The Zone

Charles had adjusted to the fact that all the usual multitude of colours had vanished from the spectrum of his vision and had left only black, white, and shades of grey in the world around him.

When he had woken up that morning it had been quite alarming, having thought something terrible had happened to his eye sight, but soon he had realized that it wasn't just his vision; he had awoken inside an old Twilight Zone episode.

He had been watching a marathon of them on television before falling asleep on the couch the night before, and now Charles Houghton was living one; all of them in fact.

And he was having a really good time.

Going about his day, he had encountered very familiar characters, places, and situations; a man who only wanted to go home again on the train into work, an out of place slot machine in the lobby of his office building that always came up a winner, and even a stopwatch he had found on the washroom floor that indeed froze time around him.

It was great.

Anytime a new twist was about to play out in front of him, Charles would excitedly shout out what was going to happen, and then, dejectedly, the strange characters would go through the motions of their now ruined surprise.

Sadly, the players in each situation would then move along, grumbling to themselves that Charles was ruining it for everyone.

Yet, he was thoroughly enjoying being in all of his favourite moments from the classic show.

Each day would bring a few different scenarios and he would laugh and clap with delight when he remembered which one it was.

Often he remarked to the victims of each of the plot twists that he would have seen them coming a ways off and how could they not have.

This only caused more grumbling and glowering looks from them but Charles would laugh gleefully and go about his day until the next event occurred.

Until the day came when he had awoken once again in the black and white world and nothing new happened. He had exhausted all the storylines.

No more tiny alien invaders, no more living mannequins, not even any robot doppelgangers.

People on the street started to stare him as he yelled at some unseen entity to come out now, that it had been a good gag, that he wouldn't make fun anymore, he was sorry, and would just enjoy the experiences without comment.

He pleaded for them to just continue, even with newer, not as good ones; it was fine, just as long as something happened. Anything.

Charles then realized what was happening; he would have to go through his days just as he always had, normal, boring, without twists; a regular, uninteresting life.

And he began to scream.

Hunter

The muted lights pulsed through the narrow windows as the elevator sped on its ascension. The strobing light lit half her face with distorted shadows as the other half remained in the dark of the otherwise empty lift.

A focused scowl that darkened her face further matched her mood; had there not been a patch over her right eye, its fiery glare would have burnt a hole in the elevator's door.

Leather creaked as she squeezed her gloved fist at her hip, anger building up inside so that her entire body was flexing as the elevator neared its apex.

An alarm sounded as the roof of the lift irised open and the floor lifted her up the final few meters to come out standing level with the building's rooftop. With no pause, she strode across the roof toward the black metal vehicle that sat waiting amongst the flashing red lights that lined the building's edge.

Wind whipped her auburn hair in the night air as she walked unfazed to mount the hover craft and don her sleek helmet that matched the inky black of her jumpsuit perfectly, so that she blended into darkness like a shadow.

Instinctively, she reached to feel for the rings she had worn around her neck for so long she could not remember a time they hadn't been there. A quick stab of panic gave way to rage once more as she remembered that they were there no longer; stolen in the night.

Her five rings of power were taken from her by that devious little thief.

And now, she thought as she jerked her hand away from her neck to grip the handle of the hover cycle and thumbed the ignition angrily, a heavy, thudding hum was all there was to indicate the machine reacted; now she was going to do what she did best.

A blue glow grew under the cycle's hover pads and the shadowy machine floated up a meter or so off the rooftop.

The display of her helmet visor blinked on and the dull amber lights began to track all the unseen movement of the traffic in the skies above the vast cityscape. A red indicator dot appeared to the west, serpentining across the horizon, growing further away as she watched with malice at the indignant usurper the red dot represented.

Time for her to hunting.

With a movement of her wrist, the hover cycle jumped up into the air and dove down over the roof's edge, disappearing for a moment only to zoom back up into view again and tear off into the night sky; an almost invisible hunter pursuing her prey.

Scroll Search

Rummaging through the piles of scrolls that littered the high-reaching room, he frantically searched the one he knew he had seen only a few months earlier.

Chiding himself for not having a more organized sorting system, he threw the unwanted parchments with the multitude of others on the ground.

