ISSN 1757-5419

Issue 2 – October 2008 Editorial Page 1 MOVIE QUEEN By J. M. Harris Page 3 Illustrated By Greg Caparell WATCH OUT FOR FALLING PRICES By David M. Fitzpatrick Page 8 Illustrated By Ash Arceneaux DIDN’T REMIND ME By Robert T. Canipe Page 14 Illustrated By Russ Root Interview with Joseph McGee Page 17 PAPER WASP AND CHOCOLATE RABBITS By Mari Mitchell Page 21 Illustrated By Jasper Smithers CICADAS By Nickolas Cook Page 26 Illustrated By Jeff “Ledge” Eisen END OF THE LINE By C. S. Johnson Page 32 Illustrated By Chris Heady Interview with Jason Beam Page 37 BLOODY KISSES: TRAGEDY By Christian McPhate Page 43 SHE NEEDS A CAT By Kavita Kamal Parthi Page 46 Illustrated By matlocktheartist ALL PINK ON THE INSIDE By Steven Lee Climer Page 51 Illustrated By Gareth Partington THE TALE OF GERROTH THE DAMNED By Bill Ward Page 56 Illustrated By Mike Wooley Reviews Page 58 Cover By Jason Beam - http://jasonbeamstudios.com/ Proof-read By Writers Services - http://www.myspace.com/writersservices All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of Morpheus Tales. All. Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise

used without the express permission of the copyright holders.

Angelica watched as Billy attached the camcorder to the tripod. She studied the excited

expression on his face, reminded of her younger brother, Kevin, when they were growing up. Kev used to bite the tip of his tongue in the same way, used to go about his business as though charged with electricity, enthusiastic no matter how mundane the circumstances. Like the Christmas he’d received a faulty remote-control truck. By the time Mum had dug out the receipt, Kev had dismantled it, happy surrounded in a halo of tiny cogs, wheels and springs.

Billy squinted into the camcorder’s viewer. His tongue explored the inside of his cheek as he made minor adjustments. “This’ll be the best vid yet.” Happy, he stood back and added, “You look amazing.”

Angelica lifted her head from the workbench and surveyed her surroundings – the dilapidated barn and haystacks - and guessed the cowboy boots complimented her birthday suit just fine; it fit the theme, too – WILD WEST. Although, the cage sitting at Billy’s feet, a red blanket draped over to hide its occupant, left her with a disconcerting feeling that this shoot was going to be a little more… daring. Dangerous, she corrected, watching as Billy danced around the tripod like a drunken ballerina. Of course, he’d never hurt her. Hadn’t in two years of marriage, but then he hadn’t looked as pre-occupied as this. Dressing up to fit his themes had eluded him up until now, too. “You’d better pack up your saddle bags,” he’d slurred in mock John Wayne, prancing about in spurs with all the bells and whistles. “Guess what I’m thinking this time, pilgrim?”

It all started on a National Trust nature trail, a month into their relationship. After diverging from the path, they found themselves lying back on a bed of bluebells and daffodils. Throughout their duration hidden amongst the ferns, their wicker hamper remained untouched, partly obscured by the items of clothing carelessly strewn across it.

Angelica never knew her prudence would allow herself to strip in front of what she still classed as a stranger, let alone outside of a room with the light turned out and the curtains pulled drawn. The invisible squeeze of dampness and cool air felt better than any silk sheet; the danger of their gasps and moans being overheard gave her a sense of urgency, an excitement leaving her using language her mother would have administered bars of soap against. After catching his breath, Billy assessed the crimson half-moons dripping blood from his shoulder. The look on his face bemused her; the look said, “You bitch, you bit me. But then, the more I watch the blood seep from the tiny holes, the more I like it. In fact, I like it so much, you’re gonna lick the wounds dry.”

And she had. She’d also discovered something wonderful that afternoon – like an awe-struck child overturning a stone and revealing the iridescent shell of a beetle – this was just the start of things to come!

