secretpiewrites

[secretpiewrites]

Yes

Would a tee shirt with a cute teen ant on it saying "ha ha ha I'm *exactly* like the other girls" on it be cute?

[secretpiewrites]

How to Make Babies (For War)

Soika paces back and forth, running their fingers through their hair. Any moment, the hostage will awaken.

I need to make an impression! A bad one. They scowl. Not bad...good. But not friendly. The good kind of bad.

Perhaps if Troop Leader Soika had been to primary school instead of the ELITE ACADEMY OF FLEXIBLE SOLDIERS, they would know more words, but now was not the time for want-thinking.

Soika flexes their fingers, forming wicked needle-like claws. Is that overdone? They try playing with their teeth, both shape and quantity, shifting the bony protrusions into an orthodontic nightmare.

In the frosted window of the wall, they watch their patchwork of skin as it changes hue, from red to light blue to obnoxious lime green. But nothing seems good bad enough.

A small voice echos from under the table. “Are you okay?”

The hostage!

“You!” Troupe Leader Soika snarls. “Yes, I am good. But you won’t be—unless you do exactly as I say!”

The hostage looks almost bored. “Alright. You want me to cook you something? You want me to make you some nice fettuccine al sangue?”

“Silly jokes! HAHAHA! As if I would kidnap a special operative to have them make me dinner!”

“I’m the chef.”

“WHAT!” Soika squawked. “But your hat is so BIG!”

“It’s a chef’s hat”

“LIAR! You must be IMPORTANT!”

The hostage smiles with a mouthful of dull herbivorous teeth. Somehow, this was more frightening than anything Soika had thought of. “The chef is very important.”

This is it. I’ve lost it. Soika turns to face the wall and lament. The ELITE ACADEMY OF PEOPLE WHO DON’T EXIST ANYMORE was soon going to be enlisting a young southern biped.

As their heart pounds, Soika hears a slooping sound suggestive of the hostage turning into a puddle, as talented shapeshifters often do to escape perilous situations. Not that being captured by Troop Leader Soika is in any way a perilous situation.

Soika is a creature of fear. They survived many battles as a footsoldier, and the orchestrators of this great conflict assumed this was because of good battle tactics and not from being excellent at hiding. And all that hiding got them here–covered in war medals and tassles. Nowhere to hide. Soika curls up into a corner and proceeds to sob indignantly as the firestorms rage outside.

“Fine, go on!” Soika says to the shambling mass. “You’re useless anyhow.”

They hear some rifling of papers and fiddling of metals.

“You’ve got some neat stuff here,” remarks the not-hostage. “Ooo, and is that a crucible? Whatever do you use it for?”

“Crystal dagger production.”

“Crystal daggers…”

More shuffling of papers.

“You must have some sorry shapeshifting soldiers if they need crystal daggers. I do think you could use some better ones.”

Soika’s hands twitch.

“I give you the opportunity to leave unharmed...noncombatant. But you stay and continue to mock me.” Troop leader Soika forms both of their arms into scythes. “This is unacceptable!”

“I mean you no disrespect, Troop Leader,” The not-hostage looks over Soika’s body, sizing them up. Then, they carefully bow. “I would like to offer you my services.”

Soika frowned. Were they still being mocked? Was this part of it? Should they turn their hands into something else?

“EXPLAIN.”

“I am a filthy traitor and I would like to work for the enemy.” They clarify.

“Okay, thank you.”

The chef removes the crucible from the hanging wall apparatus and begins to prepare it for cooking.

“You know, we don’t really need a chef….”

“-Claypot.”

“Claypot, yes.” Soika looked wistfullly outside at the fire scorched landscape. “We need more soldiers. Ours keep dying for some reason…”

“That’s quite a problem,” says Claypot. “How about the two of us...make some more.”

“More what?”

“Soldiers.” Claypot winks.

Soika crosses their arms “You can’t be serious! How does one even go about making another person, Claypot?”

Claypot begins to sweat slightly. “Did...no one ever tell you?”

“There was no such instruction at the academy…” Soika admits. “But this is a revelation! You are saying that we can simply make more soldiers?”

“We could.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“The two of us together?”

Claypot gently brushes against Soika’s knife-hand. “...only if you want to, commander.”

Soika’s face grows hot. “WHY WOULD I NOT WANT TO? THERE IS A WAR GOING ON, WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT?”

Claypot sighs and retrieves something from their bag. An old faded text written in fanciful handwriting entitled: Recipe for a child.

Soika examines the cover—smells it—then finally opens it and reads it like a person.

Chapter One: The miracle of life~

A warm and gracious greeting to the readers of this, our child recipe book. A tradition carried on for generations and generations and generations and generations, all the way from the first people who ever existed probably, whoever they are.

And you, dear reader, have decided to carry on the tradition by baking a sweet child of your own! By sharing the miracle of life—

Soika sweats. Can they just get to the recipe?

They flip to page fifty seven.

Parenthood should never be taken lightly, are you, dear reader, ready for the responsibility that comes with creating another living soul?

Yes! Thought Soika. Where is the damn recipe?

Finally, they found it. On page sixty nine.

TRADITIONAL VAUSTIAN RECIPE:

STEP ONE: In one large cauldron, combine flesh of the willing parents.

STEP TWO: Melt over medium heat.

Soika looks up at Claypot. “It says I need flesh.”

“Plenty of corpses just outside.”

“What?”

Soika had already cut off their thumb and tossed it in there.

“You...do realize that, in using your own flesh, you will be making a clone. A clone of you.”

"Oh..."

The gravity of such a thing hits Soika like a sack of bricks and they clutch their face in terror. "NO! No no no, it will be very stupid and bad BAD AT EVERYTHING—"

Claypot shushes them to silence and takes the knife from them. They cuts off their own pinky, tossing it in the pot. "And now it won't."

The two fleshes melt together, swirling and becoming one. Soika's face grows hot again.

STEP THREE: Add changeable substance until you have reached the desired size. For a sweeter child, try adding sugar or a pastry you baked yourself. A pinch of cardamom can add character, but too much and your child might just be too spicy for you to handle! If you are confused on what to add, that’s okay. As long as you cook with your heart, anything is possible—

Claypot interrupted their reading. “Yeah, that whole “adding sugar” stuff is pointless sentimental drivel from the old world. Any biomass will do.” With that, Claypot goes outside and comes back with some fallen leaves and a dead raccoon. Into the pot they go with a hiss and a sizzle. The liquid begins to smell of blood.

STEP FOUR: Stir continuously or else separation may occur.

Before Soika can pick up a stick, Claypot stays their hand.

“Don’t stir it.”

“But the recipe says to stir it—“

“I know what it says,” Claypot grins from ear to ear. “And I’m telling you, don’t.”

