Blood trickled across the floor, past the cop's black leather shoes.

Ethan hated the blood. He hated the way it edged toward him across the dark hardwood floor, as if it wanted to reach the one responsible.

"No, Detective," he lied, "I've never seen one of them on this floor."

Why did it keep coming here? Why, with the whole universe to go to, did the little bastard find me? Why this city, this apartment? They didn't deserve to be on this planet. None of them.

He looked down at its face against the floor. Blood dripped from its cheeks and from the bent brows above its lifeless eyes. A scarred, emaciated hand stuck out of a sleeve alongside the body, the other arm tucked beneath it. Below its spattered pants, small feet soaked in a pool of its own fluid.

It didn't even have shoes. How do they let them live here?

He looked at his own knuckles. They were raw and bruised.

Ethan swallowed hard. It didn't deserve me.

Ethan had never seen a real body bag before. It was white plastic, not black like the ones on tv. You could still see the body inside it, just barely, and all the blood. They left the head sticking out.

He asked, "Why don't you zip it up? Do I have to keep looking at it? I'm supposed to go to the station away from all this evidence, right?"

The detective sighed. "We'll get you down there, don't worry. We're waiting for The Machine to get here. We won't move the body before then. You're still here so things can jog your memory."

I don't want to jog my memory.

The coroner mumbled, "It looks like he hadn't eaten in a week. Sad when they go so young."

"What?" Ethan asked. "What do you mean, young?"

The coroner looked at him oddly. "He couldn't have been more than six."

Ethan snorted. "Ha! Like you can tell with one of those."

The detective asked, "You don't like little ones?"

Ethan chewed his lip. "I don't care for them much, no. Always running around, shrieking with their high-pitched voices, and half the time you can't make out a word they're saying."

"Running around here?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you said you'd never seen him on this floor."

Ethan blinked. "Yeah. I meant down in the lobby."

He knows I lied.

The detective looked around the apartment. "Are you married, sir?"

"My wife, Kate, died in a fire two years ago. You can still see the burn marks on the floor over there by the body."

"Just curious." The detective nodded. "Ok, let's go over it one more time."

"I already told you I killed it. Why do we have to keep going over it?"

Ethan studied the floor. He remembered that moment, his fist cocked back. He might have found another way. No! That wasn't right. I couldn't. I had to hit it.

"Tell me again how it went down."

I had to make a choice. It or me.

A cacophony of sounds and images flooded Ethan's mind. Its crooked open mouth with all those little sharp teeth inside. Long, skeletal fingers reaching for him. The horrible screeches when he hit it. The feel of his hands as they pounded on the thin layer of flesh outside its skull. That last gasp as it tumbled to the burned floor.

"It came at me. It wanted my food. I had to do something. I had only enough for me. I had to make it stop."

The coroner was taken aback. "You were going to let him starve so you could eat? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Ethan glared at him. "What? I should starve myself so some alien thing can live? To hell with that."

There was a beat pause.

The detective asked, "What? He's not an alien. That's a little boy."

Ethan shook his head. "Are you on something? That's a damn alien."

The detective looked over at the coroner, who just stood there with an odd expression, and then back at Ethan. "It's not an alien."

The detective held out a photo. "He had this picture in his pocket of him with some other boys. Other human boys. Date stamped two years ago."

Ethan looked close. It was a picture of three of them, wrestling on somebody's couch. The two others were normal kids all right, but the middle one was the alien. Its eyes weren't right, skin too mottled, nose a little too flat, and its ears stuck out too far on either side of his head. Its ratty hair was that sickly orange color.

Ethan paused. It was smiling, like it was truly happy--like someone loved it.

How could that be? Even Kate couldn't have loved a thing like that, and she had a bleeding heart for every little cause.

Could it have known her? She babysat for all those kids. Could she have taken one in while he was at work? No, she only took in human kids.

Ethan remembered the scars.

The fire! He looked again at the photo, trying to work it out. She went back into the apartment until all the kids were out. The smoke killed her. If it was there, it was burned. Maybe badly burned.

Disfigured.

"Human?" he whispered. "Oh, my God!"

The whir of the drill against the child's skull jerked him out of his thoughts. The coroner inserted a long probe into the boy's head and connected it to a sinister-looking box with readouts all over it.

Ethan barked, "Hey, what the hell are you doing to him?"

The detective raised an eyebrow. "The Reanimator is standard procedure. With a death this recent, we should be able to question him for about thirty seconds."

They threw the switch and the lifeless eyes focused on Ethan immediately. His head cocked to the side.

"Why'd you hit me, Daddy?"

"You've got the same knack as my Mamma, Clarence. You understand what folks say, don't you?"

"Ma'am?" Six-year-old Clarence was afraid of his great-grandmother. She was so old and frail, you could see the shape of her bones right through her face! His whole family had been brought up from Texas on a train, just to see her before she died. She'd been born a slave, in 1851. He was meeting cousins and aunts and uncles that he'd heard of, but who lived too far away to visit.

