Gabriella, aka Gabriel, dashed through the alleys and over fences, easily evading the militia. She prised the top off the faux ammo urn, the sign behind it proclaiming it the property of the Fortnite Militia. Inside she shirked the clothes off and whispered the spell. The mercenaries jerked off the lid and peered inside, seeing nothing at first in the darkness. They turned aside and inspected the lid. Gabriella pulled herself out of the urn and slowly backed away, as quietly as possible, completely naked and invisible. Again, the soldiers looked in, and this time, they saw the shed clothing. Snatching up the shirt and pants, they guffawed at the audacity of the young man to think he could escape them, and yet they were at a loss to explain returning with only his clothes and an unbelievable story.

The petrified god was deeply embedded in the stone. I was allowed to use it for my art based on two absolute requirements: it would be returned in the exact same condition I received it, and it would be guarded at all times. I talked to him while I worked, using all the names speculated by the various archeologists, and suspecting this lack of identification was the deciding factor in the loan. Energy emanated from the little figure, energy I attributed to the magnetic field I set up to make him seem to come alive. The hair on my arms stood up and my whole body tingled. The guards, one at each corner of my table, stood farther back than I expected, refusing to come closer at my suggestion. Well armed and well trained, each of them alone would have been sufficient protection. My work on the system as I awaited approval for the tablet with the god meant I finished connecting him within weeks instead of months. He would come to life in front of millions of people across the world. As I attached the last wire to the system under the table holding the tablet, the blue light was brighter than expected, but the image popped up, and the little god swayed and danced above the crowd, larger than life. He carried on the mesmerizing movements in lateral motion over their heads, which wasn’t possible. My system was static; although the figures moved, they stayed directly on top of the system. I switched it off. The little god continued dancing away as we watched in silence. The tablet was empty.

The orange ones taste like caramel—shouted Pelokie. Everyone else groaned. Once again—exhorted Celosp—they taste the same, all of them, all colors, since they are always changing colors. Pelokie sloughed off to the subterna with a “Pfft.” The others continued gobbling down the miniature creatures running rampant. They found themselves choosing ones with any orange at all, just to make sure. After awhile, they looked at one another and shrugged en masse, returning to snacking on all colors. The creatures constantly went in and out of structures they’d built. Pelokie’s departure had the structures shaking and the creatures stumbling about haphazardly, so that everyone could simply lay out tongues and let the snacks fall on them. They sucked the creatures down swiftly. Muldosina blurped out a molten stream of montacid. Pardon me—she said, settling back into position, dribbles down all sides. Creatures increased their volume until the dribbles hit them. Then they stopped, which made them no longer fun to eat.

Dry ice swirled around Reverend Terrance as he gave an old fashioned, heart pounding sermon under multi-colored lights crisscrossing the stage. The squat, cinder block building belied its revival tent facade with its chilling a/c. The Reverend must expend an outrageous amount of heated energy in such a performance. My childhood friend felt far removed from our childhood in this atmosphere. However, I was not surprised. He’d always been dramatic and insistent on being right. What better way to be the center of attention and lord it over people than religion.

He beckoned to me from the stage at the end of the show, and so I met him backstage, where he was removing makeup while chatting with his crew. Shelley—he boomed at me as I approached. A shiver ran up my spine ending with a slight spasm as it hit my neck, the reverberation chilling me. I smiled and nodded. Reverend Terrance … Terry waved his hand at me as though announcing me to an audience anticipating me. Then he informed the paid sycophants—Shelley’s after my little brother; again. Any response would go badly for me, so I stood silent until he finished with me, giving me leave to walk away, wondering why I’d come, wishing that I’d ignored his little brother Dennis’ admonition that I had to see him in action. I had seen Dennis on this visit home, as I’d seen other childhood friends. It was an innocuous meeting, lunch at Darby’s on the river, reminiscing, as we’d not seen each other in a decade.

It was a challenge to continually force the man from my mind as I went about my remaining days in my hometown, vowing to avoid him and his brother. The icky feeling lingered no matter what, and I wasn’t sure which brother was attached to it. The process resulted in a headache, sending me to the local drugstore, McCarty’s. I hadn’t gone in this visit since the soda fountain was gone. As I perused the headache relief meds, a booming voice resonated throughout the store. Unfortunately, the good reverend was between the door and me. Feeling trapped, I grabbed something off the shelf and crept toward the back of the store intending to circumvent the man by passing through the feminine hygiene product aisle. He turned into the other end of the aisle, spotting me immediately. Shelley—he cried in mock surprise. Enough—I thought and dragged my wilting courage back up to reasonable height. Holding it firmly, I announced with no greeting—You should not have insinuated that your brother and I are an item, because we aren’t now and have never been. Under the surprise, a flicker of anger alarmed me, but I felt comforted by the presence of other shoppers. He apologized loudly enough to draw attention from them and then bowed, saying—And now I shall take my leave of you. He walked around me, head held high, chest out, toward the back of the store. I scurried to the front, feeling violated. While standing in line, Dennis came up to me in his pharmacist’s tech uniform and asked me out on a date. I shook my head. Terry never changed.

I’m not different, and I’m not special—she ranted to the air in the attic. Dust fell through her as bats fled the rafters at her outburst. The two teenagers snooping through the abandoned house merely shivered slightly and zipped their jackets higher. The taller girl fingered the photographs of her on the table under the window. They must have loved her very much to keep her at home and take care of her—she said softly. The other teen nodded, looking around her at the pictures. Only moonlight illuminated the attic, which covered the entire top floor, a hospital bed on one side. Bars running the width and height of the room divided it in half, essentially imprisoning whoever had utilized the bed. The smaller teen had placed a small chest in front of the gate to block it open, though her friend had admonished her that they were alone before bringing out the book Different and Special to compare the black and white photographs with the bedroom that had remained untouched for centuries. They stepped back from the altar-esque table and positioned the book for optimal moonlight. See, that would have been her view when she was confined—said the girl whose book it was, as she pointed toward the window behind them. They both turned, and immediately dismissed the shadow crossing the light, looking at each other and away. The tall teen pointed out each item depicted in the book, both girls looking for a moment and immediately back to the book. Was she possessed like they say—asked the smaller girl. Her friend shook her head and replied—I think she was mentally ill, but no one understood that then. I was not mentally ill, and I was not possessed—screamed the spirit. She kicked the chest and slammed the gate. Both teens jumped, and the book fell to the floor. Then they ran out the gate and into the night. She whispered—I was something much more frightening, a woman.

Karen swore the susurration followed her as she walked along the cornfield. It seemed to come only from the section right next to her, as though her energy were bouncing off the stalks. She thought she could actually feel the energy hitting her, but maybe it was just her imagination. When such things happened to her, no one else felt it, and everyone so far in her life blamed it on her imagination, ergo her conclusion here. Karen walked on, a bit jittery until the land opened up onto a meadow.

Deep inside the cornstalks, warnings leapt out as the human passed, with the universal understanding of plants that when their buds came to fruition, they would be raped and pillaged, often by the big monsters the humans employed. For now, they could only deflect the human energy, whispering to each other—a human is near; our time is coming.