"The Lake"

His name was Edmund Twitch. He claimed it was indeed his real name, but no one believed him, for he had a terrible tick: whenever he was peeved, his nose twitched constantly from relaxed to scrunched up, in quick succession.

Edmund was more commonly known to them as "Mr. Mirror," for he was the one who supervised the set-up of the funhouse in every town, and collected the tickets for patrons who entered therein.

Mr. Twitch (which was, after all, his true name) worked for a carnival--Mother Goose's Twisted Mirror Maze. As the title suggested, there were plenty of nursery rhyme-themed decorations and costumed performers ambling about. However, Mr. Mirror's funhouse was the star attraction of the whole affair. Ordinarily a simple funhouse wouldn't have a special appeal, being a common exhibition of carnivals, but this particular one was said to be truly amazing. A stand-out presentation. A real treat.

For this particular funhouse full of mirrors had a secret: many, oh so many, screams were heard at intermittent intervals. And sometimes a few who went in never came back out.

Those who did never said a word. They were too shocked to describe the experience. Naturally, people being people, they assumed it must be something good, something exciting. And so more victims.

This mirror maze is not, however, the centerpiece of this story. In fact, the carnival workers themselves were never even aware of what went on inside. They were as perplexed as everyone else. Whenever they investigated, it seemed a normal attraction to them. No bodies, no blood, no signs of anything amiss. (It was a curiosity the police never got involved.) The great mystery of it was the only reason for their success, their only draw for customers as rumors swiftly swept across the landscape, arriving at each town before the troupe. Otherwise, they'd be a rather generic (and in all likelihood, bankrupt) group of entertainers.

Mr. Mirror went about his daily work: taking tickets, smiling at those entering the Maze, listening to the occasional screech, taking breaks, et al. Finally, at sundown, the place was closing for the night and he sat relaxing in his private tent drinking a cool beer.

After a moment he was interrupted by another exhibit that drew customers (though less so than his own). She entered without warning or introduction, feigning patience.

Edmund sighed. "What is it?" he asked as he swatted at a bee buzzing near his face.

"Katz wants you. Some kid's gone missing, parents think the Maze might have something to do with it," said the Snake Lady, so called on account of the texture of her skin, which was like unto reptilian scales.

"Yeah, so?"

"He wants you to head the search in there posthaste," she hissed.

Grumbling audibly, Edmund followed her outside, then went his own way. Once at the attraction, Mother Katz, as they facetiously referred to him, handed Edmund a flashlight and gave a short description of the young girl. A few others followed him inside.

Being the caretaker of the Maze, he knew it inside and out. But not tonight.

Tonight it was different--every way he turned, he found a dead end. Nothing if persistent, they all continued to call the child's name. No answer. One of them growled impatiently.

"OK," said Edmund, his tick acting up, "is this some kind of joke?" He turned on the others. "Who's been messing with the layout?" The others just shrugged. "No wonder people get lost in here. The hell is going on?"

Edmund perused the corridors of reflective glass, shining the light to find any corners and crossways they might be coming upon. As he stared into the infinite copies of himself unto oblivion, he realized he was suddenly alone. There was a faint whispering in the air.

He sprinted back a few feet the way he'd come, calling for them, but there was no sign. In fact, the corridor was blocked by a mirror wall, as though it had always been that way. The whispering gradually grew louder.

His nervous tick was becoming unbearable and he began rubbing his face in distress. "What is going on!?"

The murmurs followed a decrescendo into silence, and from around a corner that didn’t exist just seconds before stepped the Snake Lady. "Mr. Mirror," she called from the other end of the hall, her voice echoing in an otherworldly manner, "I am here to congratulate you. You’ve been chosen."

"What?" Sweat began to bead on his brow. "What are you talking about?"

"The Mother has chosen you for her purposes. As once, as a child, she chose me."

"Mother? You mean Katz?" He glanced around nervously and almost thought he saw a serpentine tail flick past him in the mirrors.

She smiled. "No. He knows nothing of us." At his look of confusion, she provided, "The Lilim. We serve her."

"Who're 'we'?"

"Well, you and I, for starters."

"What is going on!? I want answers! Where's the little girl?"

The Snake Lady grinned. "You don't like who you are. The twitch. The temperament. The boring, dead-end work you've been doing for decades. You're afraid that one of these days" --here she began to emphasize each word-- " you might just lose your mind."