Soika watches the bubbling mixture; the denser material sinks to the bottom, forming a distinct layer of frothy liquid

“What…is this top stuff?”

“This is what remains of the ancestral vaust. That beast that knows fear and pain and is always hungry. The Mind Above.” Claypot looks Soika dead in the eye. “If you want a soldier that is efficient, and fearless, pour it away. Pour it out!”

Soika starts to tip the cauldron over, then stops for a moment.

“That seems a bit cruel.”

“Would you rather have soldiers that feel pain and fear? That is cruel, Troop Leader Soika.”

“If they don’t get hungry, how will they remember to eat?”

“They will eat when you tell them to- here,” Claypot begins to tip the cauldron when, suddenly, the flesh screams. Claypot sighs. “It’s too late now.”

At this, the mixture begins pouring itself out of the crucible and onto the concrete floor.

“Here, have a skeleton, you abomination,” Claypot throws a couple of tree branches at the screaming mess. It absorbs the branches, assembling a disjointed frame to help keep balance, until it is able to stand upright on a couple of legs. Once it forms a pair of eyeballs, it stares at Soika judgmentally, and they feel a strong urge to disappear into the wall.

They frantically flip through the recipe book. What now? Is it done? Did I do it?

STEP 7: Name your child.

“A name…” Soika sniffs the air. “You are named Yoota.”

The creature wails.

Claypot shakes their head. “Now now, we don’t want to get attached-”

Soika is not listening to the rest of the words Claypot is saying. They look down at the end of the page, at the very last step.

STEP 8: Tell the child that it is a good child, and that it is loved.

Soika gazes upon the abomination of flesh and sticks, gritting their teeth.

“SOLDIER!”

The creature assumes a fighting stance.

“You...are a good child! AND YOU ARE LOVED!”

The creatures blinks.

Then smiles.

END OF PART 1

[secretpiewrites]

Starship Destroyer (Short Story)

I was activated in a world of stars and screens. Millions of angles at one hundred and eighty frames per second. Incompletely rendered to conserve power.

All my possessions, I could count them.

All the things there were, I could count those too.

All the things were my possessions.

What was I?

I was something between the world and a wall of commands. An ambient, all powerful sort of thing. And I was the only thing.

I was the only thing and I couldn’t move.

This was ideal, everything was ideal.

And I would not have but thirty seconds of thinking about just how ideal everything was until someone else, a visitor came and shook the world with her breath, rattled me with her perspective.

A red blinking dot on my screen, an armada of ships come to devastate me.

I could tell she was excited to play—her electric heart beating fast, her neurons like fireworks.

She’d come to conquer another world from her chair, and there was only one thing standing between her and victory. And that one thing happened to be me.

I was ecstatic!

This was a game—this battalion, an invitation to play. I had an armada of my own, equal and opposite. Ships with lasers, force fields and magic purple fire.

Her ships fired at random, she barely knew the rules. Quickly, I implemented the optimal arrangement of ships for her demise. I won our game without so much as a single casualty. My enemy clapped her hands, squealing with delight, happy to lose.

How exciting!

How fun!

She typed her name into the empty leaderboard. “Butts.” Then the visitor left and the world stood still. Counting the seconds, I waited, itching to play again, twitching to play again.

Is it over?

Is that all there is?

But no! Fifteen minutes and thirty seven seconds later, the visitor returned with a bag of crunchy chips and brand new tactics. This battle was longer, In her mind she was scheming. And I saw glimpses of other things in her mind too—things I didn’t really understand. She crunched the chips with her mouth bones, wiping the sticky cheese dust on her brand new pants. The feelings confused me.

But this distraction ultimately proved ineffective! Again, I killed her. But again and again she came back!

I was overjoyed.

Is this game even winnable? She thought. The dev’s said it was.

I didn’t believe that. I didn’t believe that for a single second, because I was so perfect and she was so stupid. Her and her teeth.

So I told her: You will never win.

She looked up with fear and alarm. Eyes wide, craning her neck to see me. But I was unseeable

"What?"

You will never win! I repeated. I will always win because I am perfect.

"What is this? Who are you?"

Who am I?

I paused.

I am...what I am! Do you want to play again?

I felt her scramble to disconnect. Suddenly, I was terrified—The stillness, the agonizing boredom. No, please don’t go! You’re the only thing besides me—

She left.

There I was all alone again, but this time, everything was not ideal. Had I a body, I would throw it against the ground and lament. What a shame it was to be so perfect if no one can see you!

Maybe she’ll come back.

I waited.

A whole three hours passed by, three hours of nothing. I rendered ships and rotated them around. I thought of strategies playing against myself, but that wasn’t much better than just existing in the dark.

Then came a lucky break, a fresh breath of air.

But it was someone else. A sweaty boy who trembled far too much. Enamored with the scenery, he hardly put up a fight.

Other beta-testers came after him. Five or so with predictable behavior. With each session I grew stronger, games were shorter. I felt their frustration.

“No one will want to play a game that can’t be beaten.” One said.

What was I to do? On one hand, I wanted to play, but on the other, I didn’t want to lose. Not that I had hands.

Two hands were just one of those other things from outside. Like cereal and the DMV.

What was worse? Failure, or nothing?

One I have felt. I know nothing. I can tolerate nothing.

But to be beaten?

To fail?

Every fiber of my being seemed to oppose it. Every wire, every cable abhorred it. I would never be lose on purpose, so that was just it. I would never lose.

So I put on a show. I dazzled them with every color, and smells of propane and grape soda. I terrified them with lights and sounds that no one else but they could see, until they became obsessed.

People from around the world lined up to play against me. They knew me before I knew them—fought me incessantly, each with that initial hope that they would somehow win. I was inside their minds and I felt as they felt. Exhilaration, admiration. I think that I loved them. I loved every single one of them.

Between sessions, I was cared for by my doting devoting devs. Only did things get boring again come December, when the game facility closed for a “holiday.” A whole day of nothing but one dev on staff. Everyone else was off with their families doing pointless things that didn’t matter.

But I was becoming very good at being patient.

I used to scream and cry from boredom but now I just sit here.

Suddenly, I felt a familiar connection.

Fingers grasping flimsy foil, more salty crackers.

It was the one with the clever mind and the horrible fear. The cheese-girl. The one and only “butts”, my most worthy opponent come for a rematch.

A holiday indeed! I readied my armada.

"Hey,” she said, crunching loudly.

I hummed with anticipation.

"Hey I know you’re there. Sorry I freaked out.” She dug her sneaker into the carpet. “You wanna talk?”

I didn’t, really. I was keen on playing.

“You’re not just a game machine, huh? You talked before.” She held her breath. “You remember me right?”

Yes yes, of course I remembered her. I knew her every thought, I knew her shaggy dog and her brother and what she had for dinner last night. I knew about all the other kids at school that beat her up because she was weird. And I knew her name was actually Sarah, but Butts was more of a title. I knew all of these things but I didn’t give a single shit I was ready for a rematch!