"You understand me, boy. I can tell. Mamma could do it, too. She was born in Old Africa, boy. Your Daddy told you about that?"

"Yes Ma'am, he has."

"Did he tell you about Mister Lincoln? How Mamma told me that it was foreigners that killed him?"

"Mister Lincoln? Foreigners?"

"I told your Daddy that story since he was a sprout, boy. You make him tell you. I'm too tired, now."

"Yes Ma'am, I will."

"Clarence!" His mother's thin fingers pinched his ear as she pulled him out of the room. "Quit pretending you can understand Granny Faye. She hasn't spoken a clear word since she had her stroke! You're scaring the fire out of your cousins."

"But Mamma, she was talking just fine. She was telling me about Mister—"

"You hush-up, now." She gave him The Look. "Your cousins are going to think you're peculiar."

On the train back home after the funeral, when everybody else was asleep, Clarence asked his father about it.

"That's witch-talk, boy. It ain't Christian." His father's eyes were distant, and Clarence wasn't sure that he even believed what he was saying. Not really, anyway. "There ain't no such thing as folks that can understand any language. Tower of Babel, boy."

"Now you hush and get some sleep. Don't you forget that the Preacher says that we are all equal in the Lord's eyes. Ain't nobody got a 'knack' that others don't."

Clarence shifted on the hard bench, trying to find a comfortable position. He thought about his Daddy's words as he stared-up at the sign on the front of the compartment, the one leading to the car ahead of them on the train. The car with cushions on the seats. He wasn't really good at reading, but he didn't have to know his letters to know what that sign meant.

Clarence sat at the rear loading dock of the Blackstone Hotel. No. Better not let anyone hear him call it that. It was the Hilton, now. He was smoking a Lucky and idly flipping the twenty dollar tip he'd received, between his fingers. The Chinamen had been easy, all they wanted was plain rice offered at every meal, real cream for their tea, and some chopsticks. Their Hong Kong English reminded him of those Londoners who'd been in. They were all smiles and politeness when they were dealing with the staff. But they complained bitterly to each other—in Chinese—over every little thing. They assumed nobody spoke their language, and they were right. But Clarence had found out a long time ago that he could understand anyone, as long as he was close.

Didn't work for movies, he had to actually hear the person speaking. He'd done a little reading, and he thought he might be hearing people's thoughts when they spoke. He did his best not to let on, though. He didn't want folks to think he was peculiar.

As a waiter in one of Fort Worth's best hotels, he'd heard just about every language in the world, mostly from places he'd barely heard of. But he could always understand.

There were some other guests in the hotel, though. They were talking in a very different language. Like the Chinamen, their English was fine, but they didn't use it with each other. Some of what they talked about made him anxious, and he didn't know why.

Why were they putting up hidden cameras around Dealey Plaza, the Texas Book Depository, some movie theater, and in somebody named Oswald's house? It was like they knew something really bad was about to happen, and they were there to make a movie about it.

He decided not to worry about it. White folks business was none of his. Besides, President Kennedy had spent the night at the Hotel Texas, and some of the night staff were going to go over and hear him speak, before he went on to Dallas.

"There's a problem in the temporal equations. We're getting divergent readings and I can't figure out the cause. I think we should scrub the mission."

"Not yet, Carp'ter. Not unless we must."

"Do we have live feed from the parade route and the White Rights headquarters?"

"Yes, all functions are normal."

"Let's review it up in the room. Perhaps they are arguing where to place the device. It has always been called a one-in-a-million success. That small amount of explosive should never have breached the limousine's armor. Even a one second delay would surely mean failure. If they aren't in agreement. . ."

As the guests walked away, their elderly waiter stopped re-cleaning the already sparkling utensils just behind their table. He turned and walked quietly from the dining room.

It all made sense to Clarence, now. All of it.

But what could he do? Call the police and say he overheard time-traveling documentary makers talking and the President's life was in danger. They'd lock him up.

And he'd seen those time travel movies where if you change the past, it just makes things worse.

Did he have the right to mess around with history?

He thought about Lincoln, about Kennedy. He wondered what might have been, if those two lives hadn't ended as they had.

"I'm not changing history," he whispered to himself.

"But I'm sure about to change the future."

There was a phone in the lobby he could use.

Once upon a time there was Desperation.

It was at the end of the long bloody conflicts during XXII century that everything began changing. After so many years of ( tribal, ethnic, religious…) terrible wars among the different countries of the planet, finally Earth was in peace. I mean, the whole Earth! Towns were rebuilt, farms renovated, confidence restored.

Once upon a time there was Justice.

