Gilgamesh (a poem)

Alone I travel
King without a kingdom
Two parts god and one man
I who have slain two servants of the gods,
Who have traveled the wilderness
And climbed the mountain that touches heaven and hell
I who seek immortality to console myself of the loss of my friend
Alone I travel
Through the tunnel guarded by the deadly scorpion men
The tunnel through which the sun travels by night
Through the darkness I wander
Fear, the scorpion men said I would find here
Fear and pain
And finally, despair
In the oppressive darkness that obscures all light
The shadows take strange shapes
And I hear sounds
What lurks here? What horrible entities dwell in the darkness?
Fear I feel
The darkness is cold, bereft of any warmth
In the darkness I am unable to see the obstructions in my path
Pain I feel
I start to wonder whether I’m not dead
I wonder whether I am not in the underworld
Are those shadows not dead princes, feasting on clay?
Is that wind by my ear not a dead soul, who becomes like a fragile bird?
Despair I feel
Then, in the distance there is light
Faint light, far off light
Hope I feel
The light grows bright, the darkness less oppressive
I am at the tunnel exit
A wide new world stretches before my eyes

The Homecomeing

The dark clouds contrasted strongly with the festive mood of the crowd. Yellow ribbons and American flags flapped in the rising wind, the high school band played an off-key rendition of The Stars and Stripes Forever. A loud cheer sounded as the airplane pulled onto the runway.

John hated crowds, and had not wanted to come. He felt particularly out of place with the people in attendance. If it weren't for his conscience John would have walked away, but he had come for Martin. John was all Martin had left.

After three years Martin Page, John’s best friend and roommate since high school, was returning from the War a hero. John had barely heard from him in all that time. He had mixed feelings; and worries about what, exactly, his friend was coming home to. John shivered, pulled his coat tighter and wished that he was back home.

John’s stomach lurched as the soldiers exited the plane. One serviceman after another stepped onto the runway to be greeted by family and friends. Although they all looked exhausted and worn, each serviceman perked up, if only just a little, to fall into the arms of a loved one. Finally a man stepped off the plane alone, with no friends or family waiting to greet him. It took John a minute to realize that this was Martin.

Martin had changed. Like the other personnel he was sunburned, weary and slightly hunched over, as if the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. His blond hair was bleached almost white by the sun, and his stance lacked the easy, good-natured confidence that used to carry him. But John got the sense that something else was missing; intangible, yet vital. In fact, John could not shake the feeling that there was very little of his old friend standing in front of him; that there was very little of anything even remotely human in that Martin-shaped mass of flesh.

“Martin!” Martin smiled, or tried to. John remembered Martin having a wonderful smile that charmed everyone who saw it. The one he presented was barely even a grimace, a feeble imitation of what John recalled. When John met his friend’s green eyes he saw that the spark of mischief and life that used to light them was gone; the once-bright orbs now burnt-out cinders. Martin stepped forward and gave his friend an awkward, uncomfortable hug; as if he had forgotten how to do it properly.

“It’s good to see you, man.” Martin’s voice, like the rest of him, was off. While the words were warm the tone was emotionless, as if he were simply reciting them. “Thanks for coming.”

John forced himself to smile. “Of course, it’s good to have you back. Shall we move out of this crowd?” Martin nodded. As John elbowed his way through the crowd, Martin briefly grabbed his shoulder to stay with him. His grip tightened in a desperate hold before letting go. John silently breathed a sigh of relief and immediately felt guilty.

“I understand they’ve arranged something special in your honor. Our home town has a hero now.” Martin started.

“I don’t want to stay.” There was weariness in Martin’s voice, but nothing else. “Please John, just take me home.” John gave up even the pretense of being at ease.

“Sure, whatever you want.” He led Martin toward the car.

They passed a serviceman with his family. The man recognized Martin and, smiling, gave him a cheerful salute. Martin did not return the salute, but simply looked at him. For the first time John saw something in Martin’s eyes and expression that was not the disconcerting emptiness. John could not put a name to it, but it was unpleasant.


The ride home was every bit as awkward and uncomfortable as John had expected. The Martin John remembered would have talked; would have, in fact, been impossible to shut up. He would have been eager to relate all of his experiences and adventures; chattered on to no end about the most inconsequential details in a way that made them seem significant and fascinating.

The Martin who had come off the plane did not speak unless directly addressed, and only in the shortest possible replies. The rest of the time he sat in a silence that spoke volumes. About what, though, John could only try to guess. He did try.

“What’s the first thing you want to do now that you’re home?” Martin took so long to respond that John wondered if he had even heard the question.

“Sleep.” John waited for more, but it was not forthcoming. He tried a different tact.

“Have you heard from anyone else?”

“No, you?”

“I bumped into Mary at the grocery store last week.” John let a little of the emotion he felt about the subject slip into his words. If Martin noticed, he did not show it.
“How is she doing?” As with the rest of Martin’s speech the words were there, but completely emotionless; meaningless sounds.

“She sounded like she was okay.” John did not mention the notes of sadness and fear in her eyes when she talked about Martin. He also did not voice the unasked question of why they had ended their engagement. This took much effort; wasted, because John had never been subtle at the best of times. Nevertheless, Martin said no more on the subject. Surprisingly, it was he who next broke the long silence.

“Did you go to the funeral?”

“Of course. I’m sorry you couldn’t get the leave to attend.”