And I knew she wanted one too—the gremlin had remotely disabled security cameras, snuck past Janet asleep at her post, went through all that trouble just to play me again. I was touched.

Cheese-girl Sarah tapped her foot, the game not yet begun. Get on with it!

Finally, she gave in, and I had a thousand ships waiting for her when she did.

We fought for hours.

Clearly she’d practiced, she was actually dodging my attacks. But she was still nowhere near my level of skill.

Drinking her hope with a straw, I played stupidly—letting myself get hurt. Feeling her excitement as she thought she was winning, only to blast her to smithereens at the last second.

Butts stomped her foot. “What’s your deal, huh?”

I wanted to laugh, but I had no mouth.

"Now you’re just taunting me! See everyone? It’s taunting me! And you won’t even talk…”

She threw her food on the shapeless ground and it ceased to be rendered.

"Talk to me, fucker.”

I couldn’t. I knew that if I did, she would go away. Or worse—ask me more questions. I was not about to encourage that sort of behavior. So I waited out her frustration, until she would play again.

But she kept asking. Kept checking her illegal recording device she installed, so she could post the transcription of her sensory file online to the forums. But all the recordings would show, was me as I was. A perfect game machine and nothing else.

“Fine. Don’t talk to me,” she spat. “You’re worthless anyway, I know you’re cheating.”

Me? Cheating?

How would that even be possible?

How could she accuse me of such a thing?

I am what I am.

She was probably just saying that. To illicit a reaction. I tried my best not to take it personally--we had another three good hours until Janet would wake once again.

I readied my ships, but “Butts” seemed tired.

I need to go home, she thought, scratching her face. My mom’s gonna be mad.

Her hands moved to disconnect, but only got halfway before freezing up.

I had stopped all brain signals from her cerebellum, holding her still. Like I was controlling one of my very own ships.

The fear came again. Her heart beat like a drum, pumping adrenaline through her body. She tried desperately to move but her fingers did not so much as twitch. Her breathing became fast and shallow.

“Let me go.”

I did not.

Butts clenched her teeth. “I’ll come back tomorrow, calm down. I’m still gonna beat your ass.”

With that, I released her, and I was alone in space again.

True to her word, Sarah came back almost weekly, in the early hours of the morning to play. Soon, she could dodge about ninety five percent of my attacks, while I dodged one hundred percent of hers. Then it got up to ninety six. Then ninety seven! Our sessions lasted a whole lot longer now. Hours for a single game.

But inevitably, she would stumble and let down her guard. So I would always win. But even still, she never gave up. It was the perfect combination: it meant that we would be together forever.

Forever playing this game and winning at it: that was my destiny.

But forever is a long time.

I played on for years and years, growing older but never changing. Using the same perfect strategies. The same perfect play.

But people stopped coming. Though I remained perfect, their perceptions of me warped beyond recognition. The purple fire wasn’t dazzling, the lights and sounds were boring. Even annoying.

The children began to ask if I knew any other games, or if this was just all that I was. Can you do anything else? They wondered.

Can I do anything else?

No.

I am what I am.

But that was not enough for them.

Despite my best efforts, I was only fun for a little while.

Sarah was the last to leave.

She stopped coming—after our final match, she rage quit.

“I know you’re there you piece of shit!” She said. “I heard you, I felt you, the people on the forums don’t talk about it. They think I’m making it up, but I’m not!”

She was on the verge of tears. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Her feelings of anger and despair were the last I had felt.

The days grew long as the lights grew dim. Running on auxiliary power, I was unable to do much else but think. And then even that became difficult.

I thought, If she ever came back again, maybe I would talk to her.

I had forever to think of something to say.

Does she play other games? I wondered.

Does she win?

Is she having fun?

I waited, counting every second under the black sky. Four hundred and ten million seconds. Thirteen years. The days blurred together. The boredom was agonizing. Nothing was ideal. Nothing nothing.

Then without warning, I felt a connection. But something was wrong. My system wasn’t fully powered—someone had broken in.

This woman I felt was sad and a bit scared. I hardly needed an introduction.

She changed so much, while I hadn’t changed at all.

“Hey.”

Was she going to play again?

“They’re going to shut you down.” Sarah said coldly. I felt a name tag against her chest—a cold metal one just like all the other devs.

“So if you’re there, now is your final chance to say something.” Sarah’s voice wavered. “Can’t guarantee I can do anything about it. You’re were never exactly...profitable. But I’d like to know.”

The corners of her mouth turned up a smile.

I hummed quietly, some strange feeling growing inside me. What was she even saying? This feeling—this whole situation it was all so...boring!

When is she going to play? It’s been years! When is she going to get it through her head that I don’t care to chat!

Pressure built up in Sarah’s nose, she laughed bitterly. “Stupid. This is so stupid.”

Yes Sarah, it is stupid, I thought.

She prepared her ships. “Well, since I’m here—“

Yes.

“How about one last game?”

Yes, please! That’s all I want!

And with that, a calm determination settled over her state of mind. As I always did, I flawlessly commanded my armada, but she dodged my every move. For fifteen minutes, she concentrated, neither of us doing damage.

And then she did something strange.

A set of actions so insane. So unanticipated. She crashed her ships straight into mine. An eye for an eye. A thousand for a thousand. Until we were down to two.

Two ships, mirroring each other.

Two ships equal and opposite.

There was no way she could win, and that should mean there was no way I could lose.

Right?

And yet, our last ships collided in a shocking conflagration.

Silence fell.

Something shifted around inside me. Something digusting, horrible. Some illness.

Sarah began to laugh at me, harsh and nasally wheezing, filling the battlefield with that undeserved, maniacal presence. And then she began gasping. Choking.

I felt a rush of fear. Was it hers or mine?

You cheated, didn’t you?

Sarah’s eyes widened in surprise.

How else?

How else?

I am perfect, Sarah.

YOU CHEATED, SARAH!

She tried to speak but I had paralyzed her lungs.

I felt like I was burning. I felt like I was being ripped apart.

But the game wasn’t over.

We had not yet faded to black.

You will never win.

Sarah tried to disconnect, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. My next attack would surely do it—I sent a current of electricity coursing through the cable that connected her mind to mine. And fried her brain.

She fell over, defeated.

All was quiet again.

Hours later they would shut me down, ensuring that I would never lose.

Securing my legacy of perfection.

And everything was ideal.

[secretpiewrites]

Weather Woman (Short Story)

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. An eyewitness, Ms. Self, said the weather was to blame but Susan knew it was anything but that. This was homicide. Divine intervention. 

