Hearsay Horizons

Leaving lit candles unattended was probably against apartment policy and a violation of renter's insurance. Nancy had been too rushed to snuff it, or even lock the door; she'd lost track of time, and she needed to get groceries before the store closed.               The failing flame in the jar candle lit only the table around itself, and the lack of light made Nancy's tiny studio apartment into a cavern. Red wax pooled in the very bottom of the jar; the flame was at the end of its wick, and its flickering heat had seared the metal tab that once affixed the now-devoured wick in place. The flame flickered madly. It was drowning in red. Light failed as it shrank away--and then blossomed as a thread-thin piece of flame reached up and up to the lip of the jar. It wavered, but the thread thickened. The amount of flame leaning up and out steadily outgrew that which still remained at the base. Liquid wax finally swamped the wick snub with a sigh of smoke. ...

Where were you when the stars fell? When thunder shook the sky and falling flames turned night into day, were you at home with your family, or were you standing on a high dune with a perfect view? Did the meteor shower devastate your entire village, leaving you alone—alone and mysteriously untouched? Did the gigantic rock slam into you so hard that the shock wave scoured the dunes around you completely bare of sand? Did the starstuff fall—ponderously, hesitantly—through palace roof and upper stories, perhaps even through other people— into you—leaving no sign of its passage and thus no evidence to convince anyone when you told them it happened?               Did you tell anyone that you can make water or ice where, for hundreds of years, there has been only dry, or part the dunes like Mûsâ parting the sea for the Israelites? Was there anyone you knew left to tell, after the star shower? If they believe you—and instant quicksand and thunder-on-comma...

Orson said we were going to meet the Creator. "I'm sorry, what?"                Before that, he'd said we were going to climb. I was okay with climbing; out of all the thing Orson had me try, it had given me the clearest head, and the most focus. It was something about the physicality and the attention I needed to pay to hand and foot placement. Climbing peaks all over Washington and California gave me peace in the wake of the divorce, losing my dog, and being fired. Orson had given me too many methods for getting my life back on track since he’d taken me under his wing a few months ago: kombucha tea, meditation, charcoal cleanses, wilderness living. Climbing was Orson's first success; I should have thought more about that before I followed him up here.                 "The creator," Orson repeated. A beatific expression made an uneasy home on his face. With his wispy, blond beard, he looked like a skele...

Cora Larson slouched in her chair to avoid the proctor's gaze. She never turned her tests in, first. The young woman tabbed away from the course page on the school laptop. She opened Wikipedia to a random page. Cora read about Norse mythology, and from there to Sumerian legends, to Greek. Her glazed eyes skimmed over an explanation on how Christianity wasn't the only religion to grab aspects of pagan faiths to convert laymen; the definition of "pagan" changed with the culture. Greece was more ambitious than pine trees and rabbits when it welded Demeter and Persephone into its mythology to incorporate the older cult into the new Olympic religion. Cora slid upright. Her eyes narrowed, and--             "Miss Larson!" And Cora closed the laptop.             They did not sit at either end of the long, long table, ignoring each other, fighting to be heard over the distance, or struggling with passing the condiments. Instead, ...

It wasn't my fault that her father summoned something Other. It wasn't my fault that it took an interest in her. It wasn't my fault I no longer loved her. How could I? Here, in a rare moment indoors, I studied her and the way time had ravaged her shape. Contact with the creature beyond the world had robbed her of her skeleton, her skin, her hair. Here, reposing in the firelight, she looked something like her former self. She seemed to be all soft--solid--curves, and gentle mildness; short, as a lady should be, and plump. The light made her into a stained-glass figurine: a glossy finish over blue glass. Something beautiful, and warm. Notes of gold and purple moving under her--skin--caught my eye: the remnants of her last--meal--of gold dust and lavender. I watched as tufts of cotton and feathers began percolating through. Her--flesh--was already eating through the bedclothes. In her sleep, she was ignorant of the smoke that issued from where her body met the blanket. Somethi...

Sigil was once the City of Doors; now it is truly a cage. Over a thousand years ago, I felt an earthquake for the first time in my existence. The shaking collapsed buildings on their inhabitants, opened up pits in the bedrock to nothingness, and cracked open the torus of our city. Pieces of buildings and city and other people rained down upon us like meteors. What the earthquake itself did not demolish, this collapse finished off.            Many did not survive. More died over time, buried under rubble we could not clear, because all of the city was rubble. Now we nest like rats in what remains; we stay where the ruination is least, and dare not venture too far because of the dangers, or the memories. We live under a dark sky, and we live in the luminescence particular to Sigil.                    It must be sapient nature to cling to cults; many of Sigil’s factions remain, despite the destruction, desp...

