by Todd Shaddox

Oneness with nature is a crock of shit. Its magnitude smothers rather than nourishes. It is a constant reminder that we indeed are not a part of everything. We are aliens. The curse of introspection has separated us from that which exists here naturally.

The universally accepted (yet endlessly debated) theories of change are simply macrocosms of the instability in our lives. The thought that all is born,changes and dies is not reassuring; it’s disturbing. At best, subtly shifting the rug under our feet; at worst, propagating a horrific feeling of apathy.

The man who stepped into the elevator had half of his arm sewn into his torso. Jack had heard this unnerving technique quickened the healing of tissue - but that was merely a finger, a hand at the most. This was from the elbow down. Where was the rest of that arm?

He could hear the fingers, their joints flexing and nails clawing through thick goo; swimming in mucous. The man looked at him with a knowing grin and winked. They went down and the man went out, taking with him the sweet and sour smell of oxygenated blood and fetid puss.

Jack got off at the bottom, walked into the foyer and sat in the watching chair. As they entered from the elevators, a semi-vertical ray of light passed over their faces. The light illuminated more than their physical features. A sit fell across them, he knew everything.

To maintain his sanity he had created thousands of categories. Today, as always, he was distinguishing the good from the bad. He had tried this before with limited success. It’s really a lot harder than it seems. He eventually learned it necessitated the answering of one specific question. It didn’t matter what the question was as long as none of the possible answers were open to interpretation.

Today’s question was, “Would you destroy someone merely to better your own situation?”

“Ding.” The doors open and a tall, thin man steps into the future. He’swearing a fairly pricey suit with sub-par shoes. He tucks a folded newspaper under his arm as Jack laughs at the irony. Seven steps and the light slices through him. Six more and he’s out the door.

Jack follows with a confident stride. He has never, ever, been spotted. The man, whom Jack now called Stan, walked seven blocks to a coffeehouse, sat down with one cup black and began reading his newspaper

Jack lit a cigarette and coughed. He couldn’t quit smoking so he had decided to smoke only half a cigarette at a time. He was trying to decide which half to smoke. The tobacco crackled and he thought of the immigrant he had married once and how her eyes shone in the bright light. He thought harder and remembered her tooth and her sweater and the windshield.

As the fan blew the smoke to the corners of the room he saw the scars on his hand and the sculptured rug beyond. He stopped thinking and traveled through the deep gullies in the rug, pushing the strands from his face as he went.

He traveled until he reached the furthest wall, where he laid beneath the baseboard and concealed his nest with a scrap of paper. And he was happy just smoking half a cigarette at a time.

Stan paid his check, left a one-dollar tip and abandoned the diner. He rounded the block and walked by a small church Jack had never noticed. He strode into a barber shop and immediately sat down for a trim. Jack wondered exactly what stakes would lead poor Stan to destroy the happiness of another. The answer to his question was colorblind. There was only black and white. There was no scale of absolution.

In Jack’s opinion, Stan’s hair was now slightly too short. He followed him back to the building in which they had met and called to him as the reached the glass and brass doors. Stan turned just in time to receive an incredibly swift strike to the head with a pair of nunchaku. Actually, it was more to his face than his head. If you run your finger across the ridge of your eyebrow, you will come to the apex of an angle. This specific point is crammed full of nerves and merely pressing on it causes discomfort. This area of Stan’s face shattered like red clay and his left eye shot from its socket.

Jack watched him fall and noticed he could hear both the blood pouring from the gaping hole in Stan’s head and the arterial blood striking the pavement some three feet away. He stuck the nunchaku in his jacket and smiled at his retro weapon of choice.

He walked seven blocks to a coffeehouse. There was music playing and he leaned his head against the brick wall and let his eyes adjust to the browness. After awhile he could see and with this new vision, he noticed a girl sitting in front of the bar. She was pretty and all alone so he sat down next to her. As she ordered a drink he realized she smelled strawberryish and he blushed as he passed gas.

He was about to ask her name but as she turned and smiled he knew she was the Devil. The last of the spit mingled coffee washed over his teeth and he left. The sun was gone now and he could tell by the stillness of the air that the night would be foggy.

