Spectrum

            Light approaches you. The prism awaits. Looming large and glittering like a star in the night sky. Flashes of color from behind. Steady yourself. Steady. It is so large. So terribly large. Bigger than anything you could have imagined. But stay steady.

            You were prepped. Given as much information as you could handle, though it surely was not enough. You cannot prepare for what you do not comprehend, of course. You are a subject, a test, an experiment. You volunteered. In a way. It was you or someone else and that someone else was too important. They gave you a choice, but some choices are no choices at all. That is why you are here, strapped into a machine full of dials and gauges and levers and buttons and flashing things you don’t recognize.

            The radio crackled and asked if you’re ready. You could have been honest and said no. It wouldn’t have mattered if you did, so you croaked out an affirmation and steadied yourself. You felt a lurch as something happened outside and then the front window slid open and you were somewhere Other than where you started. It would have been fascinating had you been a scientist.

            So now you are here, facing down this massive thing you can barely understand. Why? What will this do? Isn’t that solid stone? Why are you accelerating? Words come through a tinny speaker but they fall on deaf ears. Your heart is thrumming and your breath is shallow. Fear. You recognize a countdown as something below and above you begins to throb. Light flashes past the window and now you’re hurtling toward the prism at speeds you didn’t know were possible. This will kill you. You are sure of it. You close your eyes and wait for the inevitable.

            It does not come. Instead, you crash headlong into the prism and then the world bends around you. You open your eyes in surprise and find that everything has torn apart. All around you is green. Bright, brilliant, emerald green. What? You turn your head to the left and see yourself sitting there, engulfed in blue. Further down the line, you see yourself in indigo and then yourself in violet. For all those colors, the yous sit in the essence of those colors. To your right, there is a you in yellow, in orange, in red. It makes no sense and yet makes all the sense in the world.

            You are flying now, charging forward into the green. The lines defining the world grow fainter and fainter and you feel like you are fading away.

            There is a grinding noise. Something is wrong. Something around you. The green is shifting. The colors for the other yous are shifting. You meet eyes with yourself and see your same concern reflected back at you. The radio pours static and something cracks. Breaks. Shudders. The colors merge in front of you and crash into shards. You approach and resign yourself.
​
            And all becomes black. 

Jungle Drum

            Professor Livingstone had heard all the jokes before, especially given that he had dedicated himself to anthropology. He didn’t mind. He loved his work. That was why, when he got word of the discovery of a lost tribe in the Amazon, he notified his department of his immediate sabbatical. Naturally, it was denied and he spent the next six months fuming.

            However, he ended up sending a basket of fruit to his department chair when the research party that had gone to find the tribe returned at half-strength with tales of cannibalism and ritual sacrifice. They had also returned with a heavy blue stone that the tribe had claimed to have magical properties. The idea was preposterous, of course, but myth and tragedy spread and grow like weeds, even in academia. Before long, the overwhelming belief was that the stone was cursed.

            The hysteria reached a point where universities refused to even have the stone on campus. It was ludicrous and Livingstone flat out volunteered to house the stone and prove the cowards wrong. It was at his office within the week. Whoever had sent it to him had padlocked the damned crate. Livingstone snorted and looked for a bolt cutter.

            Once the crate was open, he looked inside and saw a gauzy white mass about the size of a bowling ball. He reached in and, with a grunt, lifted the object into the air before setting it on his desk and pulling off the covering. The stone was beyond words. The color, a deep indigo, seemed to glow and pulse even in the fluorescent lighting of his office. Whorls and swirls peppered the surface, giving it a textured look that resembled nothing so much as reptile skin. When he touched it directly, the stone felt like ice and he hastily withdrew his hand.

            He must have done so too quickly, he thought, because he could hear the blood in his veins thumping in his ears. Why was he out of breath? Was he sweating? Livingstone blinked and nearly fainted. He was near the front gate of the campus. The gate was three miles away from his office. Had he run here? The thumping in his ears grew louder. It did not sound like blood anymore. It sounded like drums. Tribal drums. Drums of war. Drums coming for him. As fast as he could manage, he made his way back to his office and shut the door. The drums continued. Thump. Thump. Thump. All throughout the night, the thumps continued.

            In the morning, one of the grad students in the department noticed Livingstone’s door was shut, but the light was on and a thumping noise was emanating from within. He opened the door and gasped. Inside, the stone was on the floor and Livingstone’s desk was covered in blood. Sat in his chair, the professor slammed what remained of his face into his desktop.
​
            The student, when asked later, said the sound was exactly like that of a bass drum.
            