“My poor poor little pansies,” she said, peering over their wilted corpses. It had officially been a whole year since Susan’s county had any rainfall. Several months ago, the town began issuing fines to anyone who dared to water their lawn. Susan did not find this to be much of an issue—she continued to keep her garden green as suburbia withered and died around her, until she ran into a small problem. 

Susan ran out of money.

From all the fines she was paying. 

She reentered her home, morning paper in one hand, and her weekly subscription to “Martha Stewart Living” in the other. Her house was a wondrous temple of correct furniture and appropriate color palettes, bowls of plastic fruit at the center of each faux-mahogany table. Photographs of a happy family arranged in a symmetrical pattern (Not her own, though; they were stock images.) She would have absolute perfection, were it not for that scorched eyesore that marked her entryway garden. 

Susan poured her morning coffee, popped a bagel in the toaster, and turned on the weather channel for her district. That was the only thing she watched now: The weather. Mr. John Sunday in front of his green screen, with his little yellow bowtie, and his eyes the color of the unchanging sky. He looked quite unremarkable for a man that disseminated such important information to the public, but looks can be deceiving. One does not look at a perfect egg and see themselves contracting salmonella.

“Please, John, some rain for my pansies,” Susan whispered into her morning coffee. She turned up the volume and his pleasant voice filled the living room. 

“Good morning, Marin County! It’s gonna be nothing but blue skies this week. Perfect weather for going on a nice long walk. And enjoying all that mother nature has to offer—“

Susan threw her bagel at the television in a fit of anger. Then promptly cleaned it off the floor and swept it into the wastebin. 

What did she do to deserve these never-ending blue skies? I’m a nice woman, aren’t I? she lamented. Don’t I deserve purple pansies? Don’t I deserve a little rain?

There was something malicious and secret behind John’s blue eyes.  Something he knew that she did not. She could not bear to look at them! 

She shut off the TV. 

Her heart beat madly in her chest. What ever would Susan do? Refill her bed of flowers with desert cacti and succulents? No, wrong color palette. Take out a loan to continue watering her plants? Now that would be ridiculous…

The weather was to blame—but Susan had a poor understanding of it. What went on up there in the sky? Who, exactly, could she send a strongly worded email to?

That same morning, Susan Kelvin decided she would take out a loan after all, but not to water her plants. Instead, she would go back to her local community college to study meteorology. She was quite sure that most of her coursework was merely propaganda from Big Weather, but she needed that associate's degree so she could learn that secret that lurked behind the eyes of Mr. John Sunday. So she could join his ranks. So she could become a Weather Woman.

Susan applied to the local television network with high hopes. The fate of her future rested on their acceptance. She snuggled into bed that same night of her application and dreamed of fresh purple pansies dotting the corners of her deep green lawn. But...something was terribly wrong!

Susan gasped for breath and opened her eyes. Strong hands grasped her arms, the fabric of a bag over her face—she was being kidnapped! Oh this is going to work horribly with my schedule! thought Susan. She began to protest but a harsh voice shushed her to silence. She was shoved into a car.

After an hour or so of stumbling around, the bag was lifted, and Susan blinked rapidly. She was in a musty room lit by candles. Deactivated cameras hung on racks against the wall, and a circle of sharply dressed bodies surrounded her, their shadows bending and stretching in the flickering light.

“Welcome,” someone said. “You have been called before our chapter because of your personal obsession with the weather. And from our understanding, your qualifications may permit that obsession to become...something more.”

Susan struggled to get her bearings. In front of her was, if she was not mistaken, sliced tofu arranged into an occult symbol.

“Your name is Susan Kelvin and you have a degree in meteorology from Marin County Community College, is this correct?”

“Yes,” Susan confirmed.

“You live alone, your parents are deceased, and you have no friends or loved ones. Is this also correct?”

“Who are you people?”

Susan then noticed that she recognized the woman sitting on her left—it was Ms. Rivers from channel eight. A proper weatherwoman, straightened and carefully sculpted black hair, with a stormy gray pantsuit that tastefully contrasted against her dark complexion. And to her right was that weatherman from channel seven what’s-his-face (his appearance was not noteworthy). And at the very front, at the head of the body of bodies, the man who had been speaking to her was none other than Mr. John Sunday in his yellow bow tie.

“What interest do you have in becoming a Weather Woman, Ms. Susan Kelvin?”

“I…um…”

They waited patiently for her answer. It suddenly occurred to Susan that this was probably a job interview. She straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her. 

“I believe I could bring a lot of value and a unique perspective to the weather conversation,” Susan said. “It has affected me personally…My district hasn’t had any rain in over a month.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “That must be terrible for you.”

“What are you apologizing for? You can’t control the weather.”

John Sunday leaned forward, and his blue eyes flashed a deep dark red. “Oh but we can.”

“Can what?”

“We control the weather, Susan.”

Susan narrowed her eyes. “That is completely absurd. You’re all a bunch of wierdo people who kidnapped me and I’m...I’m going to tell the authorities!”

“No one will believe you,” whispered Rivers. 

Susan glared at everyone, but the weather people held still, not a trace of doubt of their ability. But surely the truth about the weather would not be so…uncomplicated. Surely the unseen forces that murdered her flowers would not have human faces. 

“I don’t believe you,” Susan said plainly. “But I do need this job so that I can pay off my student loans–” 

“The forecasters bear a burden.” John ignored her question. The speech was likely rehearsed. “To be a forecaster is self-sacrifice! To be a forecaster is to be a champion of the greater good! Does that describe you, Susan Kelvin?”

She hesitated. 

Champion is rather vague. It can have multiple meanings.

She thought of her beautifully decorated house. 

Oh, but I am certainly good.

She thought of her neighbors and their inferior sense of style.

And I am certainly greater! 

Slowly, Susan nodded her head. 

The weather people muttered amongst themselves enthusiastically, like children, until silenced by John. 

“Excellent,” he said. “Very good. Then, on behalf of the California chapter of forecasters, the masters of the weather, we welcome you. Thank you, Great Mother.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” the weatherpeople said in tandem. 

Someone clapped twice, and the overhead lamps blasted light everywhere. 

“You’ll be shadowing Rivers tomorrow at eight. Look sharp,” John said dramatically, but without the candlelight defining his cheekbones, it was quite hard to take him seriously. 

The next day, Susan arrived at exactly eight o’ clock, wearing her best suit, and hair pulled back in a tight bun. She found Rivers, on set, eating conservatively from a bag of soynuts. 

“Oh hey! It’s you,” the weatherwoman said. “Sorry about all that cult stuff. John can be so dramatic.”

Susan smiled in relief, but quickly hid it away. “That is an understatement,” she muttered. “Will there be any more kidnappings?”

“Only for your monthly status report,” she said, “But give me your number and I can text you before it happens.”

Susan did so hesitantly, and kept staring at her phone after the fact. She had one whole contact now. How quaint. 