Billy gave a satisfied grunt and lifted the cage. “The cuffs not too tight?” Angelica flexed her calves and twisted her wrists. “Nope.” Although her legs were pulled open, her ankles attached to the top of each table leg, the

cuffs restraining her wrists allowed just enough slack so she could rest up on her elbows. Billy positioned the cage between her legs, removing a plastic tube from the confines of the

blanket, careful not to reveal the occupant. "What the hell is in there, Billy?” Her thighs quivered, instinctively wanting to shut

together. She felt the cage vibrate through the table to her buttocks. “I mean it.” “You’ll see, honey,” he replied. He offered the tube. “Open wide.” She didn’t like the menace in his eyes. “Not until you tell me what’s in that damn cage.” “Trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?” Angelica turned her nose up and looked away. “Baby,” he whispered, “I thought you liked the not-knowing. Don’t tell me you’re turning

chicken.”

“Bob!” Laurie hollered from downstairs. “Are you ready?” Bob Peters rubbed his fingers on his temples, trying to will the throbbing pain away. If only

she’d turn the volume down on that mouth of hers, it wouldn’t hurt so badly. Well, that wasn’t true; but it would be nice if she’d shut up, anyway. Of course, he certainly couldn’t tell her anything like that. It wasn’t his place or his right.

“Bob!” “I’m coming,” he called down, and his own voice sent a horde of tiny demons with hammers

through his skull, pounding away. He was ready to do anything to relieve the pain—and almost anything to not have to live under her control all the time.

But that was a fantasy. At least she could do something about his headache. He got up off his antigrav bed and reached for his Blue Sox baseball cap, teetering and almost falling over. He snugged the cap on his head, and it felt like a steel band trying to keep his skull from exploding. The cap was the only personal belonging he actually owned—it had come with him from the farm in Antarctica a few years ago.

He took a step and dizzy nausea overwhelmed him, and he grabbed at the wall for support even as the autodoor sensed his presence and slid silently open. He closed his eyes and willed the pain away. It would all be over soon, he knew. Just a quick flight to World-Mart, and Laurie would make sure he was cured of this brain-screaming agony.

Like a movie zombie, his steps jerking and halting, he made his way to the motion stairs and let them glide him down to the first floor. Laurie was waiting in the dining room, woven-gold purse over her shoulder, arms crossed, glaring at him. Her hair was pink and yellow this week, exaggerated curls frozen in stiff corkscrew spirals about her head.

“I don’t know if you understand how this marriage thing works, but you’re supposed to do everything on my schedule,” she said. “While you’re taking care of the headache, I want to get my nails done. I’m sick of these red claws.” She waggled the long, curled talons, painted as bright a red as the blood they’d draw.

“I’m sorry,” Bob said. “It’s just that my head really hurts.” “Well, I hope all this takes is medication. You know how I hate to waste money.”

# # # In minutes, they were airborne and supersonic, the hovercar leaving the mountain range

behind them. He watched through the glass dome as they flew, at the hundreds of mountaintop skyscrapers spiking skyward as far north and south as he could see. The one that housed their apartment was a comparatively small forty-story affair; others were twice that or more. After neutralizing plate tectonics, humans had been able to build anywhere without worry—and mountaintops allowed some of the best views in the world. It was just one more advance that made life better, Bob knew. Just like the advancements in medicine.

Laurie let the autopilot cruise them toward Plexopolis as she jacked the music up way too loud, adding to his misery. Then she talked even louder to be heard over the noise. She prattled on about the latest gossip at work, mostly.

“So Monday, during our flight to our Moon office, Barry Martin actually touched Linda’s thigh,” she said. “And Linda sat there, acting like she didn’t notice, but we all saw. Twenty minutes in that shuttle, and he never moved his hand until we landed. And he kept moving his finger on her leg—just barely, but noticeable. Can you believe that?”

“No,” he said, the obedient, expected answer. His eyes hurt, too, feeling as if they were bulging out of their sockets with every thud of his heart—like twin battering rams were smashing against them, trying to pop them out of his head.