Temptation

            Conleth looked around before quietly shutting and locking the door. He was going to do something bad and didn’t want any witnesses. With a sigh of relief, he sat down at his computer and pulled up the browser specifically designed to prevent anyone from tracking him. He needed to be a shadow. After loading up the main page, he began to flip through random pages.

            They were the standard dark fare to begin with. Hitmen who were almost certainly feds trying to bait idiots. Garbles of numbers and letters hiding what was likely videos of things even Conleth was repulsed by. Even if he had wanted to see, he would have had to prove himself to the monsters therein and he didn’t have the prerequisite knowledge or material.

            Boring. Boring. Boring. He shook his head as all the sites that he unearthed were the same standard fare he was used to seeing. The same sites, the same users, the same overdone content. He wanted something new. Even the faked red rooms weren’t doing it for him anymore. He craved novelty.

            He was about to log off for the night and resign himself to just standard normie fare when the last site popped up. It was a black screen with a white bar in which something could be typed. No sign of what the site was about or anything. Intriguing. Conleth knew he should click away, but the white bar kept calling to him, begging him to write something. Despite his better judgment, he cautiously typed in the word ‘hello’.

            A long, loud screech poured from his speakers but then the site refreshed. It was the same black screen, but now a video was embedded. He clicked ‘play’ and watched as a light was flipped on. The room was sterile and white and bright. A table covered with gleaming steel tools sat next to what appeared to be a dentist’s chair. Well, Conleth thought, this was new.

            A moment later, two large, masked figures dragged in a third masked figure and placed it on the chair, securing the wrists and ankles with restraints Conleth hadn’t noticed before. A tingle of excitement ran through his veins as he watched a fourth man, this one wearing a doctor’s mask, walked in, grabbed a scalpel, and began to cut frantically at the figure in the chair. The person rocked back and forth, trying to get away, as blood streamed from the gashes. Oh yeah, Conleth thought, this was the stuff.

            He was about to undo his pants and engage in his filthy work when the doctor on-screen pulled off the mask of the person in the chair. It was Conleth. Ice froze his heart as his eyes widened. It wasn’t possible. He was watching this. It couldn’t be him.
​
            The doctor turned to the screen and pointed at the timestamp in the corner. The date was tomorrow. He waved at the screen and the computer shut down and Conleth was suddenly very, very alone.

Start Over
​
            Twigs and leaves crack and crunch under your feet as you race through the woods. You shove aside branches as you run, your skin tearing in tiny ways as the sharp edges cut into you. You don’t notice them. You don’t know where you’re going. It doesn’t matter. You just need to go, to run, to escape.

            You don’t know who’s chasing you or why. You don’t know where they came from or where you came from. All you remember is waking up in the forest with the burning terror sunken into your chest. You had to run. To get away from whatever was behind you.

            You don’t want to look. Can’t force yourself. Looking would make everything worse and would slow you down. You can’t look. Don’t want to see whatever it is closing in on you with, well, you don’t know. Claws sharper than razors? Teeth like daggers in mouths slavering and pouring foam and blood? Eyes that cut deep into you? You don’t know and your mind races as your body does the same.

            Maybe you could fight back, you think. You could stop and engage in a heroic last stand. Go out on your own terms. You think that could be a good way to go, but no. You keep running. You can’t make yourself stop. Coward.

            By now, your lungs are on fire and your legs ache beyond measure. Your body is telling you to stop, to rest, and to give up. But something in your mind, that deep primal fear, refuses to let you. It refuses to let you die and spurs you onward, further into the forest, because then you might be safe. Maybe. Hopefully. You want to believe that. You truly do. But there is another part of you, the part connected to wanting to rest, that knows it’s a lie. It’s just biology pushing you past your limits. You will never be safe. You know that.

            Your breath is ragged now. Pouring from your mouth in gasps and shuddery wheezes. Your lungs are shaking inside your chest. Overexertion. You have to breathe. You have to breathe. You have to breathe. You must stop and take a good, long breath. But you keep running.

            It’s your left leg that gives out on you eventually. Something tears. Something important. Maybe you stepped wrong or hit a rock. Maybe it simply couldn’t take the stress. It doesn’t matter. One moment, you’re running. The next, you hear a snap and feel a rubber band in your leg go limp and then you crash to the ground, rolling through mud and filth before coming to a hard stop against a tree.

            You have to get up. Get up. GET UP. Keep running. It’s almost here. It’s going to get you. You have to get up. You have to –

            A sharp stab of pain in your left chest. Your heart. It’s done. You’re done. You-
​
            You’re waking up. You’re in a forest. Something is chasing you. RUN. 

​Filistata
            So tired. Need to rest. Feeling swollen with new hope. Floor is sticky. Unpleasant. No matter. Been through worse. Avoided the screams and stomps so far. So far. No telling what tomorrow brings. Can’t think about that now.