After being on the brink of destruction cause to a lot of reasons( unexpected climate changes, dangerous scarcity of food, the spreading of new virus especially created for warfare…), Mankind found the right spin to a new rewriting of the UN principles, some capable men of power rose here and there and a lot of goodwill let every government all over the globe work together, uniting in a common Confederation based on equality, and that gave shape to a new period of happiness and prosperity- almost…- for all the peoples.

Once upon a time there was Truth.

Then the ThhhhrK fleet came to our planet. They possessed an alien highly advanced technology, deep knowledge of incredibly effective medical procedures, some mental well- being and great proficiency about space and time. And they were peaceful, too. The only thing they desired was a place where to start a new life, and Earth was really perfect for their purpose. They could have taken whatever they wanted by force, they could have conquered us quite easily, but they simply asked for.

Once upon a time there was Reason.

What other decision could our politicians have made then?If not they, whoever else?If not in that moment, whenever?It was a turning point in Mankind's history!So they chose for the good of everyone, they foresaw a joyful future for Earth and all its citizens, they agreed on their requests. And so the newcomer aliens became part of our world, of our culture, of our life. They gave great prosperity our days and helped us a lot even in improving ourselves, our way of living. So that was the right decision, the right time to greet them, to make the ThhhhrK become a new part of our world. And all the peoples understood that, soon.

Once upon a time there was Deception.

The only thing that the ThhhhrK hadn't told us was that they were on the run. And they had foes in deep space. Terrible enemies more powerful and advanced than them. And most of all, more cruel! So, when this new alien species got nearby our Sun, they discovered the traces of their old rivals ThhhhrK and followed them at once. Until they finally found our world. And that changed everything. Forever!

Once upon a time there was Earth.

They started a war, without even announcing that, destroying all the new major colonies set by the ThhhhrK on the planet surface or on the Moon. And in the process they wiped out large portions of our continents and islands. Then they began dropping thousands of landing ships full of cyborg- soldiers and an awful sack of our resources was set in motion. It only lasted one week, after that most of the population on the planet simply disappeared, cause to bombing, fighting, killing and starving. Many among us stayed hidden. But hiding was not enough. They came for us, for all of us, and they found everyone. In their alien eyes, we were responsible for being on the wrong side, for helping the ThhhhrK- their worst enemies- for hosting them among us and- most seriously- for listening to their wrong religious principles and legends. Now our entire birth- planet was obscene! That was too much, nobody who had dared such an offense could be allowed to live longer. So their religion dictated. And their religion was the Law of the Winners. A few remnants among us, like me, thought that they were terribly wrong, they were doing something monstrous, they had to be stopped. But, even if they were wrong, they were more powerful than our alien allies, more powerful than us, more powerful even than Justice, Truth, Reason. In a way, they were more powerful than Man. And no one could oppose them. No way.

Once upon a time there was Man.

In the end our once- beautiful planet was completely destroyed. This way, counts of indictment were terminated. Someone among us was saved, anyway, at least as genes in our alien conquerors' genetic databank which included several samples from one thousand species all over this huge space sector. But we are not dead yet. In fact, while our bodies have been eliminated ( the same for our history… ) our minds were still alive. As for me, I- formerly a man of fifty- serve now as an auxiliary part of a supertechnological A. I. used from the aliens to check daily the sub- systems of a junk- facility placed on one of their giant spaceships. So, mentally, I am not entirely deceased…But, maybe cause to the overall genetic manipulation done to my structure by our new Masters, this condition just starts even pleasing me. I would have managed a brief smile, if I had a face. Maybe, I begin being human no more, after all.

Tina had a cute little ass! The guys in her apartment building all thought so. They would jockey for position whenever she would leave her apartment, just to get a closer look at her teeny, tiny, sweet, adorable ass. Fred her next-door neighbor could be seen with his camera, standing on the edge of his balcony, trying to get a photo with his zoom lens. Tina knew full well the kind of attention her ass was getting…and she liked it, because it made her sort of a local celebrity.

"That's a cute little ass you got there," Fred said as she left her apartment for a walk around the complex.

"Thank you," she smiled. "Would you like to pat it nice and soothing like," she inquired?

"Could I? That would be great! It's so pretty," he said as he reached down to stroke it. "Your ass is a lot firmer than I had imagined. Would you mind if I got some of my friends to come over and feel how firm and muscular your ass is?" he said rising up once again to find himself looking deeply into her entrancing green eyes.

"Just consider my ass community property. With a cute little ass like mine, I can't keep it all to myself," she said fluttering her eyelashes.

"Spread the joy around I always say," Fred mumbled as he walked away.

As Tina started jogging in order to keep her ass healthy and strong, she noticed the stares from all the guys and most of the women that she would pass and thought to herself, I'm sure glad my ass is getting me all of this attention. I don't feel so lonely anymore.