My girlfriend Stephanie didn’t remind me of a movie star in her looks or personality. She

didn’t look like Julia Roberts, Will Smith’s wife Jada Pickett, or act all affected and flighty like Angelina Jolie. Me, I didn’t remind her of Brad Pitt, Denzel Washington, or even Jackie Chan. Stephanie and I were patently unlike anyone else. We weren’t together long enough.

When the guy in the ski mask, robbing the busy Larsen’s Steak House on a Friday, all-you-can-eat fried flounder for $4.99 night, interrupted our date, grabbed Stephanie from behind and shot her through the left temple because I didn’t get my wallet out fast enough to suit him, it didn’t remind me of people getting shot in big-budget cop films or even in cheap, made-for-TV movies or series. It didn’t remind me of anything. Nope. Nothing at all.

Ski Mask didn’t hang around with his two cohorts, Denim Jacket and Baggy Pants, for long after. They didn’t fire shots into Larsen’s ceiling, warning us not to move for half an hour. They didn’t thank anyone. They didn’t squeal away in a getaway car. They simply didn’t hang around. I didn’t see the color of Ski Mask’s eyes nor did I notice any distinguishing marks. No one in Larsen’s screamed in panic, no one saved the day. Dirty Harry didn’t say, “Go ahead. Make my day.”

Twenty minutes later, I wasn’t eating my rib eye and baked potato (I’m not allergic to fish) but riding not under arrest in the back of a police cruiser, as it didn’t closely follow the ambulance. Sirens didn’t scream like a banshee nor did we break the speed limit. We didn’t run a single, red light. The officer driving didn’t glance at me in the cruiser’s rearview mirror. He wasn’t young and not a little overweight. He didn’t really look like a cop. I didn’t know what he looked like. His partner in the passenger seat didn’t turn around to offer condolences nor did he tell me to be calm that everything would be OK.

At the hospital, it wasn’t loud and bustling. No one was running around shouting to start IVs with ringers or get a BP or a blood gas. The ambulance drivers didn’t quickly wheel the gurney carrying Steph into a room but moved her slowly behind a curtain and the solitary nurse didn’t let me come along. I sat down in a leather, wingback chair that didn’t look like it belonged there. Five or six doctors didn’t run behind the curtain to join the nurse but only one. I couldn’t see his and the nurse’s silhouettes on the curtain, as they didn’t fiddle with Stephanie. I couldn’t tell what they were doing, but it wasn’t at all like they do things on ER.

With her bony hip, Martha Knox pushed open the door to her house. Her hands were full. In

one, her collection of keys, in the other, a small plastic-wrapped item that appeared to be furry, and bloody. She placed it on the counter. Her housemate Elsa was on the phone talking, while she sipped a cup of coffee.

“Hold on for a moment, Laura.” She put down her cup, and pushed the hold button on her phone. “That better not be what I think it is.”

“Which is?” Martha replied as her khaki backpack slid off her small shoulders and onto the kitchen floor. The pack, heavy with her college textbooks made a thud as it hit the white tile floor. Requiring a M.D. to become a pathologist meant a great deal of studying.

“A dead squirrel,” Elsa replied. “Wrong! It’s a mort sylvilagus bachmani.” Disgusted, she poured her coffee down the drain and followed Martha with the cordless

phone. She spoke into the phone, “I’m going to have to call you back in a little while sweetheart. I‘ve got to kill Martha and clean another of her messes. Bye.”

By now, Martha was pouring coffee into a huge cup filled halfway with ice and cream. “A dead rabbit! We have an agreement. You swore that none of your "projects" would

EVER come into the kitchen area. Why didn’t you go around the back and straight into your room with it?”

She held up her cup. “I needed coffee.” Elsa reached into a drawer and put on disposable gloves. “You need a huge kick in the ass,

that's what you need! Then you need to go to a doctor and get a prescription for whatever the hell is wrong with you!” From under the sink she took out a spray bottle that contained bleach. She started to run hot water into it as well.