Todd Shaddox’s work has appeared in Apparent Depth, Huge Magazine, The Nepenthe Journal, Write Times, The Rage and The Little Rock Free Press. He exhibits the self-destructive behavior patterns of a great writer but lacks any genuine talent. He can be contacted at c_halton@hotmail.com.

by Lars Strobaek

Introduction
(The idea of inanimate changelings is a really good one, but for several reasons, the rules in the Inanimae book just don’t sit well with me. Firstly, I do not think that the elemental pattern the book displays fit in very well with the imagery of Changeling, it has more of a Magic:tG feel to it, the same thing goes for their wars and empires. The enchanted glades and mystical ponds are fine, but a magical bonfire doesn’t speak to me (I really love the mannikins though, and I know I’m going to write them an entire kithbook once, when I get sufficiently inspired). Secondly, I cannot accept the fact that the Inanimae’s dream-form can just create a physical, mundane body out of nothing. I know they are supposed to be playable, but if you want to play something as exotic as an Inanimae you’ll have to adjust.

So, these are the changes I have made to the Inanimae systems for my own chronicles: Inanimae can only reside in Anchors made up of the material associated with their phyla. That means no solimonds, except maybe in an Arabian oil-fire. They cannot create Husks either. When they move around outside their Anchor, they do so in chimerical (dream) form, and are indistinguishable from chimera. Otherwise, they act as described in the Inanimae book. These are the basics, for the details please read on…)

The Inanimae are faeries, but differ from the Kithain changelings on one important point. They did not survive the Shattering by seeking refuge in mortal form, but instead sought the materials from which they were born: enchanted pools, mystical menhirs, and witches’ oaks. The Inanimae are created by the Glamour released when an object is dreamed to be magical or alive, and in order to exist in the mundane world their faerie souls are locked into the mundane objects that gave them life. During the Sundering, some Inanimae tried to seek shelter from Banality in living forms like the Kithain, but this was difficult to achieve, and those who managed it never emerged. It is theorized that the abstract dreams of inanimate sentience were too incompatible with rational human thought patterns, and as such the faerie soul was unable to overcome the basic Banality of the human mind. Many Inanimae fled into the Dreaming to sustain their chimerical selves, where they exist as chimera to this day.

Glamour
The Inanimae utilize their Glamour differently than Kithain. Their physical Anchors possess very little Banality compared to humans, and are not exposed to it as often. Their Anchor is a natural source of Glamour, due to its empathic link with the Dreaming. Gaining Glamour is detailed in Inanimae, and the Players Guide. But in order to experience the outside world, to get in touch with other creatures of dream, as well as the dreamers who create them, they have to draw on that Glamour in order to separate their faerie mien from their inanimate Anchors. While in this state, the Inanimae’s senses along with its chimerical form are able to roam outside the Anchor as they will, and can use any abilities the Inanimae possess. However, the Inanimae’s soul can never leave the physical Anchor, and therefore its chimerical form has +2 difficulty on any rolls to gain Glamour when it does not reside in the Anchor. It is also more vulnerable to Banality, a vulnerability that becomes more severe the further the Inanimae moves from its shell. In order to affect the mundane world while in chimerical form, the Inanimae has to call upon the Wyrd, which can be a harrowing experience for any unenchanted mortals present.

If the Anchor of an Inanimae is damaged, she suffers the approximate wound penalties, as well as the pain. If it should be destroyed, she dies. Unlike changelings, her faerie soul cannot exist without its source.

Kiths
The kith(or phyla) of an Inanimae is based on the material they inhabit. The most numerous of the traditional phyla are the kubera, who live in plants and trees, or sometimes dead wood. Most kubera are dryads, like described in the Inanimae book, but another kind also exists, the ents (for lack of a better name). They are protectors of the woods, big and strong, but ugly and slow-witted. Ents have the birthrights Fertile Minds(like dryads) and Strength of the Oak(like glomes), and the frailty Gruesome(max. appearance one, and cannot have the Face background(see below)).

(The idea for the ents came from the Sandman, the ‘a midsummer night’s dream’ story, by Neil Gaiman, and the related ‘Books of Faerie’. Look at the guy talking about Peaseblossom, and you get my picture.)

Other phyla include the ondines, who live in streams and pools of water, and are also called nereids or water nymphs. The glomes inhabit rocks and stones, and are slow and heavy. Relatives of the ondines, the extremely rare parosemes live in places of perpetual fog, mist, or gasses. Each phyla has its own art(or sliver, see the main book), dealing with their chosen element, but Inanimae cannot learn Kithain arts(nor can Kithain learn slivers).