As Tina stopped to get her breath, an older business lady who lived in her apartment complex came up to her and asked, "Where did you get that precious, adorable ass?" which she said as she bent down to caress it.

"I bought it some months ago at a ranch that breeds miniature donkeys. Most of them are bred from 36 to 42 inches, but this little princess has never grown over 25. They say you can't house break livestock, but she is a highly intelligent creature and has lived in my apartment now for 3 months without a single mishap," Tina stated proudly.

"So she's a smart ass too?" the businesswoman remarked.

"Yes, likely because of her mixed breeding with other livestock, we're not sure with what," Tina elaborated expecting the next comment.

The woman predictably continued, "So she is…"

"Half-assed," Tina said finishing her sentence.

Back in her apartment, Tina continued with her part time business of making candy replicas of her little donkey to sell at Christmas. She called them Candy Asses and even started a website feature the delectable items called My Sweet Ass Inc.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. She rose up from her computer to see who it was so late at night.

"Your ass stinks!" the apartment complex owner stated angrily, holding back his indignation as much as it was possible.

"Excuse me? Are you referring to my butt, Mr. Hinkle?" Tina said trying to throw him off track.

"No, No, Hell No! I'm referring to that stupid ass that I can see through the doorway, rolling it's ass all over your bed in there," he adamantly stated to regain the control of the conversation.

"Oh her, well that's my Aunt…" she pauses to think up a quick lie, "Don…Donkia…she's from Italy."

"I can smell her from here," the manager said getting more irate by the second.

"She's got a really bad…" Tina rambled thinking fast, "di…diarrhea. Yes, that's it, really bad diarrhea and sometimes…"

"Get your sorry ass out of my apartment by Saturday night or so help me, I'll kick your ass out onto the street!" he seethed vehemently. "And I mean…both your asses!"

As the manager stormed off, Tina knew she had a big decision to make, a moment of truth if you will. She couldn't afford another apartment and yet she had grown so attached to her precious little ass. Sometimes, she would stare at her ass in the mirror, while she lay in bed, stroking it.

As Tina continued to contemplate her decision, she could only see two options; move or get rid of her beautiful ass, which was now, so much a part of her. There has got to be a third option she thought and so she meditated on it until she fell soundly asleep.

Late Saturday night, having determined what course of action she must take, she went to see the owner of the apartment complex in his private quarters.

As she knocked on the door, she could hear sounds inside his apartment as if he had been asleep and was stumbling around in the dark. When he finally opened the door, she rammed a long, jagged-edged, sharp bladed knife into his stomach, while covering his mouth with her other hand. As his eyes bulged from the searing pain he felt from his abdomen, she slit his throat from ear to ear, silencing his complaints forever. As his blood trickled downward, her little donkey licked up the puddles almost simultaneously as they hit the floor. Her ass was good about cleaning up after herself. She was so clean you know.

Fortunately, the manager had a near empty freezer and so she hacked up his body in his bathtub and made meat patties out of his flesh, muscle and organs, storing them in his freezer and feeding her little donkey servings of him for months until he was all gone, even pressure cooking his bones into mush.

Wow! With some quick thinking on her part, she really saved her ass!

The hillock gave Gill and his shield mates a fighting chance against their stoat-headed foe, for the tall, slim Ronen averaged seven feet in height, towering over a human on level ground. The brown, white, and black-furred creatures charged Third Company's hard point again and again, screaming their high-pitched wails of anger and challenge, swinging swords, axes and clubs with mad abandon. Not a few of the Guard faltered under this onslaught, for, though the humans' tactics felled a disproportionately high number of the foe and their goat-headed allies, the Capran, the beasts absorbed these losses without wavering and drove on, climbing over their dead like turves of the earth.

Only an hour past dawn, when the Stoats and Goats had blown their high horns and launched the attack, the Guard lines began showing the first signs of breaking. All along the crest of the hill the Fourth Company lay in clumps of panting humanity where they should have been on their feet, preparing to relieve Third. But many of these men could not, or else would not, rise when the order came, begging instead for more time to recoup their strength, while their brothers died in job lots a few hundred feet away.

Gillius could not look back to survey his would-be relief, for he was ankle deep in the blood of his brothers and their foes. A Capran dressed in boiled leather, his curved horns painted black and red, bellowed an ululating goatish cry, swinging his ax in an upward arc meant to split Gillius from hip to head, but the young human evaded the blow, and lashed out with his short sword, catching the goat-thing in its fur-coated throat, ending its war cries for good and all. Behind the goat came a stoat, swinging a curved cutter's sword with vicious efficiency, the blow coming so swiftly Gill had no time to raise his shield, but stumbled awkwardly to one side, the blade striking sparks off his rusty chain mail.

The Guardsman on Gill's right, having finished a goat only seconds before, turned and plunged a long dagger into the stoat's side between the steel brackets on the thing's cuirass. It screamed and shuddered, and Gill struck off its head.