“Nahhh. I just needed a quick fight with you before you left for the weekend." She smiled a wicked twinkle in her eyes.

“You’re going to make all of us sick with this disgusting hobby of yours. You would think anyone in Mensa and years of college would know better.”

Martha picked up the small carcass, “The odds of catching something from an animal are not that great. Why would I do it if I felt there was a real chance of becoming ill?”

“Because you like to press people’s buttons. It’s one of your ways of getting attention. And because you need pills! Lots of them, in all sorts of colors and shapes.”

"Now what would Tom Cruise say about that?" Martha was in the hall that led to her part of the house, Elsa scurrying behind her with the

spray bottle. “Need I remind you that there hasn’t been a reported case of francisella tularensis or

myxomatosis in this area for over two years?” Martha said emphatically. “Need I remind you that when you’re dead it doesn’t matter?” Martha mockingly pantomimed licking the dead rabbit, then slammed her door. “EUWWW! You don’t only need pills, but you do need a fucking STRAIGHTJACKET

and then maybe a nice LOBOTOMY! I’ll bring the ice pick.”

Willa felt a hysterical sob building at the back of her chest and she flung the rest of the wet

clothes back in the basket. Hands shaking, she snatched up the clean laundry and dashed back into the ramshackle house, stumbled into the sweaty-hot kitchen, and threw herself into a chair. She mashed her hands against her ears, and felt the frustrated tears roll down her cheeks.

They screeched on and on…so much, so loudly that Willa Jackson could hardly stand it anymore. A few days before, when the cicadas had first begun to flit through the hazy, humid summer air, their buzzing numbers had delighted and astounded her. All those tiny black bodies darting like acrobatic bullets in the drooping trees, ticking into the strangle of the tall summer grass, made the world seem alive with motion. She had shared their excitement, being that it was summer and she out of school for a couple of months. But when the mating males began that high pitched, almost tear-inducing ‘screeeeeeeeeee - screeeeeeeeeee-screeeeeeeeeee’ it had been like a sudden slap in the face. The unrelenting noise had expunged her joy, and had become a constant drip-drip of water on her consciousness, pick-pick-picking away at her nerves, until she finally could take it no more.

Mama came to her, forced her hands down, her gaze a mix of concern and amusement. “Your first time, child. Lord knows they can sure get on a body’s nerves. Always there, buzzin’ away.” Mama shifted her ponderous weight into the chair across from her daughter and started to shell black-eyed peas for dinner. She scooped a handful of them from the steel pot and placed them before the sobbing teenager. “You just got to keep your mind occupied with something else until you get used to ‘em.”

“I can’t…I can’t…” “Shhh…hush that up now. You can take it. They ain’t goin’ away just cause you don’t like

‘em.” Willa heard the edge to her mother’s voice. Sullenly, she wiped away her tears and reached for the peas. Her fingers dug at the soft husk without thought, dumped the peas into the pot.

After a few minutes of hearing the girl sniffle, Mama shook her head. “We gonna need some fatback for the peas. Why don’t you walk down to Mingus’s and get some?”

Willa nodded, wiping at her runny nose. Mama mined her housecoat pockets and drew out a small wad of carefully hoarded dollar bills. Counting off two, she handed them over. Willa took them, but held her head down so Mama would not see the small smile creep across her mouth. Mingus’s was her favorite place to be. Being the only grocery for ten miles in any direction, for the poor folk of the tiny hamlet of Hillsborough, Georgia, it was about the only place to be. Usually Mama didn’t let her walk to the store alone. Too many eyes, was her enigmatic response. Too many eyes watching you get bigger in all the wrong places, girl.

Willa hurried out the door before Mama could change her mind. “Don’t slam the door, child,” Mama called after her, but Willa was already running along

the shaded dirt road, her lean dark form cutting through the shadows and ambient ‘screeeeeeeeeee- screeeeeeeeeee-screeeeeeeeeee’ of singing cicadas like a stone dropped into deep water.

