At first the incursions were small. A couple of ears of corn here would go missing, or a small patch of potato wouldn't come to crop. Nobody worried overmuch - Mother Nature was always due her share of the harvest. Next, a lamb would go, or a calf. Still, nobody paid it much mind. Nature was ever a thief in the night.
Next, sheep and cows would disappear in the darkest hours. As the barrier weakened, They grew bolder and bolder. Night time disappearances turned to daytime thefts, and the people began to worry. They hustled the sheep in, they hustled the cows in, and they hustled each other inside. The old ways began to come back to them, as they shod their horses and cowered behind iron doors.
Still, They came. As the barrier broke, They came forward with pointed smiles and sharpened teeth. Iron doors weren't enough to keep the people safe, and they fled from their homes. Alas, Their weapons were in their music and their melodies broke open the night.

When Eliyah and Marion were born, the first thing we did was to count their tiny fingers and toes. The second was to document, clearly, which twin was which -- a job which fell to me, the proud father. This was a more-than-usual necessity as the girls were identical mirror twins, and it struck me that it would not do for the new dad to be unable to confidently say, "this is Eliyah" or "you're holding Marion" when doting relatives questioned me.
Unfortunately, new dads are the second worst choice for such an important document (the worst, of course, being the mother, unrested and still in her delivery gown). The very first thing I did, post documentation, was to lose the dratted thing. Of course, I couldn't tell my wife. She was still filled with pregnancy hormones and liable to yell at me -- or worse, cry -- if I told her what I'd done. I was pretty sure I remembered which twin had the left-side birthmark, so I crossed my fingers and made a new note. My wife would never have to know, a

Xlitewqoafsns (pronounced "Bruce") squinted at me, thumb in maw.
"We're agreed then. In return for one pizza--"
"No, hold on," I interrupt. "You're not going to subvert this by giving me the wrong sort of pizza or something. I do know how this works, you know."
"Okay, okay." The demon looks lightly downcast and amends his speech. "In return for one Eagle Boys pizza of the variety, large, chicken hawaiian, you shall henceforth give your soul unto my keeping. Yes?"
I pause to consider loop holes before nodding my agreement. As soon as I do, Xlitewqoafsns whips out an iPad.
"Right. I just need to enter this, bear with me one mo-- oh, shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit."
I notice an unusual sensation and look down to see a miniaturised Xlitewqoafsns imprinted on the air just beside me.
The real Xlitewqoafsns looks stricken.
"I've hit the wrong button. It appears I've accidentally sold my soul to you."

It's night. There's no movement in the desert air, nothing to suggest that this night is different from any other, and then it happens. The sand heaves. A moment later, all is still. There is no sign that anything has happened except the presence of a humanoid body that definitely wasn't there before.
It's a few moments before the thing sits up. It does so in a sudden movement, hands raised to protect its face. After a moment, the hands drop to the ground, which it scrabbles its fingers through. Sand pours through the digits while it watches and time passes.
Eventually, the thing tires of watching the endless fall of sand, and rises. It moves with a lurch, like it's forgotten how to walk properly. It's an eerie sight, the staggered jerking of limbs making a mockery of human movement.
It looks to the left, where the edges of a town graze the horizon, but it shakes its head and walks the opposite way. Step by ponderous step, the creature makes its way through the desert and the night. Ti

She wore layers. I don't just mean her clothes, though she was well layered up in those. She'd come out in a hat, a backpack, an undershirt, an over-shirt, jeans, socks, shoes, and to cover it all, a giant flannelette top that wrapped around her like a hug; and then under all of that she hid the layers of her true self. When she talked, it was a whisper. When she laughed, her mouth quirked upwards and opened in a quiet huff of air.
Six months in, she was starting to thaw. A layer dropped -- her backpack fell from her shoulders and crumpled at her feet. At the same time, she started to talk. It wasn't much of a change, just a slight increase in volume, and a tendency to verbalise a little more frequently; but I noticed it all the same.
Another three months and the hat came off. That day, I heard a real laugh peel out of her. It echoed in my head that night when I showered, and my thoughts started to change. I'd written her off before -- she was too small, too quiet, too innocent, too pr

Flashing into being on my counter, he sniffed the air. As if that hadn't been curious enough, he asked after tonight's dinner -- the bowl he was, unfortunately, sitting in. Mournful, I looked at the remains of my deconstructed pizza. 'This,' I thought to myself, 'would be a great time to come up with some dialogue.' Unfortunately, conversation seemed beyond me just now. The being on my dinner didn't seem too interested in it, either.
I was just forming the impression that in addition to being completely weird, he was also completely mute, when he communicated. His dialogue arrived in my head, a pattern of impressions more than it was words. The gist seemed to be that he was almost as surprised as myself, but boy was he angry about it. The air, by rights, should be turning a deep red based on his language. I almost, in fact, expected little swear-bugs to zap into being. They didn't, however, and by now the creature -- for such it certainly was -- had turned its ire on me. He swore. He b

Jason tagged after me, his feet dogging my heels. "An' then, an' then, an' then BOOM!"
Sometimes when he was excited or feeling particularly emotional, he stuttered entire phrases. It was annoying, but what could I do? Getting angry at him just made it worse, and he'd start stuttering letters, too.
The good news was, he didn't always need interaction. He'd prattle on for hours at a time, just a long-running monologue. He was doing it now.
"--said I don't have any friends, but me and you are friends so she's really wrong and anyway,"
It was high time I interrupted him, or I'd be treated to a full discourse on just exactly how many friends this other person had, and a whole lot more besides. "Buddy, whoa. Breathe, man." He grinned up at me, two wobbly teeth hugging a small gap.
Like a squirrel gathering nuts, he filled his cheeks in an exaggerated motion. They puffed out, translucent and cheeky. I make to swat him with my hand and he ducks away, still grinning. It's a beat before

His wings were glorious. It was 1985 and my father had just finished crafting another masterpiece. This one was unvarnished, a golden-winged angel, each feather individually carved into the wood. Since my father carved for himself and his family more than he sold, I asked if the angel could be my special gift. I considered it undervalued and priceless and my father, mercifully, agreed to let it stand in a tranquil glade I frequented.
I named him Azrael because I thought it was the most beautiful name I'd ever heard. Each day I would tell him my joys and sorrows, and he would listen patiently. When we studied Shakespeare, I would practice my lines upon him, and when I knew nobody else could hear, I would speak in iambic pentameter. Invariably, these would begin with "Verily". I didn't know what it meant, but I had always liked the sound of it.
"Verily," I would announce. "Verily, were I to be born a Queen,
my subjects royal would e'er love me well
for always would I have and have been
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