After a while he sighed heavily and looked up to survey the shelves that lined the rounded walls that reached up into the vast space of the library that was housed within the old oak tree.

It was one of the many the wizard had hidden throughout the forest, and the last one he had been to over the last few days in search of the missing spell.

As far as spells go, it was a very minor one of very little power, yet his whole world depended on finding it.

A novice wizard fresh out of apprenticeship could cast it, nothing a Grand Sorcerer of the Nth Order as himself could not conjure in his sleep. Yet, he had somehow forgotten the exact wording and was now filled with frustration and desperation to find the blasted spell scroll.

With a harrumph, the cranky wizard levitated himself up to scan the scroll-filled shelves in the loftier levels of the oak tree library.

Each one he thought might be the one he sought built his aggravation as they turned out not to be as he flung them angrily down, fluttering to the ground below.

Soon the whole archive was filled with floating papers of magic that sparked and crackled with energy as they bumped into each other on their journey to the floor.

The wizard's vexing search continued until the shelves were bare and the piles of parchment on the ground had reached the third level of the spiralling tree tower, blocking the lower windows and doorway completely.

Finally there were only two dusty scrolls sitting on the highest of shelves near the intricately carved ceiling which depicted ancient symbols and icons that wove wards of protection over the entire library as well as added to the mysterious beauty of the spire.

Despondently, he floated up to the scrolls, convinced neither were the one he remembered seeing a few months back while he had been working on much grander schemes. They seemed untouched for many centuries, like so many of the spells had been, but he had checked all the rest unfruitful, he might as well be totally disappointed he thought as he reached for the first.

Just before his fingers touched the yellowed and dry roll of paper, the wizard was hit with a thought that caused him to groin loudly. He HAD thought of a filing system some time ago, he had just forgotten about it until now.

He then bypassed the first scroll and snatched up the last.

Unfurling the roll, he snorted at himself with distain. Of course; he had filed each scroll he would need in the last place he would look, thus theoretically, avoiding the entire search for what was needed by simply looking for it there first.

A theory only proven if one remembered to prove it.

A quick scan of the spell jogged the wizard's memory and with a booming, unearthly voice he uttered the mystical enchantment with a flourish of his long, boney hand.

With a flash and a pop the red and irritated blemish that had taken root in the middle of his forehead vanished and his unkempt beard and hair quaffed themselves into perfection.

Creating a reflective surface out of thin air, the now dapper looking wizard regarded himself with smug admiration.

Now, he was ready for his date with mountain sorceress he had been trying court for decades.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he snapped his fingers, causing the piles of papers that polluted the tree to start to reroll themselves up and zip through the air back to their places upon the stacks of shelves while he descended gracefully through the din, whistling a happy tune as he floated right out the door into the forest green to meet his enchantress fair.

House Of D

Once there was a cozy little house that wanted nothing more than to be lived in and loved. By a family, a couple, or bachelor, it didn't matter to the house, as long as it could fulfill its purpose; to give warmth and shelter to those that would love and appreciate it in turn.

Yet, for all its quaintness and charm, the little house could never keep an owner for very long. For you see, through no fault of its own, the cozy little house was haunted.

Over the years, the spirits of those that had once lived and died within its walls, came back to the house that they had called home and now filled its rooms with a cold dread that anyone who stepped foot inside could feel; an icy chill up and down their spines.

Whispering voices, flickering lights, phantasmagorical furniture moving on its own, and spectral images in the dark, all driving any new, living, owners away in a fright; leaving the little house sad and alone.

Over the years, the neglect of not having any owners had left the once pristine little house run-down and dilapidated. So much so, that after going so long being unloved and uninhabited, the house gave up any hope of ever again having anyone to call it home.

That is, until the day a well-groomed man in a dark suit came one evening with the realtor to look over the property.

The house became anxious as the saleswoman nervously took the man through its dust-filled rooms; all the time hoping that none of the ghouls and ghosts would manifest themselves and scare him off.

Just as the house thought nothing was going to happen and it might potentially find a new owner, the walls began to bleed and a troupe of the nastier spirits started to wail and knock shelves and chairs about.

The poor house's hopes fell before they even started to rise, yet, even though the young realtor screamed in terror and ran out into the street, the handsome yet pale young man stood stoically inspecting the finely-made valour valances above the bedroom window.