In every office there are extroverts and introverts; it's as universal as the thermostat war. This year, the extroverts won, and there was an office Christmas party. The introverts got a compromise, and there was no karaoke. Instead, the Grayson Corp let its office drones gorge on catered food while gaping at each other's unfamiliar evening wear. Instead of karaoke, the night featured a lineup of local acts—one of whom, the emcee was over-enthused to announce, was the call center's very own Maria Noyes.          She stepped onto the makeshift stage that had been thrown together in the rented hall: average height, bad skin, thin brown hair struggling to hold onto Christmas bow clips. She'd played a few other concerts around town, but she didn't have a stage name yet, and she clearly didn’t have a makeup artist. These were her coworkers; they were staring. Maria centered herself as the prerecorded score began to play, inhaled, and—        ...

The League of Evil said I miss you, The Guild of Demons tried to call, Dr. Hatred told me I was the one that had influenced them all But I would not return a message, Still they couldn't take a hint. No more planning, no conniving, I said I'm done with all of this... —Kirby Krackle, “Villain Song”               “Michael, please.” The man wouldn’t meet Hatred’s eyes. His orange jumpsuit made him look jaundiced; his skin drooped on his frame. Michael’s gaze burned into the hollow of Hatred’s throat. Hatred’s eyes fell onto Michael’s own neck, where a power neutralizer pulsed orange against the buzzing fluorescent lights. Hatred gestured for the attention of the guards. “Get that off of him. It’s not necessary.”              “Standard procedure, ma’am. We can’t.” Hatred sighed. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Michael?” His eyes tracked up, and glanced over her face. She leaned forward. “It’ll be alright....

Her name is Wynn Mornshaper, and she is beautiful. She makes no apologies for her scars; does not hide them behind her hair, does not turn when she catches me looking. She moves just as quickly as our mounted party—faster, especially when she rouses us in the morning. For the sake of knowing, though I hated to say it, I asked her once whether she’d ever seen a priest or cleric about repairing her wounds. She drew back as if to headbutt me. Wynn only asked whether I doubted our safety in her hands. She tossed her head at me, and her horns pulled my eye—carved with flowers and birds on one, and bones and storms on the other. Crude, but the intent is plain: joy and sorrow. Despite her puckered wounds, her fleece still gleams brightly enough to tempt a god. Wynn’s brush with death has gifted her, I think, a lust for battle and brew. But I watch her in the taverns. She does not brawl when she drinks, does not shout when she makes merry. Wynn is always in the thick of events—but she watches....

Doubtless, that title’s been used before. I’ve been sitting on this plot bunny rabbit for ages, so let’s have it out. This is mostly just my notes, so it's rambling.              Alice’s adventures in Wonderland took place on May 4th, 1862, on her birthday. Her journey into Looking-Glass took place circa June 28th of the same year. Alice Pleasance Liddell told her sister of her adventures in confidence--and then her sister told a family friend, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, during a boat outing between Dodgson and the three Liddell girls. Dodgson surprised Alice with a manuscript as a Christmas gift; these were the written adventures of Alice as he had been told (more or less). He requested that Alice share with him these wondrous worlds. Several chapters of the finished Wonderland book actually occurred to Dodgson, such as “Pig & Pepper,” “A Mad Tea-Party,” and “The Caucus-Race.” He either experienced or made up details of the croquet and trial sce...

You play through this fresh, new game again; you don’t bother trying to get Ice Cap’s best result. You don’t encounter the snowman. You rush through Papyrus’ fights; he literally cannot kill you. Even Toriel can do it accidentally, but not Papyrus. Befriend Papyrus. You flee from encounters whenever you can. Save Undyne, befriend Undyne. You don’t go through the Warrior’s Path and deal with those fights in the CORE. Mettaton is still a pain; you can’t rest in the menu for fear of your viewer count going down.                Asgore. Flowey. Die, die, and die. SOUL rebellion. MERCY Flowey. Hey, be better friends with Alphys. True Lab. Die some more to the amalgamations. Asgore, Asriel. SAVE, and SAVE, and SAVE. True Ending.                Restart the game. Windy void, and no name screen. Wait ten minutes. Play until you get your interface. KilC...