“Well, I’m glad that at the very least you were there.” There was almost a spark of warmth in Martin’s voice. John managed a sincere, though small, smile.

“It was a large turnout. Your parents were greatly loved by the community.”

“Car crash?” Any hint of emotion once again disappeared from Martin’s voice.

“That’s the story. There was a really bad storm and apparently the breaks weren’t working. The medical report says they died almost instantly.” Martin said no more, and it was silent for the rest of the drive home.

For the third night in a row John had trouble sleeping. He had tried everything he could think of, but none of it worked. Finally he got out of bed and moved restlessly about the apartment.

John tried to juggle, work on a short story he was in the middle of writing, and proofread the finished draft of another. He even popped in one of his favorite movies; but turned it off when he realized he was not paying attention. Nothing could drive away the dark thoughts that whirled in his mind.

John was worried about Martin. He had hoped that being at home would revive a little of his old spirits, but Martin was as dispassionate and emotionless as ever. The first two days home he sat in his room and never came out; John knew because he had stayed in the living room and tried to write. All offers of food were rebuffed, and John wondered if Martin would starve.

On the third day, Martin left early in the morning without a word. There was a difference, but John was not particularly sure he liked it. Martin had a trace of his old energy, and a sense of purpose. He walked with a discomforting intensity, and his stance reminded John of a time when he had watched a cat stalk a mouse. When Martin returned he had walked straight to his room, passing John as if he was not there, and not coming out again.

John put the movie away; but he paused in turning off the television when he saw a breaking news story about a familiar looking street. He looked closer at the screen; yes, it was a street which he had driven down many times. According to the reporter, a family of four had been found brutally murdered in their home only two hours prior. The husband was a soldier who had returned the same day as Martin.

John sat and half-listened to the announcer describe the victims, the conditions of the bodies and signs that they had been tortured; but his mind was focused on the photographs shown. Something seemed familiar, but he could not place it. Finally, he turned off the television and went to bed, his mind still struggling with why he felt he should know them.

It was not until the next morning, when John looked at the newspaper headlines about the murder, that he remembered. Visions came to mind of four days prior, when he and Martin had left the airfield. John remembered a cheerful salute directed at Martin and a smoldering, enigmatic look given in return. John shuddered as a dead soldier, whom he had seen alive that day, smiled off the front page at him.


“How did it go?” John looked up, surprised, from emptying his pockets. In the past three weeks since Martin had come home he had shown little interest in, or even awareness of, John. As the days passed John became more and more convinced that he was rooming with a stranger.

“It went okay; I may get a second date. Where have you been all day?”

“Around.” John had not expected a straight answer, so Martin’s evasiveness did not put him off. At least, not in and of itself; but something about Martin put John on edge these days. He silently reminded himself that this was his best friend he was speaking to.

“I was thinking that tomorrow, after the ceremony, I could buy us dinner to celebrate.” Martin looked at him for a moment, his face unreadable.

“I appreciate the thought, but it won't work.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you eat since you came home.”

“No, I don’t have much appetite these days. At least,” Martin’s smile mixed his old humor with the unpleasantness that seemed to have infected him, “not much appetite of that sort.”

John avoided the easy bait. “Is it because of what you saw in the war?” He let some of the love and concern he felt slip into his voice. Martin looked confused, and something else that John could not identify, although he felt that he should.

“You could say that. You’ll be there tomorrow?”

“My best friend is getting the Medal of Honor and the president, himself, will be presenting it. I’m just sorry I can’t see it, but I’m definitely going to be at the presentation the city’s throwing for you.” Martin still looked confused.

“I thought you were against the War.”

“I am. I can still show pride in your accomplishments, can't I?”

Martin once again gave John that enigmatic look and silently stalked back to his room. John sighed and flopped down into his favorite chair. He was far beyond being worried. Having never been to war himself, John could not imagine what Martin had gone through. All he knew was that something had changed his friend.


It only got worse the next day at the ceremony. John was seated in the front row, but unable to appreciate it due to his dislike of crowds and wearing a suit. The rest of the crowd was not any more at ease; there had been more murders.

The city government obviously hoped the event would help people forget about the murders for a short time, and just as obviously it was not working. For weeks now, the discovery of victims had become a regular occurrence. Just the week prior, John heard that a couple down the block had been found. The police were quiet about the condition of the bodies due, some said, to government pressure; but according to rumor they had been waterboarded and died of drowning.

The government had reason to be worried, John reflected grimly. The stories about the conduct of certain military and government personnel overseas were blood-curdling enough. The fact that the local murders seemed to reflect them did not help any.

The audience rose to applaud the mayor as he sauntered out onto the stage. He gave a speech, but John only heard bits and pieces; his mind was on Martin, seated at the back. Martin seemed even more repellent than usual, if that was possible. Everything about his expression and posture radiated unholy satisfaction.

John’s eyes moved to the individuals seated with Martin; city council members and top commanders from the base. Something was wrong with their posture, and it took John a minute to realize what it was. All of them were leaning as far away from Martin as they could without seeming to. John wondered if Martin noticed; considering his difficulty reading people, he could not be the only one who saw it. A glance at Martin confirmed it; he not only noticed, but relished it.

The mayor finished speaking; “and now, our own homegrown hero, Second Lieutenant Martin Page!” Nobody could miss the way the mayor’s smile strained as Martin came forward, or the involuntary step back he took. Something in the emotional mood changed as Martin approached the microphone. John heard muffled gasps from the rest of the audience, and noticed the woman next to him shuddering in fear. Martin smiled at the audience; a smile that should have been charming, but instead chilled the blood of all who witnessed it. Then he spoke.