Continuing to walk through the rest of the house on his own, the man finally exited through the front doors, all manner of paranormal activities happening inside behind him as he stood on the creaking wood of the porch's floorboards; none of it fazing him even slightly.

The realtor called to him from the other side of the street that she would show him some other houses, but he simply regarded the house itself; a slight flash of embarrassed heat came over the house as the man looked it over and a tiny sliver of hope started to build.

Then man turned quickly to face the realtor, flourishing the tailored cape around his shoulders dramatically.

"No, madam," Said the man with a thick accent. "I believe I will quite, at home here."

A smile slid across his face, showing a flash of white fangs that caused the realtor to run screaming once again, throwing the deed paperwork into the air; presumably for him to sign later.

But the house took no notice of the horror on the fleeing saleswoman's face; it was filled with so much exuberance that the spirits and their blood within nearly bust through its rafters.

It was going to have an owner again; a handsome, foreign young owner with a full and wonderful laugh that filled the air as lightning streaked across the darkening night sky, and would hopefully fill the house with life for many, many years to come.

Fixer

The knocking came again; whoever was at the door was not going away.

Franklyn got up reluctantly from the sofa and walked across the living room to the front door where he stood listening for a moment in the silence between knocks.

Another barrage came and he sighed to himself as he opened the door, letting in the freezing cold air of the night.

"It won't help." He said to the startled young man standing on the snowy steps.

The stranger stared into the darkened doorway, straining to see who it was that had answered, but Franklyn kept just out of the light of the street lamp's glow.

"Sorry?" The young man queried in a shivering voice. "Are you..."

"Whatever it is you want me to do, it won't help." Franklyn cut him off. "It never does. Not in the end."

The confusion in the young man's eyes melted away into desperation.

"You have to help!" He pleaded. "They said that you could help! They said you could..."

"Whatever they told you," Franklyn continued steadily. "It won't fix things, not how you think it..."

"Please, mister!" his voice now quivering with the same desperation within the man's eyes. "My daughter. My baby girl. You have to help! She... I have money."

He thrust his bare, red-raw fist out, filled with a bunch of crumpled bills; mostly ones.

Franklyn sighed to himself again, and then opened the door to let the light fall upon his gaunt, stubbled face.

"It's not about money, kid." He looked back into the living room as his cat looked up at him from its spot on the chair and then curled up tighter against the cold air he was letting in. "Look, go home. Sometimes things can't be fixed."

"Please." Tears welled up in the younger man's eyes as he clenched the meagre wad tighter.

Franklyn bent his head down with another long sigh, and then motioned for the stranger to come in as he walked back into the dimly lit living room.

The young man bustled in quickly as if Franklyn might change his mind before he could get through the doorway. With a loud bang, the door shut as he leaned back against it, catching his breath from the freezing cold outside.

Franklyn turned to regard the distressed young man standing in his living room, shaking his head at himself.

"My name is Dav..."

"It doesn't matter. I don't need to know who you are." Franklyn interrupted. "I don't want to know how you found me, or who told you about me. I just want to be left alone. People think that I can help them, but sometimes, some things can't be fixed. Sometimes, they shouldn't be."

The stranger stood silent, and then shrugged while his face twisted in hopelessness.

"I have to try." His voice cracked. "I have..." his arms fell limp at his sides as he began to sob.

Franklyn closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

It would end badly, it always did.

Holding his hands up as though someone was pointing a pistol at him, Franklyn breathed deeper and deeper. With each breath his chest moved up and out at a steady rate and the young man's sobs quieted as he watched with curiosity.

An undertone hum began to build that reverberated around Franklyn's outstretched hands as the space around his fingers and palms seem to become distorted in pulsating waves.

The hum grew in volume and the already dimly lit room became darker as the lights flickered.

The slumbering cat jumped up and bolted out of the room as everything started to shake with the reverberating hum.

All the while, Franklyn stood, calming breathing as the waves of distortion around his hands shimmered with a silver-flashing light.

The young man started to grope panic-stricken for the door as the whole house now felt as it was shaking to its foundations, but as he grabbed hold and turned the knob, the hum stopped. The room became steady and the lights levelled out to their previously dimmed state.

