dreadcrumbs

"A Visit to the Farm"

"Welcome to Butterfly Springs, Rob," Greg says, gesturing expansively at the lush rolling plain before us. "Where we help mankind acheive the impossible!"
"Nice," I say, not really sure where to go from there. "Um...pretty."
"I know, I know," Greg says, starting a slow amble down a dirt path I assume leads to the farm house, or a barn, or something.
"You're wondering how we help people acheive the impossible," he continues.
"I assume you've got some kind of crop," I say, matching his leisurely pace on the path.
"Sort of," he says. "I do call it a farm in the paperwork, but it's really more of a livestock thing."
He chuckles to himself, and then stage-whispers "don't tell The Goiters I said that, though."
I take a beat trying to figure out if I've mis-heard him, but eventually give in.
"The Goiters?" I ask.
He nods. "You know, the big bloated throat things people get? Enlarged thyroid?" he says.
"I know what they are," I say. "Doesn't help."
"Sorry, sorry," he says. "It's not like we have herds of ambulatory glands grazing around."
I wait, trying to give him my best "get to the point" look.
"That would be cool, though," he says, laughing. "But no. We just have people here, people with goiters."
I stop. "People?" I say, turning to look at him. "You're farming, excuse me, herding people?"
"They're very happy," he says.
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can formulate an argument as to why people really shouldn't be treated as livestock, Greg puts up a hand.
"I'm kidding," he says, in a drawn out, can't-you-take-a-joke way.
"Butterfly Springs is the world's largest endocrine bottler, Rob," he says, pride evident in his voice.
The look of indignation on my face curdles into confusion at what feels like an obvious and baffling non-sequitur, and I can't help looking around for the crew of some hidden camera prank show.
"We're farming the people's thyroids," he says. "Not the people themselves. They're like the land we grow our crop on."
"Er," I say. "Um..."
"They are well compensated," he says.
"Well that's...good," I say. "Right?"
"Look at this," he says, pulling a foil package out of his pocket and unwrapping it to expose a pale gray rod. It looks like a candy bar made out of modeling clay.
I shrug, still a little concerned about the herd of people with enormous goiters hidden somewhere nearby.
"Pure white phosphorus," he says, smiling.
"Okay," I say. "I guess I believe you."
"Well," he continues. "Okay, not pure, exactly. There's some cheese in this one, mixed in for flavor, but everything else is pure phosphorus."
"Flavor?" I ask. "People eat this?"
"That's right," he says, beaming. "Impossible, right?"
"Isn't phosphorus poisonous?" I ask. "Radioactive, or something?"
"Not when you're drinking farm-fresh calcitonin," he says. "Milked daily from the goiters of healthy Swedes."
"Ah," I say, because my mouth will make no other noise.
"Check it," he says, and takes a big bite of the pale mass. He chews widely, his mouth open, and I can see the material glow faintly in the darkness of his mouth.
"Eating just this much would kill anyone not enhanced with my endocrine beverages," he says, wincing a little as he swallows. "I'm a freaking super-hero, Rob!"
"It doesn't...er...burn?" I manage to mutter.
"Nah," he says, taking another bite. "Not with the cheese mixed in. Tastes seriously nasty plain, though, so you wouldn't want to eat pure phosphorus, even without the, you know, chemical burn."
"But why would you even..." I say.
"Oh!" he interrupts, suddenly remembering something. "And your poo smokes, like it's on fire! It's awesome!"
I stare for a minute, and he takes another bite.
"I can't believe I forgot that," he says, shaking his head in amused exasperation while he chews. "It's the best part."

"Meeting Mom"