The speech itself was not unusual; John had heard countless disposable speeches just like it extolling heroism, patriotism, giving service to One’s Country and “protecting Her from Her enemies.” Martin's speech was equally disposable, but something gave a very different slant to the words.

Martin discussed patriotism, and John felt nameless dread. He talked about service to one's country, and somehow John's mind pictured truly unthinkable deeds. Martin mentioned heroism, and John' mind conjured images of broken bodies, screams of agony, and blood-spattered graves. After it ended, the crowd simply stared with fear-glazed eyes and white, bloodless faces. When somebody finally did think to applaud, it was tentative and uncertain.

Martin smiled victoriously and surveyed the audience; but his expression changed when he looked at John. Their eyes met, and for a minute Martin’s face was completely blank. Then the unidentifiable emotion John had been getting from Martin for weeks crossed his face, and he quickly looked away. John finally recognized it; fear. Martin was afraid of him.


John did not watch the award ceremony on television, although he heard plenty afterwards. Nothing untoward had happened at the ceremony itself, aside from the ever-growing crowd of protesters outside the White House; but the event seemed to have struck a wrong note with all who witnessed it. All reports of the ceremony carried a strong undercurrent of unease, although no specifics were given.

The interviews with Martin did not help matters any. He dropped oblique hints that were, nevertheless, enough to suggest actions that were horrible beyond a peace-activist’s worst nightmares. Some reporters started putting Martin’s words together with the earlier hints and stories about the war; and in general it left a bad taste in the publics' collective mouth.

John noticed that there were not any murders in the time Martin was out of state. He was not the only one; officials from the local police, base command and federal government all stopped by to ask him pointed questions about his roommate. The police detective politely asked, and the military and government reps subtly tried to bully, John to keep quiet about it. They said that nothing was happening, that their visits were routine procedure; but John sensed their fear.

John rarely saw Martin since his return from Washington. He got the distinct impression that Martin was purposely avoiding him; the few times they crossed paths, Martin’s fear of him seemed more intense. Martin never even spoke if he could help it, but tried to get away from John as quickly as possible. Despite Martin’s behavior and his own growing suspicions, John found himself becoming more worried for his friend.

There was reason for suspicion; almost from the day Martin got back the murders started again, more frequently and increasingly more brutal. According to the news media the victims showed even worse mutilations than before, along with signs that they were alive while the atrocities were committed. Body parts went missing, with no rhyme or reason to what was taken. One victim might miss a finger or toe, the next a limb or organ. The police, of course, refused to give details; but the haunted look in the chief’s eyes at a press conference made it impossible not to believe the stories.

Worst of all was the killer’s elusiveness. Logic and reason dictated that due to the increased police vigilance, ever-growing groups of citizen volunteers, and the murderer’s own blatantly grotesque activities, that he should soon slip up and be caught. Unfortunately, logic and reason had nothing to do with the situation. It seemed supernatural how this individual was able to get access to even the safest-seeming people and then disappear, with only their mutilated remains to mark his passing.

The awful mystery reached its peak with its most horrible discovery. The nude, mutilated, headless body of a twelve year-old girl was discovered, early one morning, in a trash can located very prominently at the center of town. People whispered that the man who found her had to be hospitalized for shock. It took three days for the police to identify her, finally matching her to a missing person’s report. During that time the equally mutilated body of a three year-old boy was found. And then, John inadvertently cracked the case.

It was nearly noon, and John had managed to resist the twin lures of solitaire and the Internet long enough to finish typing a second draft. Proud of himself he headed for the shower, only to stop when he noticed the red mark on Martin’s bedroom door. It was a thumb print, and somehow John knew it was blood. He first noticed the stench when he reached for the doorknob, but the full brunt hit him when he stepped into the room. John almost gagged, and he just barely managed to steel himself for what he knew he would find.

It appeared that Martin wanted to be found out. In an evil joke, a severed forearm poked out from under the bed, hand arranged to point at the closet. When John opened the door, he found an obscene sculpture made of all the other missing body parts. The girl’s head formed the centerpiece. John slammed the door shut, trying desperately not to vomit. Through his horror and nausea John suddenly realized that he was not surprised; nor was he scared, at least, not for himself. Not even when he sensed Martin’s presence behind him.

“Now you know.” Martin stood in the doorway. At first he seemed all his old confidence and recent malevolence. However, John noticed that when he turned and looked Martin in the eye, it was Martin who flinched and turned away. John stepped forward, and Martin took an involuntary step back.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to report you to the police.” Martin smiled.

“Please, that is what I want you to do. But first, I have something that you and they will find interesting.” Martin picked something off a shelf; a shoe box, John saw, and spilled its contents onto the bed. They were photographs of the victims. John only spared them a brief glance.

“Martin, what happened to you? What turned you into this?” A strange look crossed Martin’s face; a weak ghost of what could have been sadness and regret.

“A great many things, John, including some that only you would be able to believe. Sadly, I cannot tell you everything right now, as it’s not the right time. All I can say is that most of it was my choice.”

John tried to move toward Martin as he spoke, but Martin seemed anxious to avoid any kind of contact. Martin backed toward the front door and gave John an enigmatic look.
“The police can’t catch me here; that would be too convenient. When they arrive, tell them I’m at the park down the street.” He all but ran from the apartment. John stood in shock for several minutes before he remembered the phone.