The stranger stared as Franklyn lowered his arms and stood normally again; eyes still closed, he breathed less deeply until his chest was barely noticeably moving.

Calmly, he opened his eyes, though he seemed to look right through the frightened young man in front of him.

"It's fixed." Franklyn said stoically.

"What the..." the young man breathed."What was that? What did you do?"

"I fixed things." He answered. "Though, as I said, it won't help. Sometimes, things aren't supposed to be fixed."

"But, I mean," the young man stammers. "What the fuck just happened? Waves..."

A buzzing came from his front coat pocket and the stranger pulled out his phone to answer it.

His eyes began to fill with tears once more as he listened to the caller on the other end. Yet, his face brightened with a euphoric light as the joyful tears began to roll down his smiling cheeks.

Franklyn sat back down on the sofa after the young man had giddily thanked him and ran off into the snowy night to rush back to wherever home was.

They were all like that, at first. Everyone that had come to him asking for help; asking for him to fix things.

All kinds of things; help with becoming smarter, prettier, stronger, richer; help overcoming all of life's hardships and obstacles that people are supposed to face on their own; to grow and learn from them.

Not things to have fixed for them.

But they always find out in the end, Franklyn thought to himself as the cat jumped back up onto his lap and began to purr. Sometimes things aren't meant to be fixed.

Especially death.

http://youtu.be/m2DLZkv4Yvg

Theory

There is a theory, that there is theory behind all things.

That there is a force, a pattern which guides everything in the universe along a set of rules; governing the behaviour of it all.

The behaviour of the planets, the stars, the motions of the waves in the ocean; which way a summer breeze blows a woman's hair so that her scent carries through the air and into the olfactory of the man's nose standing next to her on the street corner as they await the changing of the traffic light. The scent of her causing him to look over and become distracted by the beautiful way the morning light reflects off of her tanned skin; so that he steps out too early, and into the path of a passing bus, that strikes and kills him instantly.

Every aspect of every action and reaction, adhering to the laws set out in the theory that controls our lives; our universe.

Yet, what if there is no such set of rules; that there is no unified theory of all things.

And instead, at the center of all there is, was, and ever will be, there is just a room; a room full of break-dancing, robot cheetahs, snorting cocaine and staying up all night playing Super Bomberman on their old-school Super Nintendo.

But that is just a theory.

Tunnel Trains

Charles looked at the dark reflection of himself in the subway car's window as it sped through the grimy subterranean tunnels. After a long, tiring day, he just wanted to be at home with a cup of tea and the new mystery novel he had just purchased. In the dim distance, he could see the other subway train flash silver on its way in the opposite direction.

For a moment, he thought about the passengers on that train; on their way home to their varied lives. How different were theirs from his life; more exciting; less interesting; not that much different?

Another train flashed in the tunnel across the void and the noticed it was not travelling in the opposite direct as the one he rode, but in tandem with it.

Leaning in closer, Charles tried to get a better look as the two trains ran parallel to each other. He could see the other passengers in the brightly lit windows, sitting and standing just as the ones in his cart; equally unaware of each other's presence, save for one figure pressed up against the window's glass trying to get a better look.

Charles could see the other figure was wearing a similar suit to his own except the other gentleman wore a fine, grey fedora. A strange compulsion enacted Charles to wave to his fellow rider and at the same time, the other gentleman waved his greeting back.

Both of them were taken aback at the sight of each other's waving. Charles cocked his head in disbelief, for he could have sworn that the other rider had waved with a red and white fur-covered paw.

Putting his hands up against the window to cut out the glare of the lights, Charles squinted and tried in earnest to make out what his companion commuter really looked like.

However, the trains started to move further away from each other in the tunnels and as it passed out of sight into another passageway, he told himself he must have imagined what he thought he had seen.

It was impossible that there had been a well-suited fox riding a subway train full of other animals dressed like people on their way home from work.

Sitting back down in his seat, Mr Renard shook his head and scratched at his furry ear with his clawed paw, then readjusted his fedora so it wasn't pushed so far back.

No, thought the handsome little fox, he could not have seen a train full of humans, clothed and acting like civilized animals; must have been a trick of the shadows.

Trying to put the bizarre image out of his head, Mr Renard thought of which type of tea he would enjoy when he finally arrive home to his den.