            New room. Seems nice. Carpet but thin and brittle. No shag to get caught in. Can scuttle easily. Like this place already. Don’t see place to rest yet. Will keep looking. Something there. Big. Warm. Unmoving. Air filled with vibration. Snoring? Excellent. Sneak over to massive other thing. Soft and comfortable on feet. Blink eyes before climbing. No difficulty at all.

            Don’t see food. No problem. Not hungry. Tired. Full. Need to settle down. No moving from big warm thing. Lightly touch to ensure. Nothing. Soft and warm. Patterns on it. Strange look. Climb. Creep up pattern thing. No moving. Grunts and grumbles but nothing else. Good. Continue to climb. Bristly hairs like mine against my feet. Scrape through. Need a place to rest. There! Hole in side of warm thing. Dark. Perfect. Slowly trot over there. More grumbles from warm thing. Loud snort. May be sleeping. Best for everyone.

            Reach hole. Tight fit. Can make it. Squeeze body inside with effort. More rumbling from warm thing. Long, thick sticks brush past back. Don’t touch me. Good. Settle next to bouncy wall. Perfect spot. Snuggle in. Warm and wet and hairy. Perfect home. Perfect place to raise babies. Place eggs next to wall. Keep them safe. Keep them protected. Eggs laid. Can rest now. Close eyes. Not dying. Just sleeping. Need time to recover. Moving takes effort. Time to rest.

            Wake up when home moves suddenly. Loud noises around us. Light from entrance disappears. Flesh stick enters hole. Approaches quickly. Must defend babies! Sink fangs into stick. Entire home shakes. Must defend! Pump poison into stick before letting go. Must check on the babies! Stick pulls out. Feel home move under my feet. Standing?

            Poison mine works quick. Home moves with steps. Stops. Feel rumble and then world trembles. Booming crash. Glass breaking. Nearly lose babies. Hold them back and wait. Hear choking. Gasping. Works quickly. Soon quiet again. No more rumbling. Babies can grow up safe now.

            Hungry. Protect takes energy. Too tired to leave home. Home food too? Cautious bite on wall of home. No responses from home. Bigger bite. Tastes good. Not flies but good. No response. Home must approve. Eat my fill. Lots of red around us. Wet and hot. Move babies up a little. Must keep them safe. Red also tastes good. Dessert?

            Days later now. Home not moving. Starting to smell. Not problem. Makes food easier to get. Babies starting to wake up! First egg broke this morning. So cute. Stumbled into world and cried for me. So proud. Fed him food from home. Squeaked happily. So cute. So proud. Others join soon. All adorable. So happy.
​
            Thankful for finding home. Babies have chance to grow and live. No fear of outside world. I’m so blessed.

​Bloodline
Jus' like killin; rabbits, Pa used to say. Weren't nothin' much different 'bout it 'cept the size an' force required. I always thought it was kinda weird, but Pa always told me it weren't no sin. World's a dark an' evil place, he told me. Said that demons walk among us humanfolk an' that most people ain't gonna see the difference. He could, though. He knew which was 'right' an' which was 'wrong'. I didn't quite get it myself, but Pa was certain. Every time we went out huntin', he told me stories from when he was 'round my age. Said that his Pa - my Grampa - learned him how to sniff out the demons when he got to be how old I was now. He told me about the first time they went out huntin'. Said they found themselves on the outside 'a town, jus' outside where the lights hit. Said that everyone looked normal, but Grampa pointed him to a lady sittin' on her porch. He showed my Pa the outline of her soul - his words - and how it was fuzzy an' black. Pa couldn't quite see it at first, he said, but the more Grampa talked, the more he saw it. This lady was wicked, he said, an' she needed to be cleansed.

He wouldn't give me details. Said I was too little an' weak to really understand. I didn't like that one bit an' told him so an' he laughed. Said that Grampa said the same about him an' only relented when he acted the same way. He was proud of me, was Pa, in that moment. Told me that we'd be goin' huntin' in a week's time. Before then, though, I had to PREPARE. He said it like that too. 'PREPARE' in all big letters. I didn't know what it meant, but I did my best. Over that week, Pa spent every awake minute with me, teachin' me how to shoot a gun or a bow. Teachin' me how to gut an' skin my kill. Teachin' me how to avoid them what wouldn't understand what we was doin'. Hidin' an' all that. When the week was over, he told me I was ready an' that we'd go out early in the mornin' to avoid the tons of people around. 