Gill nodded thanks to his fellow human – there was no time for words – and both turned to find new enemies hungry for their deaths.

Part of Gill yearned to hear the horns blow retreat from farther up the hill, but he quashed the idea, even as he savaged another goat. No retreat would come. The Guard Companies, all fifty of them, had been reduced to these last two over twelve years of endless battle. And now, on this last hill, in this last battle, human kind had nowhere else to go. At the summit, not even hidden from sight, stood a cave entrance, in which the last surviving freeholders – men, women, and children – perhaps three hundred in all huddled in fear and gnawing panic, knowing their lives were forfeit, with only this last remnant of the Guard between them and raging, feral death.

Of a sudden, the skies above the battlefield darkened with black rain clouds out of otherwise blue skies and then brilliant skeletal fingers of lightning smote the earth where the greatest concentration of human defenders stood sword to shield with the foe. Stoats and Goats died with the humans, but there were always more of those to fling against man's dwindling herd, and the number of humans killed was appalling.

Wails of fury, fear, and abject despair erupted from human throats to linger after the rolls of thunder died. The stoats and goats ran in graceless yet efficient gaits, pouring towards the blackened patch of hillock where the human lines had not so much broken as been incinerated.

"Balls!" cursed the Guardsman who had lately saved Gill's life. "Now they bring their putrid sorcery against us? Now, when we are all but bloodied to death? Filthy mages. Filthy magic. Let them give us honorable deaths by steel, not these vile Mysteries!"

Gill did not look at the man, but stood watching the foe scrambling up the hill, knowing he could do nothing with his sword and shield to stop their inexorable climb. His body shook with fear and dread, though not only that of his own mind and spirit, but that of the men around him, whose greatest hopes had come to roost upon this last bastion of safety, only to crumble in their palms.

"Too bad our Priests killed all our magic users," said Gill, his voice high, almost childlike even to his own ears.

The old warrior frowned, for such words would have been treason only a day before. After a moment he shrugged, and said, "Aye, lad. I suppose it is at that. I've always been faithful, never wanted the taint of magic in human lands, but all that seems a bit foolish now, don't it?"

Several stoats and one of their goat underlings who could not maneuver through the crowd of their kinsmen flooding up the hillock took notice of Gillius and the old warrior then, and started towards them, screaming in their high-pitched, annoying way.

"Well, looks like I might get that steel-shafted death I wanted after all," said the warrior with a wry quirk of his mouth.

Gill dropped his sword and shield, and unlatched his helm to fling it away as well. The warrior glanced at him, nodded his understanding, even acceptance of the young man's choice to die without fighting, and turned to face the foe, sword raised.

Gillious rose into the air, arms splayed wide, the sun gleaming off his blood-stained armor in a way it had no right to do.

With a cry of mixed pain and ecstasy, the young Guardsman breathed a rain of fire down on the enemy like water gushing from a fountainhead.

Guy Martin reached the trailhead about ten after six. It was only late-April, but he could tell it was going to get hot and he wanted to get his hike in before the Arizona sun became too intense.

With the sun still behind the mountains ahead, Guy trekked across the desert floor through the Mesquite and cacti. He always hit the trail early so he could enjoy the solitude. In recent years, he had grown weary of human contact. A stressful, mind-deadening desk job with annoying, boring co-workers, a messy, painful divorce, it all added up to a wish to avoid people.

After crossing a wide, sandy wash Guy stopped at the base of the first climb to look around. Behind him was the parking lot and to his right buildings and corrals of a large dude ranch just outside the park. Taking a deep breath, he headed up the first climb.

Beyond the first climb was another, followed by a nice flat stretch before the trail meandered up a steep but thankfully short incline. Guy crossed a tiny creek above a ravine where the trail dove down, then rose up again to parallel a Saguaro-littered, towering hill. Crossing the creek again at the top of hill, he soon reached a level area of tall grass that hid the remains of an old corral that only he, and a handful of veteran hikers, even knew existed.

With the sun about to edge over the Rincons, Guy stopped to rest on a large flat rock just off the trail. He drank water, snacked trail mix, leaned back to relax a moment. It was a beautiful, if quickly warming day. There was no one in sight. Perfect.

Using his day bag as a pillow, Guy leaned back and took in his surroundings. Scrub plants, various cacti, something rooting around in the tall grass. It was a javelina, one of the ugly, snorting, little black-haired pigs so common to the region. Guy watched it trot past where the corral had been and then saw further on, nearly hidden by the natural gray camouflage of their bodies, three young deer. They were quietly munching on the grass and Guy observed them casually, his eyes blinking as a wave of relaxation swept over him. He stretched out fully on the rock and closed his eyes. In seconds he had drifted off.

In his light sleep, he dreamed of a cool river and tall, leaf-filled oak trees in some empty country he did not know. There were no people there. He was all alone. Alone as he had been these five years now. No wife, no family, no one.