The chimerical form of an Inanimae in most cases look like a cross between their Anchor and the human form. It is not always human-like though, many are abstract representations of their material, and some even look like hideous monsters. Kubera usually have green, leafy hair, and ondines often have transparent flesh and/or fish-like features. In game terms, the Husk background is replaced by Face, which represents how human the Inanimae looks; three dots are required to fool anyone, while five dots are a perfect image.

Mannikins
The last Inanimae kith actually walk the line between Inanimae and Kithain. The mannikins, or effigies, inhabit objects created to imitate the human form. While the Banality of being made in a factory and subsequently sold off cannot be disputed, it is more than made up for by the fact that few people can look at a Anchor and not, somewhere in their minds, imagine it to be alive. Indeed, with children’s toys, this is their whole purpose. Because of this, mannikins are by far the most numerous of the Inanimae.

As their suggested by their name, mannikins thrive in department stores, but just as many are found in movie studios and art schools. The largest department stores hold entire mannikin courts, complete with feudal titles and intrigue, in mimicry of their Kithain cousins. The fae in service to such a court usually move around without their Anchors during the day, visiting other courts or running errands in the Dreaming. At night, however, when the mundanes are all sleeping soundly, the mannikins hold their grand balls and councils, being able to wear their physical forms safe from prying eyes. Their relationships with both Inanimae and Kithain are strained, though, as the puppet courts seem untrustworthy to even the most dim-witted redcap or glome. The mannikins, of course, have no idea why they are so unpopular.

Few of the effigies make good knights and paladins, as their personality tends to lean towards the introverted. They dream of worlds where there is no distinction between ‘real’ and ‘artificial’, and have a deep love of chimerical toys and gadgets, preferably nocker-made. Secrets and mysteries are the mannikins’ main assets, and wisdom springs from their unique outlook on life and dreams.

Because of their closeness to humans, mannikins use Kithain arts instead of slivers, usually with emphasis on Chicanery, Soothsay, and Wayfare. They gain also Glamour as Kithain, not from Harvesting or Reaping.

Birthrights
Puppet strings: Unlike most other Inanimae, the mannikins can actually move in their Anchors. By spending a Glamour point while in her Anchor, a mannikin is able to move the body as if it was alive, as long as no banal creatures are present. In this state the mannikin cannot use a greater physical dice pool than her Glamour score. As soon as anyone who is not able to see her chimerical form notices the Anchor, the mannikin finds herself frozen in place, and unable to move unless she leaves her body behind(or calls upon the Wyrd). The mobility lasts until forced to a halt, or the Anchor is immobile for more than a hour, and gives the mannikins the advantage of being able to transport their Anchors themselves, without resorting to drastic measures.

Simulacrum: The pseudo-human form of their Anchors usually affect a mannikin’s faerie mien as well,the notable exception being stuffed teddy bears. Unless it possesses the flaw Monstrous, a mannikin’s chimerical form looks human enough to pose as either human or changeling, without the Face background (see above).

Frailties
Alien: There always seems to be something odd about a mannikin’s behavior to others, no matter how hard she tries to fit in. Social rolls concerning non-mannikins have a +1 difficulty.

Your Legacies should be chosen according to your Court, and in the case of Inanimae, Gladeling corresponds to Seelie and Krofted to Unseelie. Note that mannikins are always krofted – honor and courage just doesn’t come naturally to them. Also, remember that Inanimae cannot use arts, and mannikins cannot use slivers. Otherwise, refer to the Inanimae book for details.

by Falcon of Lugh

The door splintered at the second hit of the barricade bar. The team tossed it aside and in a matter of one minute, all thirty had entered the house. Boards and other barricades blocking the windows were quickly torn away, the sun’s rays filtering in for probably the first time in years.

"I’ve got movement Lieutenant!"

A section of the team quickly dispatched towards the one who had called out. Another door busted down and they were in. The smell would have pushed most away, but this group had seen it all before and was destined to see it again.

The floor was strewn with the decaying corpses of an unlucky couple. Rats had come to devour what little was left. One had been fortunate enough to feast on the tenderness of an eyeball. It’s blue iris glazed over from shock was being torn asunder by the rodents teeth and claws.