I won't lie. I was excited. I was finally ready to become a man! True to his word, Pa woke me up before the rooster even crowed, told me to get dressed, an' meet him in front of the house. I hurried as quick as I could an' he was there, dressed all in black. Gave me a shiny new knife an' told me it was a present. I had never gotten somethin' so nice in all my life! So we -
​
Well, darnit. I gotta save that story for later. Here he comes, walkin' up the street. Alright, son. Remember what I told you. Deep breath, eyes focused, and...let the string go!

​Wither
Desperation is an ugly thing but so am I, I told myself as I stared between myself in the mirror and the wriggling pill in my hand. For too long, I had felt gross and unlovable, ashamed of my size. I knew it wasn't cool to believe, but the overly generous curves and rolls of my body made me feel worthless. I needed to get a handle on it, if only for my own sense of well-being. The website, throwing up warning signs left and right, had advertised a miracle drug that could slim me down to a reasonable size within days. It seemed too good to be true, but when you feel trapped, you take whatever lifeline you can find.

Once the package had arrived, though, I found myself disconcerted by the smallness of the bottle inside. It was one pill. Harmless. Greenish-blue - almost teal - and about the size of a breath mint. I had gotten scammed, I told myself, but at least I hadn't sent them all that much money. Stupid is as stupid does, I thought, but I may as well try this placebo for laughs. When I opened the bottle, though, the pill began to...move. Shift. Twitch and squirm. It looked almost alive. I put that lid back on the bottle and stuffed the whole thing far back into my medicine cabinet. That was, as the kids say, a 'nope'.

Two days later, I had embarrassed myself at a party at work and needed to unwind. I opened the cabinet to see if I had any pain pills left to numb myself, but instead I saw the bottle. Screw it, I thought. Maybe it'll dull the pain in my heart. That led me to where I was at that point, trepidation in my heart. Nothing ventured, right?

I swallowed the pill and nearly retched as I felt something akin to legs scrape all the way down my esophagus and into my stomach. This was a mistake. I knew it immediately. But throwing it up would only exacerbate things so I had to ride it out. I took three Oxy, turned the TV on, and fell asleep on the couch, trying to forget it all.

The next morning, something felt strange. I felt lighter somehow. I opened my eyes and tried to move, but I couldn't. I was paralyzed. I tried to scream for help, but my voice was stuck as well. I could not do a thing but blink and look around the room. 

That was three months ago. I'm slimmer now, that is for sure, but not in the right way. I can see my hands. They are almost skeletal. My stomach stopped growling days ago. Now, all that's left is a starving gnawing. All I can do is sleep and wake up, hoping that the next day will either bring movement or will not arrive.  

Lately, though, something has changed. I feel something moving in my stomach. Fluttering. Growing. Feeding. 
​
Ironic, no?

​Stupid Intruders
The door is left unlocked. On purpose, of course. Have to entice the rats to enter the trap after all. It does not take long. Three little mice, dressed all in black, try the doorknob and find that it opens. They swing it open with a creak and they freeze before they high-five one another. A fist bump, perhaps. A golden opportunity, they believe. The three of them sneak inside and shut the door behind them as quietly as possible. It is a nice touch. They do not notice that the door has now locked behind them. Pity. The panic will have to come later.

This is not their first time. It is obvious. The ease with which they creep around and try to avoid making noise is practiced and commendable. Any other house would have been cleared out within minutes with none of the occupants being any the wiser. This is not any other house, though. And they are being watched. The cameras that have been installed see every movement, every twitch, every single step they take. The cameras watch and wait. Patience is the key here.

Soon, the rats make their way to the center of the house, wherein lies the cheese. The promised reward for the exercise of skill waits for them. The largest one opens the door to the den and creeps in, motioning for the others to join. The room is completely dark, devoid of all light. That is by design for, once all three have entered, the inevitable occurs: one of them tries the light switch. And then the trap is sprung.

The light flares to life, illuminating the room. The door slams and locks. The surge of surprise from all three of the intruders is glorious and, when the door is tried, there is no response. The cameras see them yelling at one another. The body language is aggressive and frightened. Natural, of course, but entertaining all the same. The trio is so caught up in blaming each other that they do not notice that the light is shifting from brilliant wide to a deep, angry red. Only when the floor begins to shift do they realize that the bar of the mousetrap is swinging down. So to speak. The furniture, cheap and replaceable, falls away into darkness before splintering on something sharp and violent down below. 

The panic begins in earnest and it is delicious. The rats scratch at the walls, try to latch onto something - anything - to keep them within the room. It will be to no avail, however. This has been tried over and over again. Rehearsed. Perfected. They will fall, as all the others have done. That is why the lights down below were installed. The bulbs ignite and show the extent of the horror. Bones. Bodies. Decay. Rot. Blood. All the intruders from before wait below on the spikes. They await their newest friends. 

The men struggle. They always do. They will fall. 
​
They always do.