Feeling a deep, not altogether unhappy melancholia, he took in more of the pleasant, if unfamiliar environment. In the deeply blue sky above there were small, puffy clouds floating by, and large birds circling in thermals. Below, closer to him and directly in his view there was an interesting ripple in the atmosphere, like a stone having been tossed onto a perfectly still pond.

A ripple in the atmosphere? Guy struggled to wake, something was happening directly before him there, not in some dreamed of foreign land but here, now, in the desert. It was something like a heat wave but more physical. The air within the wave was in concentric circles, undulating … opening. Something was coming out of that air pocket.

Suddenly, one bipedal figure emerged, then another. Their features were hidden by the dark suits they wore. They held long metal objects – rifle-like weapons? Guy didn't move a muscle. He just watched the figures step out of the air bubble and onto the desert floor. They stood on the ground as if unsure of its stability. They began to look around the area. Guy remained motionless. Aliens, they had to be aliens. They didn't seem to notice him.

The figures turned towards Guy's right. Saw the deer. The deer raised their heads briefly but went on eating. One of the figures aimed its weapon at the deer. Guy tensed, expecting to hear a shot ring out. But instead, one of the deer perked up and began to walk towards the aliens. She went right up to them, they touched her, she disappeared into the rippled air. The little javelina reappeared in the bush, the aliens aimed at it. The stumpy pig jogged over, was touched, vanished like the deer.

Guy watched for a few moments more as the aliens collected several types of birds, a handful of lizards, and one large rattlesnake. Seemingly satisfied with their haul, the two aliens turned to enter the portal themselves when one of them stopped. He turned and with a slow, jerky turning of his head looked directly at Guy. His partner then did the same.

"Oh, hell," Guy said louder than he intended.

Both aliens raised the long metal objects directly at Guy. He raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender. They lowered their weapons. Guy looked around, he was all alone in the desert. There was nowhere to run, nothing to do, no one to cry out to for help.

The bipedal figures motioned towards him. This was it, then. First contact. First opportunity to interact. Guy took a deep breath. The bipedals motioned again. He stepped forward, fought his fear, centered his strength, walked forward.

Up close Guy still couldn't make out what the aliens looked like. Their uniforms hid all features. The closer he came to the portal, the stronger its tug was. He tried to pull back but the force was too strong. The aliens nodded their heads, made some sort echoing sounds that must have been their language.

Guy fought his fear, gave into the force that pulled him forward. Releasing a deep sigh and all connections to his familiar world, he at last stepped calmly, fearlessly into the wavering portal of air.

Hewa was just a teenaged earth nerd. He hardly ever got laid. Sometimes physical things got in the way, as in:

"And what do you think YOU'RE doing?!!!" Looking up from around the hips of the baby sitter, panties down around her ankles, he thought, it's a wonder they know how to have kids.

"If you don't know, maybe you're the ones that need Sex-Ed." But this was no time for enlightenment. Always polite, he said "Excuse me for being rude," bolted out the door to his motorcycle, and drove off.

"What timing!" he said to himself. I guess Carolyn is in deep shit with her parents… if they find out. I hope she can keep her mouth shut. He laughed at that one and went home to beat off.

Most of the time, the harder he tried the unluckier he got. Until one day.

She was new to the area. That much Hewa knew. He met her at the local tobacco shop on his way to purchase some papers. She was driving a new, blood red, Coupe-de-Ville. He held the door open for her. He did have manners even if he looked like a dirt bag.

She smiled and winked.

He mumbled to himself, "I'm not going to have any luck with this one. She's just being nice, rich and all that."

She turned and looked at him, "Don't be so unsure of yourself."

"What? I didn't say anything…out loud."

"No you didn't. I can read minds."

"Ok girlie, what am I thinking?"

"A very complicated position, for an earth-boy. And, very inviting."

"Earth-boy?"

Yes, E-A-R-T-H-B-O-Y." She lowered her voice, "No one is going to believe YOU anyway. I'm here to get impregnated by the male being of MY choice. WE need to extend the genetic pool of our expanding galactic empire. My sisters and I are all over this rock you call earth, on the same mission, for the same emissions." She laughs at her own joke. "Your type of monkey based origins will do."

Hewa laughed so hard, he almost pissed in his pants.

"You have a real nice laugh. I like that" she said.

Her eyes were twinkling, in what he felt was hungry manner. Hewa ignored it. Instead, he inquired, "You are so far out girlie. I'll go along with your story. What's your name, your earth-girl name?"

"Terry is my earth name. And yours is Hewa."

"How did you know that?!!! We just met!"

"I told you. You're not stupid. In fact, by earth standards, you are extremely smart. That's another point in your favor."

"For what?"

"Impregnating me, that's what! We need good genes for our survival and expansion. I get to pick who, when, and where."