The road coiled past open fields of grass on both sides, separated by Old Man Honey’s rickety wooden fence. A peck of crows sat on the leaning posts and watched her with belligerent coal-black eyes as she hurried by. One massive dark bird clutched a cicada in its talons; it gazed at her as it slowly dissected the struggling insect.

It was a four-mile walk to Mingus’s, but for Willa the journey was far from tedious. She had grown up in these woods, so even the trees that bordered the rough path were like old friends. Some of them were older than the oldest person in Hillsborough, and the woods held their secrets well. She felt like nothing more than an eye blink to the ancient woods steady progress. Their nearest neighbor was Charity Rose, a woman who seemed to the young girl to be as old as the trees, and her house sat a little off the road, tucked into a sleepy corner of willow and oak shadows; a faded white fence directed the old woman’s infrequent visitors up the dirt path to her old tin shack.

Even though it had been built with more than ample space, the waiting room was filled to

capacity. All of the chairs were occupied and the walls were lined with rows of men, women, and children. Taylor sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair impatiently waiting for her name to be called.

Rummaging through her designer purse, she brought out a wet wipe and began dabbing the coffee stain on the front of her satin blouse. When the train had derailed, Taylor’s latte had doused the expensive garment that she thought was worth more than most of the other passenger’s lives. She stared around in half disgust as she quietly stroked the pale brown stain.

The medical facility nearest to the crash site was a family practice that sat just off a country highway in the sticks and, considering the location, the size of the treatment center seemed well equipped to handle a large group. As Taylor and the others waited, several of the crash victims were taken back, and the crowd began to narrow.

“Clara Mather?” An attractive nurse held a clipboard in birdlike hands as she repeated, “Clara Mather?” An elderly woman next to Taylor stood and scuffled toward the blonde beauty’s outstretched hand. Once she finally made it, the tiny nurse smiled and led her through the set of electrical wooden doors.

“Mind if I sit here?” Taylor followed the direction of the voice and stared into the haggard face of a middle aged man.

“Suit yourself,” she said before looking away. Grunting, the overweight man adjusted himself to try and reach comfort, much to Taylor’s

displeasure. She tried a series of loud breaths and shifting in her own seat to show her disapproval, yet her attempts appeared to go unnoticed. Finally, she turned to the irritating stranger and said, “Sir, would you mind holding still for a moment?”

Immobile in an instant, the man said, “I do apologize. My wife Virginia always said I was a bit of a fidget.” He offered Taylor a smile. In return, she pulled breath deeply through her nose and once more turned away.

Unaffected by her rudeness, the man said, “Name’s Daniel - Daniel West from Portland.” He leaned back in his chair and continued. “I was on my way to a charity event in Albany. Those kids without homes are heartbreaking, and I tell you I’d take them all home myself if I could.”

Taylor wrinkled her nose and then glared at Daniel. “I never did like kids.” She started to get out of her seat and walk away, but then paused. Sitting back down slowly, she stared at the man next to her with a gleam in her eye. “You’re Daniel West. The Daniel West who owned West Wares?”

He stared at the floor and said, “Yes ma’am.” With a wide grin, Taylor said, “I work for Amstar. I believe we were your biggest

competitors. Of course, that was before you let your company fall straight into the crapper.” Daniel looked at the woman with a trace of pity in his eyes. “I decided long ago that life was

filled with more important goals than making the next buck. Cutting anyone’s throat just to get a step ahead somehow lost its appeal.”

“Daniel West?” Another nurse was standing at the double wooden doors, clipboard in hand. “Seems my number is up. Good day to you, miss.” Daniel walked with the nurse through the

doors and was gone. Taylor thought it was good riddance and turned her gaze to the floor. For the third time since

arriving, she opened her cell phone and tried to get a signal. For the third time, there wasn’t one. She figured it could’ve been worse. She could’ve lost her purse all together, but luckily it had been in her lap when the train left the track. She was about to stand and find someone to complain to when she heard, “Taylor Clark?” A nurse with long red hair was holding a clipboard and staring around the waiting room. She gathered her purse and followed the red-head through the wooden doors.