Every room in the on the first floor was given the cleansing of sunlight, the debris now heaped towards the center of the house.

The door to the basement was all that stood in the way of this team. How easily it creaked when they forced it open and swarmed down the steps. Their shoulder lights kicked on, the bright halogen forced white beams into the darkness.

Gunfire erupted as something crossed in front of one of the lights. The creature now lay almost completely separate of it’s legs. He snarled and lashed at the team though it was only a last attempt in scaring them. He knew it was too late when one came closer and pulled a long thin pike from his gear on his back and drove it through the creatures chest, impaling him fully through the heart and into the basement floor.

"One down, Sir"

The basement was systematically scoured by the team, each creature they found was either killed or rendered immobile by staking. Five in all had met their enemy at their weakest moment.

"Let’s get out of here, time to finish and burn it down," the lieutenant called out.

Fire consumed the house, the creatures along with the corpses were reduced to ash. The fire dept. had taken it’s own sweet time in getting there to put out the remaining flames.

The lieutenant picked up a cell phone and dialed 7. "Let the Viscontis know objective is swept and cleared."

by Ivo Luijendijk

I’ve reworked that part of the entire WoD that I liked least about the characters: damage.

I can see supernatural creatures living of the extremely simplified damage system, but frankly, mortals should be given a lot more attention. I can also see this method be used by supernaturals, as it shows how an injury can be an actual hindrance. Here goes:

As mortals don’t have to worry about supernatural sources of damage, all damage done to them can be soaked normally, using Stamina. If any damage is left after this "soak-phase", the effect and severity should be determined, taking the place of the attack and the amount of successes left into account. Also, the type of damage should be considered.

Severity:
The severity of the damage done should, naturally, influence the effect as well. Not only this, but I feel it should also influence the time spend to heal the wound. I realize the problems this can cause, since time travels slowly in the WoD, when compared to the normal world, so perhaps an intermediate can be found:

1,2: Mild injury, can often be "shaken off" after the battle.
3: Effect can be ignored after one full day has past.
4: Effects can be healed in a week, unassisted.
5,6: Surgical aid needed
7+: Removed violently.

Placing:
The effect damage has to one’s system is highly correlated to the placing of the damage. A kick in the calf can be highly painful and even result in a broken bone, but it would not cause dizziness, like damage to the head does.

Type:
Bashing damage is pretty straightforward. The table below should cover that issue, or at least give some ideas. For fire damage, I suggest simply increase the damage by one or two levels. For slashing damage, make the probability or torn muscles (or even bones) lower, as for removal of the body parts.

I hope these ideas make the mortals of your games a bit more "real", or at least make the general playability of them a bit better. Also, like I stated in the introduction, I can see this system being used with Supernaturals as well. For vampires, simply add Fortitude to the Stamina roll (or replace Stamina by Fortitude in case of Aggravated damage). The other supernaturals (mortal as they (usually) are) should require even less adjustment.

by MillieCat

"What a cute baby", I told my teacher. She had brought her three-month-old son to our third grade class for us to see. "What is his name? How old is he? Where are his teeth? What is that plastic thing around his bottom…?" I asked on and on. My teacher had long since ignored the many questions that flowed from me constantly. I guess I am a wee bit curious, and was even then.

"Where do babies come from?" I asked earnestly and loudly. I really wanted to know, REALLY wanted to know. She knew that look in my eye and the edge in my voice. Suddenly, she got the same expression on her face that she did four months before, when she had brought her puppy to class and found me trying to take it apart. I just HAD to now what made that cute little tail wag.

Holding the baby even more closely, she spoke shakily, "Maybe you should ask your moth…" She stopped cold. She was aware that I did not even know my mother. "I will ask my papa", I smiled. I was looking forward to getting the answer, and nothing else was on my mind for the rest of the school day. "Papa! Papa!", I yelled as I ran in the door, breathless from sprinting all five blocks home. I knew he would probably be asleep, it being the first of the month and all, with a fresh check and a liquor store nearby.

"PAPA!" I wailed in earnest, and then I saw him coming out of the kitchen, bottle in hand. "Yes, Millie dear?" he asked. He, too, knew the tone of my voice now was one that NEEDED an answer. Papa understood. Papa loved me. He sat on the sofa and smiled at me, and stared at me, as he did quite often.