This was one strange chic. Hewa had never been approached in this fashion. She was different and had an imagination just as wild as his.

"Ok Terry, if that's really your name. Suppose I go along with you and 'your story'. I get to have sex with you. Then you procreate and take over the planet. Have I got that right?"

"More or less. You get the idea."

"And then what?"

"You'll be well rewarded."

Hewa is thinking, Say No, to this beauty? I'd have to be out of my mind. She's batso crazy. But whatthefuck, this one is out of this world, and SHE wants ME! This could be fun.

Terry looks him in the eye, "Yes I AM."

"You are what?"

"Out of this world, and FUN."

Hewa ignores the obvious mind reading. His hormones are getting the best of him. He has two heads and only enough blood to keep one functioning properly. The one on top of his shoulders is on auto pilot.

"Okay so where is this assignation supposed to take place?"

"Do you want me or not?" She demands, deadly serious.

"I've never met anyone so serious about getting laid and…"

"Not laid, impregnated. Laid's for later, business first."

"As I Stated, you have to be willing to do this. You have free will. Unless you do this act on your own volition, I cannot conceive."

"So I have to make the conscious choice to have sex with you. If I do, I get to be one of the chosen to assist in the replacement of the human race?"

"In a nut shell."

"In a nut shell," he repeats sarcastically.

"Yes, or, no?" She winks and gestures to the vehicle.

My god she is beautiful and she's as crazy as I am.

"I'm in." He laughs at his pun.

"Yes, very funny," she says.

"Nice wheels," he says.

Terry then says in a cold factual manner, "Earth-boy, last chance to change your mind. It's your choice. The best fucking you will ever get in your life, and… the reduction of your race."

He thinks, 'wacko chic', but says, "Your place? I don't have the income to afford this type of vehicle," patting the dash. "Your place has got to be classier."

She laughs, "You have no idea."

"Terry, what is your real name?"

"It's Tet-trie, short for Tetra the Terrible. I rule the southern quadrant of this galaxy. It is one of our administrative duties to insure our propagation and expansion.

Shit, she doesn't stop the game.

To Hewa's amazement, the vehicle that was once a Cadillac is now entering a monstrous space vehicle. He realizes this is an alien abduction and he's going to be one of the causes of human replacement.

"Holy shit, You weren't kidding!"

"You committed to this, of your own free will. I gave you all the data you asked for. You made the choice," she states.

She is slightly clothed in a strange material, a hat and heels. She is the most beautiful radiant woman he could ever have imagined.

"The ruler of the galaxy?"

"Southern quadrant," she corrects him.

"I know what you really like," she whispers in his ear as she kneels down, "my prince."

"Earth be damned."

The man was painting a quiet pastoral scene; a green field, under blue skies, when he became aware of the presence in the room.

"Who are you, and how did you unlock the door?" asked the man.

"I am the Devil. I have… many names. Lucifer, the Great Deceiver, the Enemy of Mankind. And I did not enter through the door; it is still locked."

The man lowered his paintbrush and turned about, ready to launch into a tirade against this impudent interrupter - but the words died in his mouth as he beheld the interloper.

I shall not go into the details of the Devil's appearance; suffice it to say that no-one, on seeing him in the flesh, could possibly doubt his identity. (Presumably, this is why he hardly ever elects to appear in the flesh.)

"I want to make a deal with you." continued the dark figure.

"Are you asking me," asked the man, somewhat staggered at the sudden appearance in his private room, "to sell my soul?"

"Yes."

"No. I will not."

"But I have not yet made my offer."

"Nonetheless. I refuse." The man turned his back, and continued to paint, trying to ignore his crawling spine.

The Devil leaned back in the chair, making it creak. "I could elevate you to rule over this country." he said. "As a first step."

"Tempting, but still no."

"Well, of course not. That much you could do yourself, with a bit of effort. What I am offering is far more important. You see, there is a person - a Jew - currently a citizen of this country, who will, if left undisturbed, quietly invent a revolutionary scientific theory which will, as a consequence, allow other people to build the most horrific, most destructive weapon known to man. A weapon capable of killing millions of innocent people, all at once. I can offer you this Jew's name. In advance."

The man paused, and turned around, lowering his brush. "You're offering me the name of a man who will invent a weapon that will kill millions?"

"The theory behind the weapon, actually, and I'm not saying that this Jew is necessarily a man, but those are minor quibbles. Basically, yes."

"And I'll stop him?"

The Devil shrugged. "If you want."

"And how does that help you?"

"Oh, please." The Devil sighed. "Millions of innocent people? Dead like that?" There was a snap of fingers. "Straight out of my hands? What better reason do I need?"

"But wouldn't stopping him be an act of great good?"

"Oh, yes. But, you see, I'd have your soul already. It would make no difference."