The following weeks were one long, nightmarish blur for John. The media, of course, jumped all over the capture of the killer and the revelation that he was a decorated war hero. John grew sick of constant ambush with camera and microphone, finally losing his temper and creatively threatening one particularly obnoxious reporter. The press kept their distance after that, but never went away entirely.

As a key witness, probably the key witness, in the case; John had to meet daily with what seemed like every member of the local law and military. John told them all he knew, which was not much. They still had an easy time building a case against Martin; not only did they have all the evidence from his room, but he was willing, nay eager, to give details. There was also the matter of one of the policemen who had arrested him, whose face would never be the same again.

Suspiciously, the military and the executive branch tried to keep things as secret as possible, for all the good it did. They tried to keep the military trial secret, but the judiciary would have none of it. The trial date was scheduled; pretty quickly John thought, considering the magnitude of the case and all the legal wrangling going on.
John only tried to visit Martin once during all of this. Martin refused to even enter the visiting area; he took one panicked look at John and ran the opposite direction. John endured strange looks from several terrified guards, but Martin refused to come back and talk to him.

The day of the trial arrived and more conflicts came up. First several members of the military and government tried to ban the press from the courtroom. Then they tried to restrict the testimony of several witnesses. Word leaked out that they even tried to prevent Martin from testifying entirely.

The trial was foregone from the beginning. Martin’s lawyer only made a few tenuous arguments, and Martin rolled over them every time. After the first few hours he stopped trying. It seemed Martin wanted to be found guilty.

He certainly spared nothing in describing the atrocities he had committed in the past few years. Martin told, in loving detail, about government mandated tortures he had performed on prisoners; dogs, humiliation, beatings, electric shock, waterboarding, sodomizing with objects, dismemberment. He laughed as he talked about how he and some of the other interrogators, having come to enjoy inflicting pain, stalked civilians in their free time. Martin described what they did to the ones they caught, whether it was the tortures they used on the prisoners or other, worse, atrocities. He told about how the brass knew of these extracurricular activates, and tried to hush them up.
Finally, Martin got to the victims in his home town. He mentioned each one by name and made sure to look straight at their families while he spoke. He very thoroughly described their last living moments.

Martin was interrupted many times; by government and military personnel, by grief-stricken family of the victims, by shocked onlookers. Each time he would pause until it was quiet again, then continue as if the outburst had not happened. He spoke casually, but with an obvious pride in the grief and misery he caused.

Almost no time was taken to decide on the death penalty. Martin’s lawyer did not even try to appeal. When the verdict was read applause filled the courtroom. Martin did not seem at all upset; if anything he was rather smug.


John tried to ignore the scared looks from the prison guards and look Martin in the eye. Martin was not cooperating. He had only agreed, reluctantly, to speak to John after John had told the guards it was the only way he would leave. However, he merely sat quietly on the opposite side of the glass. John grew sick of waiting and spoke up.

“Damn it Martin, I want to know how it happened! How did you become like this? Martin gave him an enigmatic look.

“You always were too damn curious for your own good.” John crossed his arms, silently refusing to be sidetracked. Martin shook his head.

“The army put me on this path; from the beginning they teach you to obey without question. When we were sent overseas they never missed a chance to tell us what scum the people we’d be dealing with are, and how we were doing a great service to America and the world.

“I wanted to believe them. I kept telling myself that America, and by association, I, was doing the right thing.” All this time Martin spoke in an emotionless fashion, but something unreadable suddenly passed over his features. “You were right about the war.” He reverted back to his emotionless delivery.

“A part of me kept saying I was doing wrong, especially since we were doing what can only be described as torture. I started small; morally shady treatment of people whom I could believe deserved worse. Gradually our methods got more severe, you heard it all at the trial. Not long into it I was well aware that most of these people had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The moment of truth came when I realized that I couldn’t rationalize anymore, that I was actually enjoying it. I looked forward to it.”

“Is that everything?”

“No, but it’s all I’m saying right now. Maybe one day I’ll tell you the rest.” Martin got up and turned to go.

“Wait!” John shouted, “at least tell me why they were so eager to shut you up.” Martin looked over his shoulder.

“Isn’t that obvious? They created a monster, then lost control of it.” His evil laughter echoed out of the room and down the corridor.


John felt obligated to attend Martin’s execution. The turnout was enormous, but from Martin’s attitude he could have been exonerated. Martin only spoke once, and that was to admonish the men administering the injection to get on with it when they hesitated.
Strapped down, waiting for the chemicals to take effect, Martin looked triumphantly over the crowded room. He locked his gaze with every face present; gave a leer of ultimate victory that caused the onlookers to tremble. It was only when he met John’s unflinching eyes that his expression briefly changed, reflecting everyone else's horror.


Three months and two gruesome murders after Martin's execution, a pall of fear remained over town. The police searched desperately for copycats, but these proved as elusive as the original killer. The citizens did not believe the reports of copycats; they maintained that Martin had returned.

The theories were many. Some claimed Martin had escaped. They said the government had faked his execution and leaked the photos of his corpse to cover it up. Others said that Martin had returned from the grave. A few whispered that Martin Page had never been human; that he was some demonic being who could not be killed.