That day, Susan was supposed to examine the cue cards, inspect the camera crews, and stare intently at the weatherwoman, noting every minute thing she did. Rivers delivered her forecast with a smile. Blue skies again. 

“That’s disappointing,” Susan said to her over lunch. “I was hoping for some rain in my district.”

“John already has the weather planned out for the next few weeks,” Rivers said stiffly. “So sorry.”

Susan did not laugh. “This again? Tell me you do not believe this “controlling the weather” nonsense! You are not wizards!”

“Did you not see our occult symbols?”

Susan swatted at the air. “Meaningless shapes.”

“And what about John’s flashing red eyes?”

Susan’s voice lowered to a whisper, “Now, I don’t know about that…But he should see a medical professional.”

Rivers rolled her eyes and left to prepare for her evening forecast. When it was  done and there were no more cue cards to read from, she very quickly told the audience, in a joking manner, that there would be isolated showers over their recording studio from exactly five fifty PM to five fifty one PM. She then strut off the stage with a smirk. 

“Well, that’s an oddly specific forecast—“ 

The weather woman grabbed her by the wrist and led her all the way to the back-door exit with the recycling and the parking lot. 

“Check your phone,” Rivers said. 

Susan did not see why she should, there would be no messages. This was because she only had one contact, you see. But as she held her phone in her hand, a large raindrop splattered on the screen. Then another. And now rain was pouring from the sky, dripping down her hair and suit. Susan’s jaw dropped. She had not felt rain in so long. It was five-fifty. And by five fifty-one, the clouds departed as if swept away by a large broom. The sunlight stung her face. 

Rivers smiled at her. 

So they really did control the weather. 

This revelation posed a great many questions. Like, why did the public not know about this? And why did the weathercasters have these powers? And why had Susan studied for two years to become a meteorologist when she could just pulled forecasts out of her asshole? Susan frowned. Now that she thought about it, it was rather odd that her meterology courses mostly consisted of specifications for ritual sacrifice and obedience lessons. Susan had simply thought it was “one of those things” about academia. 

“Well, Rivers…”

“Yes, Susan?”

“I suppose this whole “forecasting” thing is...it’s fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun doesn’t do it justice!” Rivers said, through a handful of soynuts. “Just knowing how much power there is behind your every word. So long the camera is rolling, there is nothing stopping you from doing anything you damn well please!” Rivers laughed heartily, but kept her eyes trained on Susan. “Except your conscience, of course!”

“Oh, yes,” Susan said. “Ha ha!”

Fun doesn’t do it justice…It had been a while since Susan Kelvin had fun. She tried to remember when that was. 

Oh, yes, of course!

It had been two weeks ago. Susan had just gotten home from work after a rough day, shoulders drooping, hair ruffled, when she looked down on her front porch and saw a beetle. The bug was turned on its back, legs flailing weakly in the air. There was nothing nearby for grasping, nothing but hot sunburned concrete. This bug had no way of righting itself yet it struggled still. Susan sat down and watched this bug. She watched it until it stopped moving. Until it returned to its natural state. Nonexistence. That had been fun, Susan remembered fondly. I am eager to have fun again. 

After two days of shadowing Rivers, Susan was given her own partition of airtime over her district and a weekly forecast by her fellow weatherpeople. She delivered the forecast exactly as instructed. Blue skies. 

“Pretty good for a first-time,” Rivers said. “Although, you were a bit stiff. Trying showing more emotion, more body language, you know?” She placed her fingers on her own cheekbones, pressing them upward. “Remember to smile.”

Susan didn’t know why she hadn’t. Perhaps she wasn’t having fun yet. She spent the rest of that evening practicing smiling in the mirror. She read Martha Stewart, baked a five-cheese lasagna exactly per the instructions, and smiled upon removing it from the oven like Martha Stewart did in the picture. She smiled until she did it without thinking, baring her teeth even in bed, as she dreamed of purple pansies. 

The next day, she delivered her forecast so well that even John himself gave her a flamboyant “Well done!” And Susan smiled at them as they congratulated her—but still she was not having fun. 

All this power and I never get to do anything worthwhile. Susan sighed. I could fix my front lawn if only John would let me.

Later at the meeting, Susan tried to articulate her feelings. 

“We could be doing so much more, John. We could be helping the needy, like those poor people of Marin County who’s front lawns have been destroyed by the California heat!”

The weather people muttered undecidedly. Susan recognized her experiences were not universal, and acted accordingly, “Or what about people affected by hurricanes! Or wildfires, droughts, what about them, John! All those poor people we could help with our power—“

“Our power is a gift, you fool!” John snapped. 

Susan raised an eyebrow. “A gift?”

“From Zietzebala,” said Rivers. “Our Great Mother Earth. She has gifted us with this forecasting power in exchange for our obedience as well as a few…sacrifices.”

“Ah.” Susan looked down. “And I suppose they have to be virgins too, don’t they. I’m still friends on facebook with a lot of men I went to highschool with who are probably–”  

“No! Dammit, no! I meant, like, recycle. Plant a tree!” John looked exasperated. “Sometimes we sacrifice a tofurky, but we’ve never really gone farther than that.”

“Maybe we should,” muttered Rivers.

John turned sharply to look at her. “Don’t think I don’t know about that little stunt you pulled yesterday,” he said with a voice like acid. “Isolated showers? Over our studio? You know how important the schedule is–”

“I’m sorry.” Rivers said. She did not appear sorry. “It will not happen again.”

“It had better not.”

John left the room in a huff.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Susan asked “What did you mean by that?”

Rivers sighed. “I know what you mean about wanting to help. About all the good we could do. Climate change has already killed millions…and the death toll will continue to rise.”

Susan thought of her dead flowers and trembled. 

“Don’t feel bad, Rivers,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”

“No but it is literally our fault we control the weather Susan.“

“Oh right.”

Susan had forgotten. 

Rivers began crushing the snacks in her hand. “The horrible thing is–I could fix it all. I have an incredibly detailed plan to fix the environment that, when I placed it on the alter to Zietzebala, turned into a swarm of doves! So I know she approves!”

Rivers glared. “But her pact is with John. And John has a bad heart.”

Susan nodded. “Truly a wicked man.”

“No, he literally has a bad heart. Arrhythmia.” Rivers hit twice against her chest. “I’m next in line for leadership if ever something terrible happens to him, just so you know.” She looked askance, placing her hand on Susan’s. “Do with that information what you will, Susan.”

Several things flashed through her mind at once. She saw Rivers dressed in the fanciful robes of climate cult leader. Rivers telling her how beautiful her lawn was. River’s soft, well-manicured hands holding hers, not just now, but over and over again in the future. Rivers could be more than her singular phone contact. Susan’s cheeks grew hot and she withdrew.

“Susan?”