"Where do babies come from?" He just gazed at me. "Well, Papa, where do they come from?" Still nothing. "Papa, are you okay?" "Come over here and sit down", he said, finally. "You are a pretty little girl…so much like your mother. I remember when I first saw you, I knew that I had a daughter that I could love." He was close, and his breath was bad. "So, you want to know where babies come from." My ears twitched, my heart pounded, my body writhed. Yes, I wanted to know…needed to know. "Well, I will just have to show you, then." He quickly moved closer, and pushed me onto my back on the couch. I hoped that it would not take very long for him to show me.

He then lifted my skirt, and ripped off my panties. "Hey!" I said. "Why did you do that?" He just laughed. He then grabbed a wrist and a leg with each hand. Then came mind-bending pain. It seemed to go on forever. For a moment, I even almost forgot my question.

"TELL ME!" I screeched, "TELL ME!" He got off of me, laughing. I tried to sit up, but could not. It hurt too much. "Papa! Tell me now!" He laughed, "I just did", and he started off to the bedroom. "I do not understand." I sobbed. "Please tell me." He just laughed. I managed to wrench myself upright. "Please, please, please…I have to know. You tell me other things. Why not this? You told me about the bad people that we must steal from, about how mother did not love us and left us alone, and about how there is not really a god. Why won’t you tell me this?!?"

He stumbled to the bed and fell hard on it. I managed to get up painfully and follow him. I went to the foot of the bed and screamed at him "Wake up! Wake up!" but he did not. I pulled his face towards me and yelled in his ear "Wake up! Tell me!" I slapped his face, harder and harder. I pried his eyes open. I let go and they fell closed. I pried again, and again, and again, until my hands were covered in blood, as were his eyes, what was left of them. I did this for longer than I can remember. The next thing I remember is waking up to screaming. Our neighbor who took me to school in the mornings was in the doorway of the bedroom, and was screaming. She ran out of the house. I guess I fell asleep again because the next thing that I remember is being held very closely by a lady cop, and hearing a different scream. It was Papa. I was being held too closely to see, and I was rushed out of there. I never saw my Papa again.

I was much the quiet child and teenager after that. I found that listening and watching was a much better way of finding out the things that I wanted to know. If I wanted to know if Billy had a girlfriend, I simply followed him. If I wanted to know what my foster parents were arguing about I would just get in my closet that shared a wall with their room, and listen. I even found out about the baby thing from a book. Papa had been showing me, after all.

Then, when I was sixteen, a lovely girl came to our school. She was not in my grade, but a senior. She caught my attention as I was walking through the hall and heard the loveliest lilting French speech that I had ever listened to. I did not even speak French, but this caught me instantly, and her beauty held me there. ‘Who is she?’ I wondered. I would find out.

It was nearing the end of school and her imminent graduation so I needed to establish where she lived and her regular hangouts quickly while I still had school from which to follow her. I found out her name easily enough. It was Allyson. ‘Lovely name for a lovely creature,’ I thought. At first, her routine seemed normal - she would get a ride home with friends, get something to eat (I love those big dining room windows), and maybe go mall hopping or movie seeing, though she preferred plays, and other sweet but expensive pastimes. I also occasionally got the very definite feeling that I was not the only one watching her.

Then, two weeks before the end of school, her parents disappeared. There were police, reporters and friends around her constantly, but she felt utterly alone. I, of course, knew that she was not. I was with her. She was eighteen, so by all rights an adult, and had no other family. Of course, she had offers from everyone imaginable to stay with them, but she declined. All but one, that is. By this time, I could get into her house without tripping the alarms. Come to think of it, the police may have suspected that the same person who had been tripping those alarms might be responsible for her parents’ disappearance. It was, sadly, much easier to get in without her parents around. That is how I found out about the offer of a ’safe haven’ from a person whom I had not seen before, but who felt eerily familiar. It was at night, very late in fact. My foster parents did not notice when I went out, as long as I brought home a report card and bathed regularly. Not that they could have stopped me. I was her the house, in Allyson’s own closet behind a wedding dress that never moved.

"Come away with me," he said. "I have a place for you. You have nothing here." Not very eloquent, I thought, but through the course of the conversation he convinced her to go to Ft. Worth with him. She must have been so lonely, to accept such an offer.