Something stalked the town at night; everyone could feel its presence. During the day it was easy to scoff at the wild stories; but when darkness fell, even the most hardened skeptics glanced over their shoulders. Many people claimed to have seen Martin lurking in the shadows.

John was restless. While he could also feel the presence, he did not fear it. Quite the opposite; whatever it was seemed to go out of its way to avoid him. On a suspicion, his nights on the increasingly empty streets became a hunt for the force that lurked in the darkness. Finally, one night found him in the park where Martin had been captured. The presence was in the park with him. It did not move, but simply waited.

“Martin,” John yelled, “I know you're here, and you know I won't leave until we talk. Now show yourself!” Martin stepped out of the shadows.

At least, it looked like Martin; but the resemblance ended there. Everything else; the stance, the movements, the emotions, suggested an inhuman predator. Something unnaturally malevolent and hungry.

“What do you want?” Martin's tone was confident, even dismissive; but John saw that he kept a safe distance.

“You promised to tell me the rest.”

“I did. If that's all, I will tell you. But that's it, don't seek me out again.” There was almost a pleading note to his words.

“I have become something from one of your horror stories. I don't know what, all I know is that it began in the interrogation rooms. Somehow, I began to feed off my victims' fear. The more they feared me, the stronger I became.

“For a while I was torn. I knew what I was turning into. Part of me was scared and ashamed, and tried to fight it. Another part sought to embrace it. The part that enjoyed it started to win. I broke up with Mary when I was still human enough to worry about harming her.

“When it became clear I was going to lose the battle, I made a heroic gesture in the hopes that it would redeem my memory; and that the insurgents could accomplish was I was afraid to. Ironically, they only killed the part of me I was trying to save. I cannot die, not as long as I am feared. That little farce with the police has ensured my immortality.”

“So why do you fear me?” John asked. Martin grimaced.

“Because you do not fear me.” A part of John realized that this was true, that he had known it all along. “I only have power over those who fear me.” Martin laughed mirthlessly.

“The war cost me my parents, most of my friends, and Mary. For a long time you were the only thing connecting me to what was left of my humanity, but even that couldn't last.”

John reached to his friend, but Martin fled. John thought he heard a soft “good-bye John” before Martin disappeared into the darkness.

John, saddened for his friend, reflected on what Martin said. Fear was what kept him alive; maybe John could use that. Maybe he could write Martin's true story; let the world know who Martin was before the horrors of war destroyed him. Ideas formed as he headed home to his computer.

But another thought made its presence known; it could not be just Martin. There had to be others. Who would free them? John knew that thought would keep him awake for a long time.

The Parasite

Joem received the Holy Parasite in his twenty-fifth year. That was later than usual, but Joem had put it off for some years. He had never wanted it. However, the years of pressure about duty to family and community wore him down. Finally, he made the trip to the High Temple.

Joem tried not to shudder at the sight of what would be joined to him; a shapeless lump of chitin and slimy, gelatinous flesh, twice as big as his head. As the Temple attendants held him down, the priests placed it on his bare back. Joem struggled at its touch, it felt like all the filth and disease in the world had coalesced into that slimy lump.

For a short while the lump just lay repulsively on Joem’s back. Then suddenly he winced in pain as filaments grew out of the lump and burrowed into his flesh. At several spots on his back and sides Joem felt a deep, burning itch. Barbs on the filaments dug into his body, securely fastening the lump. As the priests chanted, Joem struggled futilely against the pain and the hands that held him.

Then suddenly, it was over. The pain stopped. A priest helped Joem to his feet. As Joem rose, he found that his flexibility was limited slightly, but there wasn’t too much difference. There was an unusual weight on his back, but not much more than usual. I can live with this, Joem thought to himself.

The attendants helped Joem dress while the High Priest touched his head in blessing. “You now bear the Holy Parasite,” he told him, “may what has been joined together today never be sundered.



For a few months Joem grew used to the presence of the Parasite. It hindered his movements slightly, but never to affect his life in a major way. Sometimes his muscles stiffened up a little, causing Joem some discomfort. Still, for a while it was nothing he couldn’t ignore.

Then, after those first few months, the pain began. Again, it started small; a slight twinge of muscle, a mild ache, a burning itch that went away quickly. Every so often Joem felt a sharp, stabbing pain where one of the filaments had dug in on the first day. These incidents were extremely uncomfortable, but they passed quickly enough that Joem was usually able to disregard them.

But the pain lasted longer and grew more intense until Joem couldn’t ignore it anymore. It spread throughout the rest of his body along with a constant squirming sensation. Daily now, he felt more tendrils burrow into his back, neck and sides; more muscles forcibly stiffened into immobility.

One night, due to the pain and unpleasant sensations, Joem could not sleep. After hours of tossing and turning he had enough. Joem pulled himself out of bed and to the cooking area, where he grabbed the sharpest knife. Then he stepped outside and prepared to plunge it into the thing on his back.

“What the hell are you doing?” It was Father.

“I’m getting rid of this damn thing.” Father grabbed him and took the knife away. Then he dragged him inside, yelling.

“You cannot get rid of the Holy Parasite!”

“But it hurts,” screamed Joem. “I’m in constant agony! I can’t even sleep!”

“That doesn’t matter,” yelled Father, “your duty is to bear it no matter what!”

The yelling woke Mother and Sister, who came to investigate. When told, they, too, tore into Joem. All three harangued him until he promised never to try to remove the Parasite. Just before dawn, Joem managed to close his eyes for a few hours of restless slumber.