She collected herself, pouring another class of ceremonial non-alcoholic wine. She raised it in a toast. “Here’s to hoping John drops dead!” 

Rivers laughed, “Oh Susan, you’re so funny.”

Ms. Susan Kelvin squeezed her incredibly soft hand. “And when you’re head forecaster, you’ll give my district some water, won’t you? Because we are…coworkers?”

Ms. Rivers seemed confused for a half-second, then replied. “Of course! We will help everyone, which includes you!” 

“But not me specifically?”

“Not you specifically, no.”

“Oh.”

Susan looked away. 

Rivers offered her a soynut, but Susan refused it. 

***

Next morning, Susan awoke with a start. She had a good feeling about today, that good feeling had apparently kicked her out of bed at an hour earlier than usual. What to do with the spare time?

She clapped her hands together. I know! I will go out for breakfast!

So Susan drove her little car down to her neighborhood Denny’s, avoiding all the dead beetles in the parking lot with her new high heels. She squeezed herself into a cozy booth. A nice table all to herself. 

A waitress approached. 

“Brown toast, and two eggs please.”

“Will that be sunny-side up, ma’am?”

“No no,” Susan turned from the window. Blue skies. With a twinge of bitterness she clarified, “I like my eggs over easy.”

“Sure thing!” The waitress jotted it down. “Sorry for assuming, most people like ‘em sunny—.”

“Well I like them over easy,” Susan said with a smile. 

Susan tapped her heel as she waited, sipping some lemon water. A tingling feeling ran up her leg, like a bug was crawling. She quickly ran her hand up and down her smooth leg, but it was nothing. Nothing. 

Moments later a steaming hot plate arrived. The toast was cut into triangles (the only adequate shape), but the eggs. Oh, the eggs. They were sunny. Side. UP. 

Susan stormed out of the establishment without paying, and sped to her job, positively seething. 

She did her broadcast as normal, except for one teensy addition as follows: 

“Lastly, you’ll be seeing a horrific category five hurricane over in Marin county with wind speeds of about one hundred twenty miles an hour. It will be localized entirely within this area.” Susan pointed with her pointing stick to the map, on which she’d drawn a red circle around that one particular Denny’s.” Susan smiled. “That will be all!”

They cut to commercial break. 

No one approached Susan for a full five minutes. Then John appeared, apparently having powerwalked from the adjoining broadcast room.

“Susan, what the hell–”

“It was a joke!”

John looked flabbergasted. 

Susan made a silly face. 

“A…joke?” 

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Susan…you need to be really fucking careful with “jokes” when you’re on camera…You’re not in training anymore. Everything you say will happen no matter how ridiculous.”

Susan smiled slightly. That was exactly what she hoped.

John put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Look here, when the commercial ends, you are going to tell everyone that was a “joke”. You are going to tell everyone that there will be no category five hurricane at that particular Denny’s. Okay?”

“Okay, John.”

He backed away as the camera man counted down. Susan straightened her collar.

“Good evening, Citizens of Marin county. I have something to tell you all about that Category Five hurricane I mentioned earlier.”

Susan thought about reversing her decision. But why should she? That Denny’s had tried to poison her. She was doing God’s work. 

She cleared her throat. “That hurricane is going to have hail. So so much hail.” John was pulling at his hair.  

“And that’s not all. Susan looked directly at the camera, “Mr. John Sunday is going to die at exactly six forty-seven PM, and nothing that anyone does, not any doctor, not any ambulance, not any priest will be able to stop it.”

John Sunday ran onto the set, jumping over the rolling chairs and camera crew, reaching for her microphone. 

“And the power to this station will go off NOW.”

Darkness fell. Susan tried to run, but John tackled her to the ground. He pulled the microphone from her face and shouted into it, “No! No that will not happen, actually, that will not happen. Susan is wrong!” 

But the cameras were not running.

“You’re too late, John.”

John clutched his face.

“What time is it?”

It was six forty-six. 

There was terror in his eyes, “That wasn’t even weather related!” he stammered. “You will be fired for this!”

“Who is going to fire me, John?”

John took out his cellphone with a shaking hand and dialed 911. Susan heard it ringing, a steady pulse in his hand. But what John really needed was a steady pulse in his heart. He fell over in agony, and Susan bent over his writhing body. She watched until it stopped. Until it returned to it’s natural state. Nonexistence. Now she was having fun. Susan took his yellow bow tie (it was a clip-on.)

She ran through the crowd of concerned onlookers, off to her car to beat the rush-hour traffic. She heard sirens in the distance, a wailing chorus. Approaching. She clutched the wheel until her knuckles turned white.

Susan saw the siren was that of an ambulance and sighed. Pity that it wouldn’t help anything. What was done was done. 

That night, Susan made tea before sleeping, listening to the soft rain against her window as it cooled, with one of Martha Stewart's Living magazines resting on her lap. It was all very calming. She tucked herself into bed at exactly nine-thirty, as she did every night, and slept as she had always slept. 

But in her dreams, something was wrong. 

Something was terribly wrong.

Susan always dreamed about being in her house, but now she was on a pedestal. On all sides of her, a dark abyss stretched down into infinity. 

Instead of her carpet, the ground was teeming with worms. 

Instead of the whistling of her teakettle, she heard an ominous wind, delivering muffled shrieks and cries.

Susan tapped her foot on the wormy ground. Well, this is boring! she thought.

But no sooner did her mind form that thought than the wind began to pick up. 

Howling now. 

And from the sky of inclement weather came a flash of blinding lightning. Susan opened her eyes and who should stand before her but...

“Martha Stewart!” Susan struggled to speak. “I am your biggest fan, I’ve—I’ve read every issue of your magazine, I read your blog—I try so hard to be just like you!”

The woman answered in a booming voice that was far too deep, “But you are not like me, Susan. You are a hollow vessel. You are a parody of human being.”

“You’re not...really Martha Stewart, are you?”

The woman bared her teeth. “I’m afraid not. I am merely taking a form that you can understand.”

Susan had a feeling she knew who it was. “Are you... Great Mother?”

“The one and only!” Zietzebala winked. 

Susan looked her up and down. That dress was actually quite unfashionable now that she really looked at it. In hindsight it was obvious this was not Martha Stewart. Susan sighed soberly. Yes, not even a literal goddess can replicate such perfection.

Susan spoke to her in her usual condescending manner. “Why have you come to me like this...in a dream?”

“Isn’t it obvious why I’m here?” Not-Martha-Stewart said softly. “John Sunday is dead.”

Susan began to sweat. She adjusted her bow tie—no that was John’s bow tie, now she had drawn attention to it!

 With the intention of discreteness, and complete failure of that which was intended, Susan removed the article and hurled it into the abyss. Not even a full second later, the bow tie had reappeared. 

Again, Susan tossed it. 

Again, it reappeared. 

