Argetl

What does a creature of the deep dress as for Halloween? This Orca contemplated as she swam in her avatar form, using its convenient hands to arrange bones on the endless empty skyscrapers and jutting underwater ruins of her kingdom. (Where did you get those bones, Orca? It’s best not to ask.) She already had sharp, shark-like teeth covered; no need for plastic vampire fangs here. A witch wouldn’t be difficult, she supposed; she was already mostly purple, so she could switch out her white shirt and shorts for black and orange ones and get a nice pointy hat. But that seemed like the obvious choice, and Orca never wished to be obvious. What really appealed to her right now … She thought she could use some tentacles. (She thought this all the time, actually, but during Halloween the desire was particularly acute.) But how to make fake tentacles? Paper mache would just get soggy in her kingdom’s endless waters. An idea struck her as she balanced an antlered skull on a jutting

It felt so good to not have a plan. For the last two years, everything in Cadence’s life had been scheduled, itemized, itinerized, managed. Two weeks after her embarrassing, very public meltdown, Cadence had lost patience with her agent’s desperate attempts to salvage her career. Filled with sudden determination, she had gone online and paid a year’s rent in advance for a furnished cottage she’d never seen, in a town she’d never visited. A week later, she arrived in Lilypad with everything she wanted to keep from her previous life in a single suitcase. It wasn’t even heavy. Everyone thought she’d gone mad, of course. Her parents supported her. They thought she was making a mistake; they warned her that she needed to put more thought -- more planning -- into such major life decisions. But they recognized that she needed time out of the spotlight, and after some research, they accepted Lilypad as a safe new home for their daughter. And that, they kept reminding each other, was what

Never seen snow before and this is a bad time for first impressions, already miserable. Hurry through head down and almost miss those dark eyes -- unsettling -- keep moving, hurry on. Snow turns to slush turns to clear streams running through carved stone canals. A new place means fresh torments; when will it end? Wrung out -- what does it want? Supposed to learn some kind of lesson? Only two things learned here: never wander, never trust instincts. Never feel at home. Follow the water across the stone growing darker, darker. Reflections in obsidian; look away. Can’t bear the sight of that face, silent, forever silent. Death without peace. A spot of color. In the center of the water-maze, a column of froth flowing up -- no longer surprising; accept anything now -- a purple gown, mockery in color. Another reflection -- no. Not the right face, but just as familiar. “You can’t be here. You’re dead.” No response, only a sad smile. “Well, I’m dead too, after all. Is this

Your footsteps catch the sound of laughter, and you hate it. Logically, you know that the ancient figures aren’t laughing at you, but it feels like they must be as you trudge along with your tail lowered. Any comfort you once derived from this place, any welcome you once felt, is long gone. Now you wait with resigned determination for whatever other torments it has in mind for you before it will let you go. The next room is quiet, and you close your eyes for a moment on the threshold, trying to steel yourself -- it doesn’t work. You’re stepping in water again; you try not to look at your reflection, to keep your eyes fixed on the misty heights of the ceiling. But it’s impossible. With all the branches and lilypads, old logs and reeds, you have to look where you’re putting your feet, or you risk tripping and faceplanting into the muck you can feel beneath your paws. That would just make your day, wouldn’t it? So you have to turn your gaze downwards, to the water at your feet