Over the next few weeks the Parasite went through a major growth spurt. Joem could not stand up straight anymore due to the weight. It started to wriggle constantly. Eventually, Joem’s Father said it was time and took him back to the Temple.

The High Priest gave Joem a nasty looking knife. “You are to carry this with you and use it to feed the Parasite,” he told him before hustling him into the Ritual Chamber. The priests chanted and anointed the Parasite with disgusting fluids.

The vile mass shuddered, and pain wracked Joem’s body. A shrieking noise that made his teeth ache and nerves convulse rose above the chanting. It reached an ear-shattering octave, and something popped from the lump. Joem couldn’t turn his head to look, the neck muscles were too stiff. However, from the other people he had seen who had been “gifted” with the Holy Parasite he knew what would be there; a long, thin neck and tiny head, topped by compound eyes and jagged pinchers. Joem felt the head whip about for a minute, then it moved to his ear and spoke in a voice not much different from its birth scream; “feed me.”

“What?”

“I hunger. Cut some of your flesh and feed it to me.” This was too much for Joem.

“No,” he said emphatically. Immediately, everyone in the room glared at him.

“You commit a grave blasphemy,” the High Priest said sternly.

Joem’s Father yelled “it is your duty to serve the Holy Parasite! Now do as you are ordered!”

Joem wanted to stand resolute, but he was outnumbered and the pressure was too great. Reluctantly he drew the knife, and wincing, cut a three-inch thick lump of flesh out of his left arm. Joem held the lump over his shoulder and felt the pinchers take it, heard the Parasite chew and swallow it.

“That will do for now,” laughed the Parasite when it finished.


The pain and discomfort grew worse, until it was all that Joem knew. More tendrils dug deeper and deeper into him, to the point where he could feel them penetrating his very bones. The more of Joem’s flesh the Parasite devoured, the bigger it grew; and the more it grew the more flesh it demanded.

Sometimes the Parasite tore flesh from Joem Itself; like the day when, without warning, It ripped off his right ear lobe and devoured it. Most of the time, though, It demanded that Joem mutilate his flesh himself. Joem made a few more attempts at token resistance, but his community always backed the Parasite. Finally, Joem stopped saying anything, and obeyed in silence. His pain grew worse and his body was constantly covered in open wounds.

Roughly a year after Joem received the Holy Parasite, there was a new development. Joem was rudely awoken one night from the first truly restful sleep he had been able to get in a very long time.

“I hunger for flesh and bone,” said his unwanted passenger. “Feed me one of your fingers.”

“What?” demanded Joem, his voice shaking with dread, repulsion and anger.

“Cut a finger off your right hand and feed it to me. Remember, you have to obey my commands.” Joem grabbed his knife and ran out of the house. He tried to find a place where nobody would interrupt him.

“What the hell are you doing?” shrieked the Parasite, “obey me now or you will regret it!”

“No,” replied Joem. “I am not giving you any more of my flesh, and I refuse to amputate body parts for you.” Joem raised the knife and plunged it into the Parasite. The horrid organism let out a high-pitched shriek even worse than Its birth scream. The noise was unbearable, but Joem kept stabbing.

Lights started appearing in windows. People came out to investigate. Joem hastened to finish before he could be stopped, but the thing refused to die. In too short a span of time Joem was restrained by hands too strong to struggle against, try though he might.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mother stood at the front of the crowd with the rest of Joem’s family.

“He was inflicting harm upon My Holy Self,” the Parasite whined loathsomely. As one, the crowd gasped in horror.

“You have committed a grave blasphemy,” boomed the voice of the High Priest.

“He must do penance,” hissed the Parasite, “I want all of the fingers of his right hand.”

“Yes, you must to penance,” echoed the High Priest. Somebody slipped Joem’s knife into his left hand. One of the people who held Joem clutched his wrist to ensure that he wouldn’t plunge the knife back into the Parasite. Another lay Joem’s right hand on the ground and spread the fingers.

“Penance,” hissed the Parasite.

“Penance,” boomed the High Priest.

“You must obey,” yelled Joem’s family.

“Penence,” screamed the crowd, “obey!”

The hand on Joem’s left wrist let go. Joem immediately swung the knife around, but the hand caught his wrist before he could stab the Parasite. Joem’s left hand was forcibly moved so that the blade was over his right, then let go. Joem tried again several times, with no more success. Finally, the yelling of the crowd and the hissing of the Parasite filling his ears, Joem put the knife on his first finger and started to cut.

Joem winced as the blade pierced his flesh, tried not to scream as it shattered bone. With herculean effort he crunched through the bone, then grabbed the digit and snapped it off. The Parasite crunched it up and swallowed.

“Another,” it demanded.

“What?”
“I want more, and you must do penance.” Joem started to argue, but he knew it was no use. With a sigh, he put the blade to his next finger.

The Parasite made Joem chop off all five fingers, and most of the hand itself. Finally the thing was satisfied, and the crowd left for home. Joem felt only pain as he lay on the ground. He clutched the stump of what was once his right hand, and tried to ignore the victorious laughter of the Parasite.


Nearly another year passed, and not much was left of Joem. Of the parts of him not covered by the Parasite’s mass, more bone than flesh was visible. Half of Joem’s right forearm was missing, as was his left eye and most of his left foot.