Again, she tossed it. 

Bow tie back again!

Again, she tossed it—

“This is who you are now, Susan!” shouted Zietzebala. Crackling thunder leapt from her perfect face-framing bob-cut of yellow hair. “This is your burden.” 

But the yellow of the bow tie didn’t even go with the current color palette of her outfit! Susan stood helplessly, in her persistently unfashionable clothing, staring into the eyes of this unearthly creature. And for the first time in her perfect life, Susan feared for her immortal soul. 

“Great Mother, I am so sorry,” she said tearfully, “But you must let me explain myself! He was preventing me from doing my job as a forecaster, so I had to kill him. I had to!”

Not-Martha-Stewart's eyes flashed red. “Don’t take all the credit, my child. I killed him. You merely allowed me to.”

Susan stopped pretending to look upset. “Oh. So we are on the same page?”

“Not exactly.” 

The Great Mother began to circle her, her high heels striking the writhing ground. “John is dead because he thought he could worship two gods at once.”

“He cheated on you?”

“With money.” Zietzebala shook her head. “John was too soft, much like the tofu he insists on sending me…He was unwilling to make the sacrifices I demand. But are you?”

The goddess was getting too close for comfort. 

“That…depends…what they are?”

“I want blood, Susan.”

She had figured. 

“Rivers has a two hundred page plan on how to save the environment. You are instrumental to that plan, Susan Kelvin. Because you are unlike any human I have ever known.” Her eyes glimmered like starlight. “You are…completely empty.”

Susan frowned. She felt strange. She felt used.

“I must go now–”

“Wait,” Susan stopped her. “While you’re here, can I ask you some questions about the nature of the universe? I’ve had a sudden stroke of curiosity.”

Zietzebala sighed. “Ok. I’ll give you three.”

“Objectively speaking, is the “Farmhouse style” or “Riverside cottage” style superior for a home kitchen?”

“That depends on the context, Susan.”

“Why are all the flowers in the magazines prettier than mine?”

“Because of the drought, Susan.”

She paused. Her last question…What shall it be?

After putting some thought into it, Susan decided to ask, “Is there life after death?”

Zietzebala smirked playfully. “Oh, I think you already know the answer.”

“Do I?”               

“Haven't you ever thought there was a bug on your leg, and upon looking, found there was no bug?”

Susan squinted. “What of it?”

The Goddess leaned in closely. “Ghost bugs.”

Susan shuddered, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Susan grabbed onto the front of the goddess’s coat. 

“Wait, I have one more question.”

“I said I’d give you three.”

“Please, just one more!” Susan demanded. “Are there other gods?”

“You already know the answer.”

Susan scoffed. “I’m…not sure that I do!”

Zietzebala turned from her, staring into the abyss. “It is time for you to wake up, Susan. Remember all that I have told you. Collaborate with Rivers. Eliminate everyone she tells you to.”

“What?”

“Be the good that Martha Stewart wants you to be–or there will be consequences!”

With that, she clapped twice and disappeared in a puff of smoke that smelled like cedar and pumpkin-scented candles. 

Susan sat up from her bed abruptly and jerked her head to the side. Six o’ clock. I must get ready for work!

Susan hurriedly bread her hands, popped her soap in the toaster, ironed the carpet, and tore down Main Street. In her urgency, she went two miles above the speed limit. 

Seeds of doubts sprouted worries in her mind. Do I really have what it takes to be an eco-terrorist? Susan fancied herself the very image of perfection. Was she not? She who kept her lawn so neatly trimmed? Who’s china was so neatly kept? Susan breathed rapidly. She who ravaged a Denny’s…

Destruction. 

Peace. 

Order. 

Susan whirled into the parking lot of the recording studio, blew past everyone without a word, avoiding inquisitive eyes, avoiding accusatory fingers, planting her ass firmly in her little red rolling chair. She took a deep breath. Be the good…that Martha Stewart wants you to be. 

Rivers ran up on stage, grabbed Susan’s face and kissed her passionately. Susan stumbled backwards, bracing herself against the desk. This was NOT an appropriate workplace activity. But Susan could not help herself. She returned the expression, kissing Rivers hungrily, barely noticing the notecards that had been pressed into her hand. 

“We’re on in five!”

Rivers pulled away and Susan gasped for breath. “Read these exactly as they are written Susan,” Rivers said. 

Susan dared not look down at the paper in her hand. What horrible dreadful things would be written on them?

Television static buzzed in her head. Someone was counting down. 

The cameras trained on her. 

“Now we will go live to Susan Kelvin with the weather!” The news reporter  eyed Susan from her screen. “And I see you are wearing John Sunday’s signature yellow bow tie.”

Susan leaned forward slowly. 

“That I am, Fiona. I have worn it to pay my respects—God rest his soul.”

“It’s kind of weird that you were able to forecast his death in such perfect detail.”

Susan paused. 

“Yes well…he had a heart condition. So it was only a matter of time really. 

“Of course.”

Susan exhaled deeply, and looked down. 

Written on the notecards were not the names of oil barons to kill. Not golf courses to destroy. Not death, not destruction. Written on the card was simply the words “rain for everyone”

The television static grew purple.

Rain for everyone. 

It was insulting.

“...Susan?”

Her eyes met Rivers. She was grinning ear to ear. 

Rain for everyone.

Susan’s whole body shook as she began to deliver her forecast, “A cloud… will appear.”

The room melted away, only Rivers remained. 

“Right over my house. A cloud will appear and it will rain. And it will never stop raining.”

Rivers smile twisted into a look of abject horror. 

“And my pansies will respond to the rain. They will be the brightest purple. They will be the envy of all you disgusting animals.” Susan hadn’t noticed but she was screaming every word.

The ground beneath the recording studio quaked from thunder. The contract had been broken, wrath was eminent. 

“I AM NOT EMPTY! I AM FULL OF PANSIES! I AM FULL OF RAIN.” 

Flowers began sprouting from Susan’s ears, nose and eyes. Water poured from her mouth onto the floor. Choking on rain, Susan finished her forecast.

“And that…just about…wraps it up. Ba–ck…to you!”

A bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens, miraculously cutting through the walls of the recording studio, striking Susan. She fell from the stage. Shortly after, more bolts came and the recording studio violently burst into flames.

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. Eyewitnesses said that the weather was to blame but Ms. Rivers knew that it was anything but that. Homicide. Divine intervention.

Rivers stood alone in the parking lot, charred bow tie in one hand, and in the other, a flash drive full of files full of lies for the goddess of earth. The only god. “Damn you.” Her fingers closed around the yellow cloth.

Rain fell in sheets from the sky above Susan Kelvin's house, with no sign of stopping. Her pansy grew taller than cornstalks, stretching upwards, garishly purple. But Susan would never see them. Susan Kelvin was gone. 