Edmund remained frozen.

"She can help you, my friend. As she has helped us all." And with a step into a nearby mirror, she was gone.

He looked after her, even though she could no longer be seen. An image of a lake shimmered into view, as though on a television, only in color instead of black-and-white. Recalling the trek to this location, he knew this was the lake they’d passed only a couple of miles north of the town.

He knew he was supposed to go there.



The full moon shone down on him and the surrounding landscape, casting an eerie glow onto the trees. Being a bit out-of-shape, he decided to rest on the grass near the edge of the water, next to a thicket of reeds.

But he could not relax. The whispering had returned. The Snake Lady? It seemed to be coming from the woods. The incessant voices would’ve driven him mad if the sound of a few flies near his ears hadn’t sufficiently distracted him.

Then another, clearer voice called out from somewhere on the water, "Mr. Mirror! Mr. Mirror!"

He crept to the edge of the lake and saw her--the Mother. She was frightening, yet beautiful. It was as if a human had a serpentine tail rather than legs. But she wasn't on the water, no she was in the water. More precisely, she was talking to him from where his reflection should be.

"Mr. Mirror, you may consider me a sort of jinn, if you wish. I can give you a better life. All you have to do is accept."

Whirling in confusion, Edmund's head was aching. All of this was just too fast--a shifting maze, the existence of supernatural beings, an offer granted for nothing in return.

"I...I'm not sure what to say."

"Just accept."

He paused. "All right, then. I accept."

She smiled and Edmund felt another presence behind him. He turned around and, to his horror, saw a terrible beast. It was like a wild animal, with very long claws, yet an unnervingly human-like face.

Before he could even think of screaming, it brought its bladed fingers close to him and struck.

He knew not how many hours had passed while he was unconscious. At least he was alive. Dragging his sore body to the water so he could calm himself and clean his wounds, he realized it was worse than he'd thought: thick, unhealed scars and deep, bloody gashes covered him.

He was disfigured, but alive.

But it was worse still. As he peered into his reflection, he could see bugs of all types, many with stingers, pincers, and poison, crawling in and out and between his wounds. Bugs, living inside him.

He tried to come to terms with this while he tried to stand. Yet he could not.

He had no legs, but a serpent's tail.

"Death's Beacon"

Before you die, they say you see something in a black cloak. You remember all the tales you'd been told, that Death comes on a pale horse, that underneath the robe is a skeleton, that his scythe is more akin to an extension of its arms, that when Death knocks on your door all you can do is follow. You remember all this, and with one glance at the thing before you, you realize it's all comforting lies.

Standing down the dark hallway in your home isn't even a humanoid object. It's tall and thin, but it has no visible limbs. This is Death's Beacon, a towering featureless black robe, and it's slowly moving down the hall. Through the only opening in the robe, a freakishly large pale cone juts out. The Beacon's beak.

With every passing second, you feel more blemishes and sores opening up on your body. You feel bugs crawling under your skin. Your bones crack and cringe, freezing you in your tracks, trapped in the headlights of the slow but inevitable end.

The moment you caught a glimpse of this ominous sight, you felt a loud sense of helplessness and mortality. This is a monster you fear, and you know that it does not fear you. It does not care for you; it does not even notice you. Looking at this abomination, you are reminded of old stories where men encountered giants. You feel as if you are staring at the foot of a giant that does not see you underneath where its next step will be. Where's the rest of this giant? Somewhere in the darkest corners of comprehension, beyond the land where doors lead, below Hell itself.

You fear that you may be going insane. The fact that it'll all be over soon gives you a brief moment's relief before the Beacon passes, your eyes turning upwards in their sockets and your stomach eating itself from the inside out.

"The Ballerinas of Versiansa"

Welcome to the swamps of Versiansa, where the birds all sing the same tune and the trees grow crooked as old fingernails. A grim canopy covers the lightest hopes of vision; down here, your mind makes its own mysteries. Mushy marshes make a muddy march through the landscape, and if you look hard enough, you might just find life in the torn depths of this organic junkyard. If you can call it "life."