Black candles burned low in the room, illuminating the red silk curtains framing the stone window while soft moans filled the shadowed atmosphere as my lover responded to the light kisses that I placed upon her neck. Shattered wine glasses were scattered across the floor with droppings of blood staining the jagged pieces, sparkling in the candlelight.

As I caressed the skin of her neck with my blood red tongue, images of our meeting flashed in my mind, and her screams of denial still echoed in my ears. I, of course, should have expected no less from her, for I had found her in the trash-strewn alleys of the city and mistook her for one of my kind – after all, she did have the teeth.

I had invited her to my room for a late night drink, for it had been a while since I visited with one of my own kind. We are solitary creatures, to say the least, and there was a certain level of maturity in the immortal community that the cattle rarely achieved during their pathetically short lives.

And yet, I was proven wrong about my assumptions of undeath with the woman dressed in black when I slit her wrist to fill her wine glass, for she nearly woke the dead with her screams.

It took some time to calm her down, and I swayed her to the rational side of thinking after breaking more than a few vampire protocols with the seduction, but I had no choice – her screams were driving me insane with desire.

I assure you that it was unintentional, and I was just merely trying to quiet her screams, for I normally did not waste my time on her type of cattle, but I was hungry, and my particular delicacies were not easy to find in this ancient American city.

My assistant, Randal, constantly formulated conspiracy theories in an attempt to explain the shortage of food, believing that another vampire or vampiric agency were manipulating the cattle with powers far beyond my imagination.

Alas, he was a little crazy. As I massaged my lover’s jugular vein with my tongue, she pressed her naked body against

mine, powerless against my power, to say the least, and I prepared to consume the rest of her blood. Before I could finish my meal, however, a loud knock echoed through my bedchamber, and

I turned away from my moaning lover and stared at the cracked stone as the pounding continued, rising in intensity.

“My dear, I apologize for the interruption, but I shall return,” I whispered and rose off my dying lover, who stared at me with sightless eyes and head tilted slightly to the right, revealing a luscious neck tattooed with my bloody kisses.

I smoothed the wrinkles out of my black cape and turned to face my child as he stepped through the doorway, interrupting my feeding once again. I straightened the collar of my white shirt and approached him with an air of nobility unheard of in this day and age – after all, I was a vampire lord and hero to the cattle of the old country.

“Stellar, my child, why must you persist in bothering me when I have guest for a nightcap?” I asked, frustrated at his continued interruptions, for he constantly disobeyed my orders and barged into my bedchamber at the most inconvenient times.

He lowered his eyes, avoiding my gaze, and whispered, “Umm… well... um, you seem to get all the damn women, and I’m left to feed on the servants who taste rather disgusting.”

I glanced over at my lover as she exhaled her last breath and said, “Yes, she was fulfilling, but it is not my fault that you must feed on the lower-class of cattle, for it is the rule of undeath, and it takes many centuries to reach my level of power.”

My child crossed his arms and began tapping his foot, for he tired of hearing the same explanation time after time… and from the look on his face, he seemed to be entertaining thoughts that I had not entertained since the slaying of my master many years ago.

When she was born, the tribe's seeress took one look at her and pronounced, "She needs a

cat." Her simple parents, loving but

perplexed, took her announcement to heart. Thus it was that Kavsha's nomadic existence surrounded her with love, laughter, song, dance - and cats. Kittens with the eyes of blue to remind her of crystalline spring water, slate grey-eyed felines that adored her to distraction. A joyous responsibility since early girlhood, they were her one true source of companionship amidst the cacophony and babble of human shouts, words and laughter.

But it wasn't to say that she was without womanly grace. Raised true, she was proficient in verses by ten, excelled in music by thirteen and she moved sensuously by fifteen. She gave joy to her peers with her poetic wit. Her talents were a source of parental pride for her dam and sire. Her obedience and

respect to those wiser beyond her years had earned their unconditional affection. This was the total sum of her sweetness: love, song, dance and laughter.