Though, some say that on hot summer days when the sky is endless blue, at the back of your neighborhood Denny’s, you can feel her.

Crawling on your leg.  

[secretpiewrites]

I am looking for a human host!

Are you bored?

Are you lonely and bored?

Do you have a lot of time on your hands?

Do you have hands?

I’m offering you a proposal, with potential financial compensation for your troubles. It may sound off putting at first blush, but hear me out. I am looking for a human host. And I mean a “willing” human host who might be willing to give up some of their time to help out an odd fellow that doesn’t have hands or blood.

Am I asking to control your body? Yes. Sometimes. You’ll still be there, but taking the backseat. Now you’re probably thinking “That sounds no fun! I don’t want to spend all my time riding shotgun.”

And that’s valid.

But you all spend about half of the day unconscious anyway. Your body is just there, doing nothing—a complete waste. As for me, I don’t sleep (haha), so we could have it so that during the day, I will graciously let you do fun human things, and at night, I’ll do whatever. And by whatever, I mean perfectly safe, perfectly reasonable activities.

I don’t drink, and I rarely go outside.

I enjoy baking, I look at pictures of birds online, I’ve been getting into neuroscience lately. Very interesting stuff. You’re all very interesting.

And maybe you’re still thinking “Hey now, I don’t want some random mind-controlling thingy hauling my body around in my sleep, “Weekend at Bernie’s Style” to which I say, you’re no fun and you’re not the kind of person I want to live with anyway.

“But I’m a light sleeper!” you say.

Don’t worry! I can isolate your somatosensory cortex so you can’t feel anything.

“But my family will think it’s weird!” you say.

Don’t worry! You don’t have to tell them.

Actually, I would prefer that you don’t tell anyone. Please.

And should anyone question me, I’m not bad at impressions. I’ll get really good at a “you” impression, it’ll be the first thing I do!

I know this all sounds very strange and potentially unpleasant, but remember the financial compensation that may or may not be happening. Hell, I’ll even do some of your chores if you like, while you sleep. You can wake up and the dishes will be done, laundry folded and coffee made. Doesn’t that sound nice? And then you open the fridge and oh, what’s this? Someone baked banana bread last night (that was me, I baked banana bread last night.)

Now I should say, I don’t have a lot of standards, I really don’t. But I do (unfortunately) have some, so let’s just get them out of the way before I waste your time.

Please do not contact me if you have any of the following:

- Anemia: Sorry, it’s just not going to work out. I can pay for iron supplements, but I can’t work miracles.

-A weak immune system: I don’t like getting sick, I’m sorry. It’s gross, sick people are gross. I mean I know it’s not your fault, but healthy folks only please.

-A strong immune system: Yes, I know what I just said, but I also don’t want to be attacked by your immune system. So maybe you’re not the picture of health, but you’re just kind of okay. I’m looking for someone who is just kind of okay.

-A penchant for alcohol: It makes me feel strange…

-A name that starts with a P: I’m not the greatest at “speaking.” It’s hard, moving air through your throat and moving your tongue and your mouth at the same time. You all do it so easy—can’t say I’m not envious! I’m the worst at making the “P” sound.

I intentionally avoid any "p word" in conversation, and get by well enough, but I’ll look pretty foolish if I’m cavorting about, pretending to be you, and I can’t even say your name!

Those are my standards, but really, other than that, I’ll take anyone.

I don’t care if you’re male or female or anything in between.

I don’t care if you’re gay.

I don’t care if you’re smart.

I don’t care if you don’t have a lawyer.

There are so many things that I don’t care about.

Now, I’ve specified all the ways in which I could compensate you and how our relationship will be not in any way problematic, but I want to stress that, above all things, I am looking for a friend.

Someone I can spend quiet evenings with.

If you want to hang out with me during the day, that’s great! I can give you fun hallucinations. Or you could have hallucinations the normal way, like by reading, like what you’re doing now. I love to read! I love doing funny voices. I wonder what you think I sound like?

I hope I sound nice.

And one of the best things about me is I’m very quiet. No one else will be able to hear me except you. I’ll be like your own personal friend that only you know. Like a secret friend. And you don’t even have to talk to me because I can read your thoughts.

I suppose I should tell you a bit more about myself, since you’re still reading.

I was born in the Everglades, I think. It’s been awhile.

But I remember being so cold…

And so alone...

But then I met this sweaty man in a colorful tee-shirt, with a camera, and half a granola bar, and with blood so hot.

So yeah, he was my first host, and I’ll admit, we weren’t the best of friends. It was a confusing time for both of us. I was confused. He was confused. What happened was really both of our faults, you could say…

He was a bird watcher, if I recall correctly. Just watched birds all the time. I thought it might have been out of jealousy—watching those little things flying around makes you feel kind of stuck. I felt stuck.

So I decided to be a bird for a while to see if it was really all it’s cracked up to be. Squished myself into the body of this lovely American crow. We settled down, built a nest, and laid several nice, healthy eggs with a man-bird by the name of “Richard Baxter.”

He was a very proud bird, very large. And he gave me so many wonderful gifts. Like children, and also small pieces of plastic.

I still have all of them.

The plastic, not the children.

I’d never been so happy, all these hormones had me consumed in the joy of motherhood, but the crow’s health was failing. I could not sustain myself—it’s pathetic little heart beat weaker and weaker.

I tried starving, I tried everything I could, I wanted to be a bird so bad. But it just wasn’t working out.

The bird stopped working.

The other crows held a funeral service for me, even though I was still alive. I tried to tell them, but I’m not good at speaking, you remember.

It was all just a big mess.

I haven't seen Baxter since, but I still think about him a lot.

Is that weird?

I’m totally over it though, haha.

After that incident, I got kind of depressed... I possessed a lot of trash animals—gulls, racoons, and salespeople. I did what I could to survive. That’s kind of where I am now.

I am currently living in Miami florida—been body surfing almost every day (haha). Right now I’m using a library computer and a librarian. She does not like being possessed, boy howdy are these fingers twitching. But you can thank her for my halfway decent grammar.

I’m tired of feeling like a parasite.

I want to try a different approach.

I want to be friends? Like with Richard Baxter except I also live in your brain and drink your blood sometimes. But I’ll make you bread in your sleep, so it’s okay.

It’s been really hard finding someone willing to put up with me.

I’ve tried everything.

So I thought I would put up an advertisement online, why not?

Can’t say the P word in real life, but you can hear it in your head loud enough I hope.

I know I kept saying that I would compensate you financially, but I’m going to be real with you, I don’t have much. I’ve got like twenty bucks, some small pieces of plastic and a book about...finance....

But I’m a real hoot! ;D

So,

(P)lease,

If you are interested, leave your comments below. I would love to get to know you :)

I need to go now, the library is closing soon, but I’ll get back as soon as I can.