‘My poor Allyson. I will come with you.’ I mouthed. She almost seemed to hear. "I am going to Canada with my friend Allyson. You know, the one who’s parents are missing." No objection yet from my keepers. "She is sooo lonely, and I am her bestest friend, and she said that she would pay for everything for the whole summer." I heard them discussing it later. They were talking about how they would still get the money for keeping me, and how they would have no expenses for me for the summer, and how I had not seemed this happy about anything since they knew me. It worked! They did not even call Allyson, thank goodness, or they may have found that I lied about her destination and everything else. They even gave me $100 of ‘just in case’ money!

The next day I got into her house again. To my surprise, she was there, asleep. I looked through her things until I found a plane ticket and an address paper clipped to it. There was also a lot of cash. This guy wanted no mistakes. I memorized the address but got edgy so found something to write it down with as well. I ran home, grabbed a backpack that I had prepared for myself, hid the luggage that I had packed under the baseboards, left a note, and was out of there. A bus to Ft. Worth turned out to be pretty expensive, so I hitched a ride. I got picked up by a truck driver who was going to Dallas, who lectured me on how I should NEVER do that again the WHOLE way there. Sheesh. Ah well, free is free. He even fed me a bit, and took pity on me and brought me to Ft. Worth. I said I was headed for TCU, so that is where he let me off. It was also close to the address, but I was so tired. I found a nearby storm drain. I had never seen one so large. I went about twenty feet inside and fell asleep in the cool dark. When I woke up I did not see the light of daylight at the entrance, but rather the dim yellow of artificial lights. I wondered how late it was, and felt a great need to get out of there.

I emerged to the city. It was so pretty here at night. I felt instantly at home. Wandering a bit, I came to a group of restaurants. The food smelled so good. I was not alone in this opinion. Many stray cats enjoyed the aroma with me and I could hear others digging through the dumpsters.

"Here, kitty, kitty," I called as I sat down on the pavement. Some came, others were shy. I loved cats, and always had. We were much alike. I petted and petted them. Cats like me, too. One even fell asleep on my lap in short order. I then reached around to my backpack and took out one of my precious cans of tuna fish. The instant I started to open it I was surrounded by cats and kittens licking, scratching and biting my fingers, and fighting each other. With bloody fingers, I managed to get the can open and set it down. They even fought over the empty can! I laughed and laughed as I wiped the blood from my hands and fingers on the inside of my shirt.

Suddenly, I felt a strong, frightening presence. The cats all slowly disappeared into the allies and dumpsters. I heeded their keen senses, as well as my own feelings, and made for a nice lighted populated street in search of the address. No worries with the trusty Mapsco that I had stolen. It was for the greater good, though. The clerk would not have understood. I found it, a small house just outside the main hustle and bustle of the college district, and inside I saw my fair Allyson. I was long past curiosity now. I knew all that I need to know. I had seen her in joy, in jubilation, in sorrow, and in desolation. I knew that I loved her. I knew that is what I had been trying to find out.

Ah, the rush of truth flooded through me. With no conscious thought of my own, I found myself knocking on the door. Allyson answered it. "Millie?" she asked confusedly. "Millie from school?" I swooned. She knew my name? I had never talked to her, and had tried not to ever bother her. I had only once made eye contact with her, and then I had looked away quickly. "What an interesting surprise! I know that we never talked. Do you know me? I am Allyson, I was a senior there. I heard that you were probably one of the shyest people in school. I know how it is to be shy, so I tried to talk to you sometimes, but you always seemed to fade into the crowd whenever I tried. What are you doing here, anyway?" My head was swimming. "Please, come inside." She was always so gracious. Then she stuttered a bit, "Um, Paul, this is Millie, a uh, friend of mine from school." I looked at the figure to which she was speaking, and was cowed to silence. "How sweet," he said with a definite edge to his voice. "Since you were so KIND as to let her in MY little house, perhaps I will just take a little stroll and let you two CHILDREN have some girl talk," and with that he whisked out.

I looked at her apologetically, and her eyes followed him as she murmured, "Strange, he has always been so kind and genteel. Perhaps he has things to take care of." Then she looked at me and asked again "So, what ARE you doing here? Not that I mind."