Yet, throughout her life, it was her cats that provided the contentment she quietly, desperately sought. There was something in the quickness of their movements that made her blood pound. There was something in their quiet contemplation that allowed her occasional glimpses into the secrets of the universe. In short, there was a bond between them and it was intangible beyond words.

It was puzzling to her, this innate ability to understand and appreciate silence even as she herself was forever animate, restless and vocal by nature. The quest for silence was forever a quest for peace - a goal that was obstructed by her humanity. It was that dissonance of words she could understand and communicate, it was the unconscious nuances of the body she could respond to, it was fragile emotions she empathised with and released it back a hundred-fold. Yet, she mused, given her nature and desire, did she truly have a need for words?

It was a thought that haunted her even as she sat by the river, contemplating her dusky complexion.

Somebody clumsily stumbled through the dense bushes, the twigs snapped with agonising finality. She turned around and faced the intruder, her tranquillity replaced by uneasy foreboding. It was Katash, and his eyes were wild. Kavsha involuntarily gasped, horrified, as she stared at his crazed expression.

"Yes?" she prompted him, her voice akin to young leaves involuntarily torn from stout branches.

"Your parents have refused me!" he accused, his eyes stalking her. She felt hunted. "I did not know," she answered, trying to maintain a calmness she did not feel. 'Run!' her

instincts screamed. It was a prayer she would answer. But Katash was a beast now, and she'd have to tread carefully.

“I am not a serial killer, Mr. Aronson. I abhor such meaningless violence by stupid middle-

aged white men who have some mental defect or need for domination and punishment, or retribution. I am not your judge or your jury. My acts have a specific purpose, you see. And that is to erase illness. To help men see illness and correct it. Sadly, though, the first step is recognizing the illness and that is where my process has to begin.”

The speaker kept to the shadows of the small windowless room, careful to conceal his identity. The bare room was made of concrete blocks, and the lighting was purposely dim in most spots. Mr. Aronson couldn’t concentrate though. He wanted to take in as much detail as he could for the police when they found him. But he’d been beaten unconscious earlier and blood had crusted in his eyes. Pain was myriad bee stings in his mind. He was also securely tied to a chair, starving, dry with thirst, and with a thick nylon collar with a black box attached to it strangling him.

“Recognizing irrationality is a key step our society can take to better itself. Hate and racism are mental illnesses, Mr. Aronson. You will soon see what I mean. There is no biological pathology for hate or racism to exist; therefore it is an irrational mental illness that can be treated. But recognition is the first, most difficult step. Can you make that step where others couldn’t? You could help humanity in untold ways.”

The speaker approached Mr. Aronson from behind, still out of view, and whispered: “I’ve been watching you for quite a while. You, Sir, are at a pivotal point in your life right now. In fact this could be a pivotal point in humanity – if you wish it to be.” The speaker snatched Mr. Aronson’s blonde hair in his fist and yanked it forcefully backward. “Don’t be afraid to talk to me. This is where your life – everyone’s life – can change. You can even change my life in the next ten minutes. If you can read the clues and make the right choices. Again I do not judge you I have nothing but progress in mind. I love the human race, and I weep when I see people like you – people so poorly socialized, programmed, into thinking skin colour or superficial preferences affect the human soul. I’m here to help you unlearn all of that. Can you do that?”

Mr. Aronson dared to speak. “Why are you doing this to me? Who are you? Why me?” The speaker pushed Mr. Aronson’s head forward violently. “That’s all? Still thinking so

egocentrically? It’s all about you, isn’t it?” The speaker moved around the small room. He stayed in the shadows to remain unrecognizable.

