All I had to do was suggest we are not alone. Victims and assailants kept dividing anyway, splitting like atoms, disappearing until there was nobody left on earth; so, when the tricksters from all over the galaxy turned off the stars, it was God who wondered where everybody went. The head behind the hands had never been afraid of the dark. If other fingers pulled the hands away from the face, the eyes, having rubbed off onto the palms, could only watch the skull nestle between them as they covered mouth and ears. I’ve seen enough anyway, he might say.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl’s new series is called Intricate Things in their Fringed Peripheries.

HUBRIS CONTEST:

When he inherited the family business, he was both horribly unqualified to run a company and incapable of conceiving of the possibility of failure. Thanks however to his tremendous hubris, the company continued to thrive under his direction.

From Guest Contributor Mindy Storr

When I sat at my one-hundred-year-old mother’s bedside, she told me I was adopted, that she couldn’t die without telling me. I’m seventy-three years old, what was the point when no family was left to answer my questions?

I deleted my account and never looked back.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I climb the subway steps into the abundant sunshine. The weather is warm and it’s just another September day. Or so I think…

The towers collapse, but eighteen years later we’re strong for the victims and their families.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

It was a warm sunny day on September 11, 2001. Lori remembered the towers imploding, the sadness and knot in her chest from the horror. She never forgot the sight of human bodies dropping to the ground as she watched from the window with watery eyes and shaking hands. She paced the floor as her other colleagues stayed silently glued to the window. The only words were those on the phone for panicked loved ones.

Lori will never forget.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

He stuffed his victims, then mounted them on his wall. That’s why they referred to him as the Taxidermist. His arrest, and subsequent conviction, was thought to be the end. No juror would’ve signed off on an insanity plea. He was locked away and, by the time his appeals were exhausted and he finally met his fate, the story had become more legend than reality.

But he was more than just a serial killer. He wasn’t just preserving their skins, but also their souls. Now, with his death, those souls have been released. May God have mercy on us all.

I used to believe that villains didn’t exist. That wrongdoers were victims of their circumstances, victims of their upbringing, or victims of their own tortured brains. I thought that ‘bad guys’ were just the people who didn’t get to frame the narrative; that ‘inner demons’ was code for the same primal and chemical conflicts that we refer to as depravity when found in those who fail to conceal them. I thought of the dichotomy of good and evil as merely a crutch for those who wish decisions were easy.

I never believed in villains. Until I realized I’d become one.

From Guest Contributor E.F. Boehm

Rufino rode into view on his white stallion. The streets emptied like the receding tide.

When Rufino rode away into the setting sun, every single inhabitant was dead and his skin was considerably darker.

Every victim of the past month had been found with the same black dot tattooed to his or her forehead. We reported it to all the usual departments, thinking we must have a serial killer or cult on our hands. But each of the deaths appeared random, with a variety of causes and nothing linking them together.

The captain was mad at me so I was assigned the desk, going through all the case files. I was the one who discovered the connection, that all the victims had visited a certain pharmaceuticals factory on the east side before their deaths.