Joem had been forced to remove his eye as penance for his last act of rebellion; when he had tried to escape by killing himself. Now even this escape was denied to Joem. The Parasite was completely rooted in his bone and muscle, and controlled his every movement like some grotesque puppeteer. Joem’s consciousness was still there, but his body no longer belonged to him.

On his last day Joem stumbled down the road, hunched over and limping. Suddenly, he tripped and fell to the ground. The Parasite brutally tried to yank him onto his feet again; but Joem was exhausted and in agony, and he used the very last of his strength to stay down.

The Parasite hissed and clamped Its pinchers on the back of Joem’s head. Joem’s last act of defiance was a moan of pain as the Parasite broke open his skull and started to devour his brain. For a half hour the Parasite worked, consuming Joem’s brain matter and digging Itself into his battered carcass. Then, Joem rose to his feet again. But the Thing that rose and lurched back to town was not the man who had fallen.

Love Hurts

I first noticed him one day in the coffee shop. The guy at the table next to mine suddenly became interested in something; and I followed his gaze to see what it was. The subject of his interest was a young woman who worked at the counter; I’d noticed her, myself, on previous visits. I looked back at the guy and saw his face. He was smitten, alright.

I looked at the girl to see if she’d noticed. She looked up and saw the guy staring openly. A split second after she looked at him she gave a small spasm, I probably would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching, and her expression suddenly went very cold. Curious, I looked closely and thought I glimpsed an arrow sticking out of her chest before she turned her back.

That couldn’t be right. I looked at the guy I’d first become aware of. Sure enough, he had an arrow in his chest. He didn’t seem to notice it; but then he didn’t seem to notice anything at the moment but the object of his affection. I started to muse on how weird it was, but the then the nasty laugh behind us disrupted my thoughts.

He held a bow, and had a quiver of arrows at his waist. Somehow, despite his weapons and the huge, feathery, wings on his back, nobody but me seemed to notice him. Even if you disregarded them he was distinctive. He looked to be around his very late teens, very early twenties in age; though something about his eyes seemed incomprehensibly ancient. He was blond, and dressed in some kind of tunic. Also, he was gorgeous.

Now, I have no interest in other males, but by anybody’s standards he was beautiful; far too much so to be human. Even the cruel look on his face couldn’t mar that beauty. I took all this in within a few seconds, during which he laughed again and headed for the door. Outside, he spread his wings and flew off.


I saw the cruel, winged, youth again about two months later. I was on a crowded street, and saw him taking aim at his next victim. I followed his gaze to a woman in her mid to late thirties, who was talking to her husband and two young children. The arrow struck her just as she turned her head and rested her eyes on a boy I doubt was older than sixteen. A melting expression suddenly appeared on her face.

I don’t know why, but I tried to follow the youth. I guess it was like the allure of a really horrible accident; you don’t really want to look, but you can’t tear your eyes away. The crowd seemed to melt out of his way without noticing him, but I had no such luck. Nevertheless, I managed to keep up, and I watched as he hurt victim after victim.

A husband and wife, affectionately chatting away, suddenly eyed each other with dislike after being wounded by his arrows. A teenager noticed a girl and started making a total ass of himself while she watched in disgust. An old man talking to his wife stopped mid-sentence to ignore her for a woman in her twenties. All throughout, the winged bastard cackled with glee and carefully aimed more arrows where they would do the most harm.

Then it happened. Trying to keep the asshole in sight, I didn’t look where I was going and tripped over a chair at an outside restaurant. Everything fell over with a crash, and I was suddenly the center of attention. I looked up, and right into the eyes of the creep I had been following.

He noticed immediately that I could see him, and the evilest smile I’d ever seen spread over his face. He gave me a mocking wave and flew off, his wicked laughter echoing in my ears. I knew I was in trouble.


I have studied mythology since I was very young, so I recognized the bastard. The ancient Greeks called him ‘Eros,’ which is where our word ‘erotic’ comes from; but most people today know him by the Roman name ‘Cupid.’ Eros, however, was very different from the harmless little imp made famous by Hallmark.

The later Greek legends place Eros as the illegitimate son of Aphrodite, goddess of desire, by Ares, god of war and brutality. However, in the oldest legends he is ancient; one of the first three gods born out of primordial Chaos. He was powerful; with a reputation for breaking Zeus’ lightning bolts to pieces during temper tantrums. And he was also dangerous. In one story, an oracle told his wife to-be that she would marry a winged fiend who the gods, themselves, lived in mortal terror of.

Once I got Eros’ attention, I knew exactly how they felt. He started on me the following day. I was talking to a longtime friend when suddenly; I felt a small prick in my chest and noticed that she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Just seconds later, her eyes narrowed and her face hardened. I made a quick check. Sure enough, we both had arrows in our chests. Eros walked into my line of sight, pointed, and laughed. My friend stormed off.

According to the myths, Eros employed two kinds of arrows. The first variety, the ones everyone is familiar with, have a razor-sharp, golden tip and cause instant infatuation in their victims. The second have a dull, lead, tip and cause instant disinterest or dislike. Over the following months I got plenty of experience with both kinds of arrows.

Usually Eros would shoot them in tandem. When a likely person crossed my path, he shot me with a gold arrow and her with a lead. On occasion, he switched. Sometimes he would just shoot one of us, but it was always enough. The immediate effects always wore off in roughly a week or two, but by then the damage was done.