Your march through the marsh is interrupted every few minutes by the sounds deep down here. Was that one a bird? It sounded like a tuning fork. Something steps on a branch. Your eyes can't adjust to this darkness, for the swamps don't provide any conventional concept of low visibility; this is to the dark what fog is to rain. It's oddly eldritch, just the way you like it. This is why you come out here; its surrealism helps you think.

You see figures dancing around the trees, neither creature nor plant. They spring and swirl and say sweetness upon this tranquility. You recognize their giggles as a plain "Hello" and say it back, prompting further chuckles and shrill laughter.

Insects fly around, fireflies of the sound barrier. They chirp when perched on trees, acting as audial signs when the clearing never quite opens for your vision.

The dancing submarine ballerinas circle you; the closer they dance, the closer they are to something you can perceive as sight. You catch glimpses of blue hair and dresses giving the illusion of bedsheet ghosts. Still, they twirl on, and still, you find yourself strolling through the swamp with them.

The birds complete their tuning and sing an aria suite, with the ballerinas matching their movement to every movement of the music. A melody tickles your fancy, and your feet flinchlessly follow the flurry. The swamp is your ballroom, and the ballerinas beckon for your audience. Glimpses of sunlight shine through patches of canopy, acting as aerial spotlights and lighting pinches of the grey swamps around you.

Branches shift; these patches of light are covered, and you are again shielded behind the haze.

This is all but a reverie, and your morning dance only gets more surreal as you find yourself in the presence of more and more ballerinas. Their giggles give way to more direct contact: One maiden grabs your hand and twirls a classical jingle through your arms. Her perfume smells of blueberries and the faintest hint of pickled fish. Lavender scents enter the mix, and the grey haze of the swamp fades to indigo.

You are in love with the surroundings, and for the first time in your life, you feel you can declare absolute joy.

More maidens become your dancing partners, your feet practically hovering above the ground in movement by now. Frogs are heard, their croaks providing alto and bass, the aria becoming a courante of careful craft.

As the dance progresses into an art, you consciously recognize that your movement is no longer your own. The blue ballerinas have fully incorporated you into their routine, and even if you were to stop controlling your limbs, you know they would prolong your progressive parade. You are a prisoner of the dance now, the melodious maidens' tight grips on your hands providing more than enough inertia to keep you swinging. The secret of the submarines surfaces as their vocals guide the musical:

"All, always the same.

With time on our side, the dance moves

Between trees and grooves,

And the water rises to tame.

Take a bow, you've joined the dance and will follow me now."

The ballerinas stomp the ground, and it gives in to the water below. Fungal strings form a tight grip on your legs, and you are forced to your knees in the warm swamp, arms grabbed next, your head poking out of the water.

A sole maiden stops dancing and steps in front of you. You spy her short blue hair, her blue dress too clean for the swamp, her legs seeming to walk on a pathway of fungi. She cracks a smile, and for a moment, you are certain her face's beauty is a light source in its own right.

"Welcome to the endless obsession, our liquid throe.

In moments, you will long no longer for absent friends.

Submit. I am all you feel, my knowledge all you know.

There will be no more ‘You;' this life you fled never ends.

Life lapis, drown with me. Drink the spring of Salmacis."

Your head goes under, and your panic ceases before you even get the chance to begin.

"The Street Artist"

He is a street artist, making money off the paintings he sells to tourists. In order to draw them in, he creates intricate chalk drawings on the sidewalk. Critics have praised him for the incredibly life-like art he produces. The short life of the fantastic drawings pulls people in as much as the art itself. If anything, the chalk drawings are more realistic than the more permanent oil paintings he sells. He creates with oils to feed his body, but he creates with chalk to feed his soul.

He doesn't talk often, indeed questions asked while he draws often go unanswered. He is in another place, someplace where the only reality is the colored dust on his fingers.

You walk by this artist often. Lately you've begun to notice a trend in his work, a woman in white. She shows up in the distance, her ivory umbrella setting her apart from the rest of the average city crowds. You are entranced by this woman. You've walked by his work countless times, but this is the day you purchase something.

It's one of his smaller works, one of the few chalk drawings he sells. The city skyline in the background in infinite detail and the faceless gray mob rushing through the streets. It perfectly depicts life in the city; the sparkling hope you hold in the back corner of your mind contrasted with the day to day minutiae that threaten to drown you. Uplifting and depressing, all at once. In the back is a flash of white, the woman. Maybe she is the woman you are meant to meet? Maybe somewhere in this grand city is the woman destined for you.