I tried to speak, but nothing came out. Then, through the still open door, another presence appeared. I KNEW that I had felt this presence before. I shuddered. Allyson gasped. He looked at her intently and commanded, "You really should go to bed, now. It is late. You will get the chance to see Millie again later." To my surprise, that is exactly what she did. "So," he said when Allyson was gone. "You like to find out things." He led me out of the house and locked the door with a key. ‘How did he get a key?’ I wondered.

He guided me along. I could not seem stop, or at least could not seem to WANT to stop. "I had to see how far you would go. I had to make sure. I have been watching you for a long time. You came all of this way, alone, for your need to know." Though I knew that this guy was probably about to kill me, or worse, all that I could think was that it had been worth it. I knew what I needed to know. That is what mattered.

"Ah, tuna fish, I smell," he sighed. "The kitties do love that, don’t they? Well, you shall have a long time to spread your particular brand of enlightenment, Millie. A very long time." With that, I snapped momentarily out of my trance to realize that I was in the same storm drain that I had slept in during the day. He then got close, the way Papa had.

I started crying, and shrieking, "No, Papa! I understand now! You do not have to show me!" And then the same kind of mind bending pain, though not between my legs and in my stomach, but in my whole body. The pain stopped suddenly, replaced by a pleasure so wholly indescribable that I would put gladly endure whatever pain to feel this ecstasy. And then, I felt nothing. I had slept through the day again it seemed. How strange, for the last thing I remember was early evening. ‘Oh my, last night, and I am still here. What of Allyson?’ I worried. I found my way out of the drain again, but I seemed to be in deeper than before. I felt strange, but I had things to find out so I ignored it.

I came across the way to the restaurants again. Though I had not eaten, the food did not smell appealing as it had last night. And the kitties that I had petted and fed seemed to be keeping a safe distance from me, watching with their glowing eyes. "Here, kitty, kitty." I called, but none came. I still had my backpack, so I got out another can of tuna and opened it. The kitties were obviously wanting of it, yet holding back for some reason. I set it down and backed up a couple of steps. The bravest ones came and ate cautiously, and I smiled. They were so cute. Very pretty. I love kitties. Then, faster than I could consciously stop myself, I grabbed one up, ripped its throat open with a sharpness of tooth that I did not know I had, and sucked it dry of every ounce of blood that I could squeeze from its malleable body. And then I did it to another. And another. Some were trapped in the dumpster, trying to claw their way past my flesh, but I just grabbed and stuffed the hissing, clawing mess up to my mouth, ripped, and squeezed, over and over again. When there were no more to be found I slumped inside the trash and wept.

"Please let me wake up!" I cried. Then, I heard some rustling very near where I was. I dragged myself up over the top of the dumpster and peeked out. It was a street person. He was very old, and babbling to himself. "NO!" my brain cried. I knew what I was about to do. I hardly even remember doing it. If only he had not looked me in the eyes as he was dying. He almost looked grateful. I knew that what I had done was wrong. Why did he have to confuse the issue? "Not totally wrong," came the voice that had carried me into this nightmare. I turned. "It could be totally wrong, if you left that body lying around for others to find. I will take care of it this time, childe, but in the future, I may not be around. Or I may choose not to help." And then he was gone, vanished instantly before my eyes. "And go and see Allyson, she is concerned," he said, though I still could not see him. I was worried for Allyson, too.

With a numbed mind, I trekked to the house and peeked through a window. I saw her there, wringing her hands. I heard people walking up the street. I had no chance to hide. The only thing between us would be the trellis and it did not even have any vines on it. ‘They must not see me!’ I thought frantically. They walked past and looked my direction. ‘NO!’ I did not even breathe, and strangely, it was easy not to. They looked back to each other and kept walking. ‘How could they have not seen me?’ I puzzled. I looked down. I was covered in blood, and lit by the porch light. How careless, yet they did not notice me. I was afraid to let Allyson see me in this state, but the overwhelming unconscious urge that made me knock on the door the first time was doing it again.

"Millie!" she half sighed, half screamed. "I was so worried about you." Then she looked me up and down. "And it was for good reason, I see! Please, come inside. You can borrow some of my clothes." I came in, but kept my distance from her. The thought of the street person’s eyes as he died was fresh in my mind. And though I felt somewhat sated, she looked positively enticing. She would have none of that standoffishness, though. She grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me to the bathroom. Next, she turned on the shower, took my clothes off, obviously trying not to gag, and pushed me in. It was the most normal I had felt all night.