I was in Hell. My relationships suffered, torn apart by emotional turmoil. My job, something I already had great difficulties with, got to the point where I wondered if I would have it much longer. I became terrified of dealing with people in any capacity; paranoid about the inevitable stab in the chest, the change in the expression of the person I was talking to, the evil laugh only I could hear.

I couldn’t tell anyone, of course; who would believe that Cupid had it in for me? I couldn’t cut myself off from people, either. I need food and a roof over my head, and to have those things I have to deal with people. So he continued to prey on me, and I continued to suffer.

Then Eros pulled his cruelest trick. Suddenly, there was no sign of him at all. This continued for more than two weeks; and I dared to hope that he had forgotten me entirely. Of course, it couldn’t last.

I met a young woman one day, and we hit it off immediately. We talked for a long time, and things seemed to be going well. Then suddenly, in mid-sentence, she gave a familiar twitch; and that all-too familiar cold expression came over her features. Sure enough, an arrow stuck out of her chest; and an all-too familiar mocking laugh rang in my ears.

Eros mocked me in a voice that was as beautiful as he is, and that much more cutting because of it. He told me that he had purposely disappeared so that I would let my guard down. He said that he would never let me alone; it was too much fun for him to torment me.

So the agony returned; so much worse because of the brief time when it seemed like it was over. For the next few weeks, Eros never gave me a moment’s peace. He stalked me everywhere, and I nearly always felt his arrows. Desperate, I began searching for a way to get rid of him.

I combed everything I could find for references to Eros and something that could be used against him. Admittedly, most “occult” material available these days is trash, but I was desperate. Finally, I had a plan I hoped would work.

In one of the myths, Eros accidently wounds himself with one of his own arrows. If that’s true, then it means his own arrows can harm him. I next time he shot me (a gold arrow this time), I made sure to rip it out and hold onto it. Then I found an abandoned shed just outside of town and used it to set my trap.

To my delight and horror, the half-assed summoning ritual I had cobbled together worked. Using Eros’ arrow and his connection to it, I forced him to appear in the shed. Then, while he was still reeling, I stabbed him through a wing with the arrow and pinned him to the floor. Laughing, I grabbed his bow and arrows and went to work.

I pinned him down with three of each kind of arrow, one through each wing or limb. Then I got to the real point of the exercise. I kicked and beat him; I stabbed him and amputated appendages. For days I did every horrible thing I could think of to hurt him. I reveled in being able to inflict upon Eros the same kind of agony he had relentlessly tormented me with. But then I ran into a problem.

I couldn’t kill the bastard. I tried. I used his arrows; and when those didn’t work I tried other methods. I stabbed Eros and cut him open. I set him on fire. I sprayed caustic chemicals in his face. Though I hurt him badly and caused him pain, Eros lived through whatever I did to him. As he grew aware that I couldn’t give him any lasting injury; Eros became cocky again, and mocked me at every turn.

Now I return daily, but it is only to make sure Eros remains contained. I have committed the ultimate offense in any bully’s eyes; I fought back, and I hurt him. Now, whenever I come to the shed, Eros always smiles his evilest smile; which is made all the more ghastly by the wounds I’ve inflicted.

Eros never speaks now. I’ve removed his tongue, but I doubt that would stop him if he really wanted to say something. Eros doesn’t speak because he doesn’t have to. We both know the same thing.

I cannot keep the bastard here forever. One day he will be free, and healed of all his wounds. Whether it takes ten days or ten-thousand years, that day will come. When it does, he’s really going to make me hurt.

Tiamat Is Dead

Tiamat is dead
She who was one of the first two beings in existence
Consort of Apsu and mother of the gods
Tiamat died long ago, killed by her grandson Marduk
Tiamat is dead
Marduk slew her
Marduk fought Tiamat
Marduk engaged her in a titanic struggle
Marduk held Tiamat’s vast jaws open with the winds
He shot arrows down her gullet
Tiamat is dead
Marduk split once-mighty Tiamat in two
From her two halves he created Heaven and Earth
Mighty Marduk carved up her corpse
He quelled her great salt waters and tamed them
From Tiamat’s consort, Kingu, Marduk took life’s blood
Which he used to birth the race of man
That lives and dies like maggots on Tiamat’s carcass
Tiamat is dead
For ages immemorial we have lived and built on her bones
And burrowed deep into her flesh
From time beyond memory Marduk has stood vigil
We children of the blood of Kingu and the flesh of Tiamat now prepare to cross beyond the boundaries of the great corpse on which we have lived all of our existence
Tiamat is dead
All of this I know
Yet sometimes I feel tremors within the Earth
And something whispers to me the name Tiamat
Are they merely leftover death tremors from that ancient battle?
Or something more?
At night I feel emotions that are not my own
Faint emotions, as if from the depths of a deep sleep
Emotions of pain, and rage
But the worst of them is the hunger
A vast, all-consuming hunger for life
A yearning to devour all that has come into existence
Tiamat is dead
Marduk stands his eternal vigil
But something is awakening
It has lain dormant for a long time
But gods are notoriously difficult to kill permanently
And Tiamat predates even them
I have seen visions of the universe as it truly is
A seething ocean of chaos beyond a madman’s worst nightmares
That rolls with beings and intelligences outside the broadest definitions of life
We survive on an island of calm built out of Tiamat’s corpse
Marduk keeps our pitiful defenses up against the chaos
But its children lurk just outside the comforting light of safety
And eagerly watch in anticipation
Below the surface, something stirs and threatens to awaken
Tiamat is dead
But I fear not for long