says that I am?”

“You do.”

She rolled her eyes. This was becoming more frustrating than entertaining. The situation was becoming tiresome, and the waiter had still yet to arrive with more coffee. She wondered what she had done to deserve this.

“When did I say that?” she asked.

“When you told me you were single,” he replied, his grin practically oozing smug egotism, “Most girls, when they’re not interested, just lie and say they have a boyfriend to get the guy to leave. You didn’t do that. You wanted me to know you were single.”

“Maybe I’m just honest.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” he continued, “Women rarely are. You only give us the truth when you really, really want us to know something. And sometimes not even then.”

Gemma frowned. There were so many things she wanted to do to this man, and none of them were things she imagined he would be particularly fond of. She restrained herself as she caught sight of the waiter at the other end of cafe. He was busy, but at least he was present.

“I can’t speak for the whole of womenkind,” she said, “But you’re probably right when it comes to me. It’s one of the many reasons that, despite your apparently true love for me, you probably wouldn’t ever want to actually date me.”

“I can’t imagine any reasons why I wouldn’t want to date you.”

“Oh, I can.” she said, standing up slightly. She leaned slowly towards him, pausing only when she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. She hovered there for a moment, breathing into his ear, letting him want.

“So mysterious.” he whispered.

“I’m not human.” she replied, and snapped her fingers.

Sudden heat forced Christopher back. Gemma’s bare hand was suddenly, quite literally, on fire. Blue fire, to be exact. The very same variety of fire one would expect to see in a cartoon or a comic book, not licking the fingers of a woman in a cafe.

“What the fuck?” Christopher exclaimed, eloquently. Gemma just smiled, and leaned back in her chair - twiddling her flaming fingers as if nothing particular was amiss.

“As I stated earlier,” she said, relishing the opportunity to finally be the smug one, “I am not human. I am not from this city, this state, this country, or even this planet. I’m from another world, far away from anything you’ve ever known or ever will know.”

She snapped her fingers again. The flames vanished.

“So you see,” she finished, “There would be a few problems were we to enter into a romantic relationship.”

Christopher stared at her - eyes wide, mouth agape, apparently at a merciful loss for words. Gemma picked up her magazine, and returned to scouring the page for her place, ignoring him.

“That -” Christopher sputtered, “that...that was a trick, right? You’re fucking with me, right?”

“I don’t know,” said Gemma, now slowly lowering the magazine with a tad more suspense than was probably necessary, “You decide.”

 And as soon as her face was fully visible across the table, Christopher screamed. It began with a gasp - a sudden inability to comprehend what he was seeing, before gradually building up to a blind, uncontrolled horror. He leapt out of his seat - any grace or class he may have been attempting to emulate entirely gone - and rushed furiously for the door, leaving nothing but a rather stunned waiter in his wake.

Gemma smiled, satisfied. That had certainly done the trick.

As she returned once again to her magazine, the waiter finally made his way over to her table, and without speaking, simply stared at her. She wasn’t terribly bothered, at least he wasn’t talking, but after a few moments she began to get frustrated, and once again put the magazine down.

“Can I help you?” she asked him.

“You’re normal again.” he noted, stuttering a bit.

“Indeed I am,” she agreed, “Could you, by any chance, get me another coffee?”

“Was that all really true?” he asked, completely ignoring the request, “Are you really a...er, being from another world?”

“The world of theater, perhaps,” she said, smirking a bit, “I’m a stage magician.”

“A magician?”

She nodded and held up Feminist Magic to reveal a particularly flattering picture of herself on the cover. Just as it had been a moment ago, her hand was alight with blue flame, the headline next to her reading; “ILLUSIONIST GEMMA ASCARI REVEALS EVERYTHING AND NOTHING - HER EXTRAORDINARY NEW SHOW.”

“I was trying to make sure there were no factual errors,” she said, “until I was somewhat rudely interrupted. I apologize if I startled any of your other customers.”

“Oh, uh, no...” he stumbled, “it just, it was very startling, and...um, realistic.”

“Thank you,” said Gemma, “that’s always the goal.”

The waiter nodded and shifted a bit from foot to foot. Something was still unsettling him.

“That trick you did at the end,” he began, “with the magazine and your...um, face. The fire, I can understand, I think, but that...what was that? It was a trick, right? Was it a mask?”

Gemma gave the man an unsettlingly enigmatic smile.

“When it comes to magic,” she said, “there are some questions you really shouldn’t ask, and equally as many that you shouldn’t really answer. The question of my origins, whether they are terrestrial or otherwise, you’ll notice I didn’t answer. There is a reason for this. After what you’ve seen today, I don’t think I need to.”

She turned away, and flipped back through Feminist Magic, her focus shifting back, once again, to the factual accuracy of her article.

“Now,” she said, not looking up, “Please, another coffee. This article is long, and I’ve lost a lot of valuable time. Two sugars. Soy milk. And a cinnamon roll.”

The waiter, shaking and slightly pale, nodded immediately and scurried away to the kitchen.