You hang it up on your wall in your living room. It hangs there for months, just an ordinary piece of wall art. You soon forget about it, it becomes a blur in your life just like the people you pass on the street.

One cold winter day, you spy a white butterfly on the stairs to your apartment building. It flaps its wings lazily then flutters away as you draw near, hopefully to some warmer climate. While watching the butterfly, you slip on a patch of black ice and fall.

People in the city are not sympathetic to a person in crutches. And the concussion has left you with aphasia and occasional memory loss.

As the winter goes on, you begin to see the white butterflies more often. Sometimes the accidents are immediate, but more often they happen when you are not paying attention. Then you remember seeing their delicate beauty flying around whatever instigated the accident.

Toward the beginning of spring, the painting on your wall stops being a simple blur in your life. You notice it has changed. The woman in white is closer now, halfway to the front of the frame.

That's when you see what the street artist has done. She is not the woman in white, she is not a woman at all. She is the absence of a woman, of a person, of color. She is blank paper, yet somehow even less than that. She is a hole that hurts your eyes, hurts your mind. You can't bear to look at the painting any longer, you leave for work.

The constant accidents have taken their toll on your body. You have gotten rid of the crutches, but you have steel rods in your leg. An accidental cut with a utility knife needed stitches, and the stitches are infected. You've had at least two more concussions, leaving you with migraines. The memory loss is even worse than before. Your medical insurance agent knows you by the sound of your voice.

This day, you spy them again. A small flock of ivory butterflies perches on the yellow line in the subway. Against your will you are drawn to them, peering close to see the ragged edges, as if they have been drawn on concrete. They burst into flight and you are surrounded by a familiar smell of chalk. Next thing you know, you have been pushed onto the tracks. The quick actions of a heroic soul are the only thing keeping you from being a mile-long red splotch.

When you get home, the ivory woman is closer. She is almost close enough for you to see her not-face. On that not-face is a not-smile, one that chills you to the bone. There will be no good Samaritan to save you next time. She is done teasing with you, the next time will be the last.

The street artist created with chalk to feed his soul. What if his soul wasn't the only thing he was feeding?

You spend all day at home now. You don't dare go out into the world. Too many opportunities for an accident. But you forget that 77% of accidents happen in the home.

You don't notice the wallpaper until you turn off the shower. Butterflies. Butterflies cover the wallpaper, slowly flapping their wings and making the bathroom walls ripple. You rush to leave the room but the shower door was not fully closed and water has pooled on the floor. You slip and your stitches tear when you try to catch your balance. Instead of regaining your feet, you fall and hit your head against the counter.

It isn't the end for you, but it might as well be. You lie in a hospital bed, reacting to nothing. Your parents found the chalk painting. It hangs on the wall opposite you now. The Ivory Lady is gone now. Her games are done and she has moved on to a new target.

"The Lonely Crowd"

I stared at the car as long as I could as it drove away. Unfortunately, it turned after only a few seconds, drifting out of sight without leaving so much as a skid mark behind. I was alone. My best friend and roommate had left for a better life, and I was stuck here. Going to work in an cold office cubicle, surrounded by apathy, staring at the door, hoping someone will care enough to visit me. My apartment is surrounded by so many others that are filled with people. Yet no one cares.

One day, someone did. It was a little boy. He seemed underdressed for the cold weather, so I invited him in and offered him some hot chocolate to warm him up. He didn't say very much. He didn't reply when I asked if he was lost or if he wanted me to call his parents.

He looked up and asked me if I wanted to be his friend. I said yes without hesitating. Something about him made me want to know him more. I wanted him as a companion. He said I had to do something for him first. He gave me an insulated box. It was about the size of my head and wrapped up tight. He gave me an address to deliver it to. He told me not to open it.

I did as he said. I didn't even think of opening it. I knew he would know, and I couldn't risk him leaving. I couldn't handle being alone anymore. I needed him.

I walked through the cold streets. Everyone in the neighborhood was locked up safe with their families in their warm houses. They got to enjoy each other’s company and revel in companionship.

I dropped the package off on the front step of the house he told me, rang the doorbell and quickly moved away. They opened the door and took the package. The wind screamed past the rooftops and warmly lit windows as I walked away.