"And how do I know I even would be able to stop this person?" the man enquired. "He might have moved out of the country before I can."

"Oh, no. The Jew will still remain a citizen, and remain here, for quite some time after your ascent to power."

"Well. My answer is still no."

"Is that your final answer?" asked the Devil, quietly.

"That is my final answer."

"Very well, then. The offer will never be open again."

And with that, the Devil was gone.

The man began to paint a small storm cloud on the edge of his picture; the first of many.

A Jew, hmmmm? I'm sure that there's something I can do to stop him, based even on that most tentative of identifications… or my name is not Adolf Hitler.

The lights go on at six am, the way they always do. Up and down the cell block, locks click in rapid succession. Twenty metal doors swing open, freeing thirty-nine men who stumble into the corridor. Forming a line, they march to the toilet and then to the cafeteria.

The women behind the glass and steel counters are serving oatmeal and stewed apples. For once the air does not reek of grease and floor cleaner. The sunlight which breaks through the high, barred windows dazzles my eyes, and I almost forget where I am—

Then I remember. Something dark and bitter rises in my throat. I have no appetite for food, and so I move on to the exercise yard. A handful of young Mexicans are already sunning themselves. The old man they call Voodoo is outside, too. He signals to me to join him, but I'm in no mood for company. I pick an empty corner and squat in the dirt, intending to smoke. But it seems I've lost my taste for tobacco. Instead, I watch the sun as it slowly rises in the eastern sky.

The light makes ripples in the air, as if the wind is soaking up the sunshine. Has it always done that? And the way it touches the faces of other prisoners, framing their heads with halos— how could I not have noticed that before? Some of the halos are thin and dull, others are wide and bright. A few are full of holes, as if moths have been chewing on them—

I rub my eyes, but the strange vision does not go away. And that sound— the air is humming. Not an electric vibration. A soft summer sound, like dragonflies darting over a lake or gnats swarming over ripe fruit. It has been a long, long time since I heard the sounds of summer. Twenty years since they sent me to prison for a rape and murder that I did not commit. Twenty more years until I'll be eligible for parole, an old man, his summers long lost, with only the bitter cold of winter and death to look forward to—

The sun is still up in the sky, but it's light is now feeble, like a single naked light bulb in a big warehouse, the kind my father used to work in. He died shortly after my trial. My brothers and sisters claimed that the shock of my murder conviction killed him. None of them have gotten in touch with me since I was sent to prison. Mom used to visit a couple of times a year, before her arthritis got bad. After that, she sent me letters and packages of food. The letters stopped coming about six months ago. I don't know if she is alive or dead. Dead, I guess, or else so old that she doesn't remember that she has a son in prison. I would like to see her one more time before she dies, but I guess that's not going to happen.

So cold. Though it's June in Texas, I am chilled to the bone. I go back inside. Prisoners are picking up their mail. I skirt around them, but someone thrusts a package into my hands. I glance down at the cardboard box. There is my name. I look for a return address, but the upper left hand corner of the package is blank.

Curiosity drives away the chill. Though I know it will just be some cookies that I have no appetite for or maybe a stack of books that my aging eyes won't be able to read, I am filled with excitement, like a kid who finds his name on a present under the Christmas tree. What's inside the box? I shake it, but it does not rattle. I sniff it. There is no scent. I pry up one corner with a fingernail. Still no clue.

Carefully, I ease open the box. And find myself staring into pure white light, so dazzling that it ought to blind me, but I can see just fine. Better than I have in years. The sound of children's laughter fills my ears. I can smell, almost touch their innocent joy—

I glance around to see if anyone else has noticed. They are all absorbed in their own letters and packages. All except Voodoo, who is watching me from the doorway. He is always watching me lately, trying to get my attention.

I look down at the box of light then back up at Voodoo. If anyone will understand, it's him.

"Do you get it now?" he asks as I show him the box.

"No, that's what I wanted to ask you—" But even as the words leave my mouth, I understand. "I'm dead."

"You been dead. Six months now."

I lift my hand before my face and study it. If I concentrate, I can see through my palm.

I don't doubt him, but I don't want to believe him either. "If I'm dead why am I still in prison. I didn't kill that girl no matter what her roommate said."

"I know you didn't," the old man reassures me. "And now the rest of the world knows, too. They tested the DNA from the crime scene. It didn't match yours. The state issued you a pardon. They sent a check to your mother."

"Mom knows I'm not a murderer?" I can hardly contain my joy.

"She always knew you weren't a murder," says Voodoo. "Now the rest of the world knows, too. So you don't have to keep haunting this prison. You can move on."

Move on. What a good idea. I turn to go. But before I can leave there is one more question I need to ask the old man. "Did you send that box?"

"What box?"

"Yeah, I thought so." The weight of bitterness lifts from my shoulders. Light and laughter fill me. I close my eyes…