“Tell me who you are?” Mr. Aronson’s head swam with confusion and pain. His multiple wounds and lacerations made concentration a mountainous ascent. “I don’t know what you mean…I…”

“I guess I was expecting too much of you, Mr. Aronson. I can help you there. Usually those who are ill do not know it. It takes discovery and reflection – an ability to unlearn. To put the mystery together and rise above it. Brutality has its place in the world. Brutality is not a mental illness. It is actually a fantastic journey to discovery. A wonderful learning tool. Perhaps better described as an unlearning tool. But you must forgive me, I talk too much about my passion for human beings.

“Are you familiar with shock collars for dogs? There’s one around your neck.” The speaker held up a dark rectangular object. “Behaviour can be modified with electricity. They can be very effective tools of unlearning.”

The speaker pushed a button and a faint high-pitched tone sounded from below Mr. Aronson’s ears. It was instantly followed by a vicious, painful shock to the side of his neck that made him shriek.

“You sound like a puppy, Mr. Aronson.” The speaker gave him another shock. “We are now ready for our conversation, and this little device will help you tell me the truth.”

“Please…” First the tone sounded and then a shock hit the collar, crumpling Mr. Aronson like paper.

It is said that on the night of Gerroth’s birth black mists filled the lands and chased all

moonglow from the surfaces of the earth, and great rumblings of thunder rolled unabated in the north for a score of days thereafter. Some say Allfather, in his disgust, cast down his spear and smote the lands at Gory Heath and left the smoking fissure seen there to this day. Tales of eyeless calfs and tongueless kids born unlooked for on that night circulate in every village, and the sickle-saints of Candel Isle whisper that their great godrock was seen to weep blood on that cursed night, and point as proof to ruddy taints upon the surface of that ancient stone. But none of these tales are true.

Gerroth was born a frail and silent child on a clear summer evening at the hour of the moon’s summit, untouched by attendant miracles or disasters presaging his doom. Born he was into the hall of Orric saec Berngard, Grand Marshal and Horselord to the Unseated King. By the iron of war was he surrounded in youth, but in his growing it was soon seen that his slender frame was not to thicken with age and use, nor his disposition to grow more bold, but rather such faults of form and mind as he possessed as a babe grew more telling with the passage of years. At no time did young Gerroth look up to see his father’s brow unburdened by scorn or shame, and soon he learned to cast his eyes downward upon the earth.

But another son had Orric by Maeve, his goodly wife and one accounted as wise in lore, and this boy Cuchaerf was as doughty and hale as Gerroth was sickly and weak of limb. When still a boy of ten Cuchaerf cast the land-axe further than any man thrice his age, and with javelin and spear the lad hunted boar, bear, and winter wolf alongside his father. So great was the love of Orric that he made young Cuchaerf his aide and captain, and together they raised an host and made war upon the landings of the Shadekin that did clog the southern coasts of Isre and menace the people there. Thus did they both serve the Unseated King, and lands were given unto them.

Cuchaerf was princely in bearing and fine to look upon, and resembled the goodly jarl Hansaef who was father to Maeve, moreso than his coarse and calculating father. And with such nobility did Cuchaerf comfort his elder brother, and plead unto their father for Gerroth’s sake, and always act as friend to him and defer upon him the respect a younger owes his elder. Gerroth had been tended closely by his mother’s healing lore, and from her lips did he learn all the tales and songs of men. Clever were his hands, and tricks of vanishing and minor magic could he perform, and such deftness extended to his use of instruments stringed or winded, for with either he was the equal of any poet. But Orric cared not for such things, and snored through his son’s performances or else rolled his eyes and called for drink as Gerroth declaimed or played or magiced for his father.

In his fifteenth year Gerroth was removed from Orric’s hall to dwell with the old teacher of Maeve, the Loremaster Igffr, there to learn what he could of unguents and remedies, and of other practical arts as he was able. He was a ready student, and flourished away from his father’s disapproving gaze, and learned all that Igffr had to teach. Soon Gerroth spent his long nights a-study of texts forbidden and pilfered from the Loremaster’s stacks, while that aged worthy slept unawares. From dark tomes he learned the ways of poisons and charms, curses, dread utterances, and glamours arcane.

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