After that the boy stayed with me. Sometimes he would ask me to do other things for him. I delivered more packages. I sent messages. I did all manner of things. I did it all gladly. I didn’t want to make him angry. That might make him leave. I wasn't so lonely anymore. I had a friend who helped the apartment feel more full. I did everything he said.

But today. Today he walked up to me while I was making us dinner. He looked up at me with cold eyes and said, "You're a bad person. You hurt people's feelings. You make them cry. I don't want to be your friend anymore."

He left. He left without saying anything else. I ran after him, but I couldn’t even see him turn out of sight. He didn’t leave so much as a footprint behind.

I can't handle being alone again. He left the window open, despite it being such a cold day.

But it is so nice outside. I think I’ll go out. It’s so cold inside.

"Writer's Block"

Amy just sat in front of her expensive new typewriter and groaned. She had no idea what to write. She thought a genuine typwriter would help her with her writer's block, but as it turns out it only made it worse. The clickering and cluttering of the buttons on the typewriter drummed into her brain, as if someone took a sledgehammer and hit her repeatedly with it. 

It wasn't until a few moments later that she took off: she didn't have an idea, yet her fingers flew by the typewriter on an enormous speed. She had barely time to read what she was writing. She began sweating, she was no longer in control of what she was typing. She was just typing, even when the page should've been finished it just kept on going. It wasn't as if actual sentences were being typed, it was just jibber-jabber, random nonsense. She could not stop. 

She tried to go away from the machine, but she was stuck as if someone glued her to the chair. The page just seemed to be endless. Amy started to scream in agony. This was a torture. 

After she had sat there for a good time the pace started to slow down. Eventually the nonsense writing started to form real words. The last thing written on that endless page was: "Perhaps our language leads you."

"Cold Oblivion"

He is alone.

All around him, the gray, dark walls of his room stand tall. No light comes from the cracked TV screen nor the ages-old lamp sitting by his bedside. He is a wreck - his hair is missing, lost from stress. His glasses are broken; they lay on the ground, unused. He doesn't need them. He doesn't go outside. He just sits and waits for the last moments of his miserable life.

Months ago, the electricity was shut off, for he had run out of money to spend, wasted on worthless knick-knacks, things bought to bury the pain, the horrible depression that had set in.

His whole life, he had done nothing, coddled by his parents. Now they are gone, and they took his will to live with them. Even his pets are dead - long dead, in fact. He is completely and totally alone. He will be for the remainder of his miserable life.

It doesn't have to end here. It really doesn't. He has no real adversities except himself, and his inability to change. The only thing that is different now is how much he lost. It was a rude awakening - for his whole life he had done nothing but be rewarded for his laziness. He had never worked a day in his life.

Now he doesn't know whether or not it is day or night, as the windows of his room are boarded up. The only thing he knows is a numb, cold feeling. He has no purpose. His entire existence now is just a cycle of sleeping and eating when it is necessary. Even the pests that had once roamed the house have abandoned him. He is in oblivion, and completely aware of it. He is nothing more than a shade, and his house is Asphodel.

It is cold. Too cold. It feels as if the air around him is closing in, suffocating him in a coffin of nothingness. He needs to go. Needs to escape.

He stands up, limps over to the door of his house, and opens it. Outside, it is snowing, and the only lights are from the lampposts. Not a single car cruises down the street. Even outside there is nobody for him. There is only one thing for him to do: walk.

He has no idea where he is going; he operates on pure instinct, nothing more. He passes houses, churches, and old broken down shacks. He continues on, walking down the isolated road until he reaches the edge of town. He wanders off through the forest, the snow getting thicker, a layer of fog settling in. His breath comes in short breaths.

Finally, he breaks out of the trees and finds himself in front of an ice-covered lake. Through a hole in the clouds moonlight illuminates the ice, putting him in a trance-like state.

He follows the light. He steps out onto the lake, and walks towards the center. He needs to be under the moon, needs to see it one last time. The moon is the one thing that is always there. It won't die, or go away from him. It is almost in its own state of oblivion, out in space. He needs company. Any kind of company.

Then, there is a cracking sound, and he falls down into the watery deep. The cold water pierces him like daggers, but it is oddly comforting. He doesn't feel lonely anymore.

Now the only thing he wonders is what he will die from: drowning, or hypothermia?