I got out and dried off. She brought me, of all things, a dress. Oh well. After tonight wearing a dress did not seem so weird after all, even though I had not worn one since the last time I saw my Papa. "Look what I found on my night stand when I got up," and she handed me a business card. It had a black silhouette of a bird on it. Handwritten underneath it was: ‘Worry not, childe, for Paul will trouble you no more.’ "What am I to do, if the plans that Paul had made for me are not to be? He said that he would take care of me. He said that he loved me, even though he had known me for such a short while. And his words went right to my heart. Strange… the effect seems to be fading already." "I will take care of you." I said without thinking. "And I think you must have other friends as well, judging by that card." She did not seem to remember her other visitor last night. I was quite relieved at the thought of that. She looked at me. "I am why you came here, aren’t I?" I nodded. "I think that perhaps we can take care of each other. There is no telling what Paul really had planned for me. He was just preying on my vulnerability. I do not think that is what you are doing. I think we need each other." I nodded again, and looked into her beautiful eyes for the first time.

by Nicole Cave

"Excuse me, miss? I couldn’t help but notice your breasts."
"Si, they are perfect, no?"
"Yes, quite perfect. Do you always show them off?"
"Would you rather I cover them? It would be like draping a heavy cloth over a perfect statue.

The man seemed innocuous enough, she had known his kind, quite well in fact. Her eyes took him in, hard lines of the face gave way to the hard planes of his broad shoulders, covered in a thin acrylic which hugged every muscular delineation. He was quite simply, perfect. She wanted him. That was an easy conclusion, and from his roving gaze she knew he wanted her as well. Though to which use each would use each other had yet to be seen.

She performed the dance. The ritual known to any woman worth the breasts upon her chest, smiling, laughing at his jokes, letting him talk incessantly about himself while feigning interest, making it possible to touch him in an inconspicuous way. The dance. He could not seem to break his gaze from her breasts, she decided to tease him, her nipples coming out to say hello before shying away.

The dance, as always worked, soon he was lying nude on her bed as she tied his arms to the bedposts with a nylon rope. She secured his ankles to the posts as well, sprawling him open before her. Her tongue snaked about his lips as she whispered, "Que bellisimo, que belissimo." His mouth worked for her kiss, his body straining against his restraints but she gave him no more. Now her pleasure will begin.

Slowly, she pulled the blade from her jewel toned pendant, the silver making a delicate sound leaving an echo in the warm air about them. His eyes grew wide at the blade, belying his own soft moan escaping his lips. Yes, fear of pain brings pleasure. With an experienced hand, she slid the blade across the flesh of his thick, muscled thigh, watching as his flesh parted to reveal the thin line of blood. His sharp intake of breath sent a shiver through her dead body, a moan of her own escaping as she placed her full, warm lips to the thin line. She continued her ecstatic journey around his body, tasting from his arms, his belly, his nipple and finally his now fully engorged manhood.

The taste was sweeter as it rushed into her mouth, sliding over her lips and down her neck. His last moan was a shuddering breath as with one quick movement she brought the silver blade across his neck to end him. Now, her work began.

Stabbing into his sternum she ripped the blade down his chest to eviscerate him before her hungry eyes. Each organ, lovingly extracted, held above her lips as the still warm liquid dripped into her waiting lips.

   Drip.
            Drip.
                   Drip.

The incessant drop of crimson liquid lulled her into a state of blissful ecstasy. Her fingernails, sharp, pointed and in a matching hue to the "paint" worked the lines in the flesh. Giving, pliable, not yet hardened with death, it moved to her touch. Her art was escaping through the corpse, the pleasure coursing through her fingers, her eyes and her ears. The cavity before her held a still softly pulsing heart. It’s soft glub creating a subtle duet with the vitae marking the stone floor.

"Death in Art, Art in death. Pleasure be mine." Her voice, low, sultry and laced with her Hungering passion filled the room. She stepped back, backing slowly into the velvet divan and draping her body across it. Her gaze admired and critiqued her masterpiece as her bloodied fingers slid between her full lips. The soft suckling an accompaniment to the moans vibrating her body.

She has never lost her marvel at the awe-inspiring beauty of the human body. Inside and out.