The car rolls to a stop and Jared stares at the house in front of us. He looks miserable.
"It's just dinner," I say.
"You don't understand," he says, still staring forward at some point between the steering wheel and the car's hood. "She's fostered this disturbing culture of nasty food and awkward conversation. Dinner at home is like the pinnacle of discomfort for me."
"Still," I say. "It's been six years. I should meet her."
"I guess," he says, and takes a deep breath.
"We can do this," I say. He turns, finally to look at me, an expression on his face I've not seen before.
"She...they...the whole family...they're...unspeakable," he says, looking directly into my eyes. "Really. I know I've told you before, but I really mean it."
I laugh, and he twitches a little. "Don't be so dramatic," I say.
He coughs out a mirthless laugh, and pulls the keys from the ignition.
"Let's just get it over with," he says.
We walk to the front door in silence, stopping just before the front door.
"Just ignore them," he says, whispering now. "That's best. Ignore everything, if you can."
I pat his shoulder reassuringly, and the door opens suddenly in front of us.
I can't help but smile when I see the attractive young woman holding a baby girl standing in the lighted doorway before us. A young boy, about five, stands just behind her leg, peering around it. They are beautiful, all of them, and seem genuinely happy to see us.
"You're here!" the woman chimes, and Jared jumps a little. The oldest child, a boy of about five, darts out to hug Jared's leg. "Daddy!" he says. "You're back! You're back!"
"You must be Jared's mother!" the woman beams, "I'm Melanie!"
She lunges forward, pressing me in a hug between her one free arm and the baby, which coos in my ear.
"Come in, come in," she says, ushering us into the house. In a matter of seconds, I find myself on a sofa that feels like it's made of felt, a baby on my lap and a boy resting his head on my shoulder.
Opposite me is another couch on which Jared and his wife sit. She looks as if she's on the verge of laughter, and Jared has the look of a mouse facing the open mouth of a large snake.
"I can't tell you how happy I am to finally meet you," Melanie says. "Jared says you've been out of the country?"
"Er...yes," I say, trying to shore up my son's obvious lie.
She begins to talk, outlining what sounds like the family's history since their marriage forward. It all sounds perfectly wonderful, and I'm beginning to think that Jared has psychological problems to have presented her to me in the way he has. I look to my son, confused, and his eyes widen in horror as he recognizes my reaction to his family for the pleasant acceptance that it is.
"Dinner will be ready in just a minute," Melanie says. "Jared tells me that you're an animal lover, is that true?"
"Yes," I say. "I have two cats at home."
"Delightful!" she says, clapping her hands. "Two cats! Every night, just for yourself?"
"Well, er...yes," I say, a little off-balance. "Jared's father passed away several years ago, so it's just me and the cats now."
"We'll have to come for dinner sometime," she says, standing.
"We're mostly a dog house here," she continues, winking. "So to speak."
She walks to the kitchen, calling out, "But we love good monkey when we can get it."
I stare at the spot she just left, not sure just what we're talking about. My eyes dart to Jared, who opens his mouth several times before finally rasping, "She's...she's kidding."
After a minute or so, she calls us to dinner, and I file in to find a beatifully set table with six place settings.
"Wherever you want, dear," she says, gesturing to the table, and I sit down beside the high chair.
"Are we expecting anyone else?" I ask, nodding toward the single empy place setting.
"Oh, dear me," Melanie says, and Jared groans. "No, no. Just us. Force of habit, I suppose."
She approaches the table with large bucket of meat and a pair of tongs.
"Guest gets first choice," she says.
"Er..." I start, still not sure what the meat is.
"Would you like the monkey's paw?" she asks, a twinkle in her eye.
I look to Jared, who gives me a subtle head shake and a "don't believe her" look.
"Certainly," I say, and Melanie reaches into the bucket and pulls out a pale steaming mass that looks for all the world like the boiled hand of a monkey.
"It's not a monkey," I hear Jared whisper.
Melanie swats him on the back of the head with the tongs. "You're no fun," she says.
"No, no, it's not a monkey," she continues, dropping oddly shaped pieces of meat on everyone's plate. "But it's still food!"
I wait for Jared to start eating, and then tentatively take a bite of my hand-shaped meal. It has a nervous porky flavor.
Several seconds pass, and then, abruptly, Jared's son shouts, "Megan is yummy!"
Melanie gives her son a disapproving look. "No names, dear. Either 'the meat' or 'little sister,' if you must call it anything."
Chagrined, the boy whispers "little sister is yummy," and Melanie nods.
My eyes widen as I look at the shape of the meat on the table, and then to the empty chair, and then to Jared, who shakes his head.
"It's not our daughter," he says, and Melanie lets out an exasperated sigh.
"No! Fun!" she shouts, slapping him hard on the shoulder with each word.
Jared sighs, sadly cutting another piece of meat and poking it into his mouth.
"We only have two kids, Mom," he mutters as he chews. "This is a neighbor or something."
"And don't talk with your mouth full," Melanie says.

The Appointment: A True Story

I try to look the man sitting across from me in the eyes, but I can't. His eyes aren't exactly in sync, so I can focus on one or the other, but not both.
"There will be two of us in the room," the man says. "Myself, and one other."
"Okay," I say, trying to act like the entire situation isn't disturbing at all.
"I will be the one with the knives," the man says, nodding once. "I'll be doing the cutting."
"What," I say, "will the other one be doing?"
He smiles at me, and I try to smile back, but my face twitches involuntarily instead.
"He will be in charge of keeping you still," the man says. "While I cut into you."
"Oh," I say, not really reassured in any way. I'm suddenly more worried about The Stillness than I am the impending knives and blood.
"I know, I know," the man says, finally breaking the gaze he'd held on me since we began. "You think that you can take it, that you'll be fine holding still. But you won't."
"I...well," I start, not really sure if I want to talk about this.
"You'll scream and thrash," the man continues, getting a distant look in his eyes, clearly remembering something. "And I'll end up cutting things in the wrong order. Or things I never meant to cut at all."
He looks back at me, smiling again. "That can be very messy," he says.
"And painful?" I ask.
"Probably," he says. "You can't always tell if the screaming is from fear or pain."
"Ah," I croak.
"Frankly," he says, shrugging. "I'd rather not think about it."
"Yeah, okay," I say, standing. My throat has gone quite dry.
The man opens the door, gesturing me out.
"See you on Tuesday," he says.

"An Abominable Holiday"

I wolf down the last bit of meat just as my wife comes back to camp with armful of firewood.
"What was that?" she asks, dropping the wood in the clearing.
"Nfm," I mumble, suddenly quite interested in a pattern of roots at the base of the tree I'm leaning against.
"What?" she calls, now looking very carefully my way.
I swallow, a bit earlier than I normally would have, and it cramps my throat.
"Ng..nothing," I say, and cough.
"Nothing?" she asks, still looking at me, and I think she's figured it out.
I look up and smile, trying my best to look as charming as possible. "Nope," I say.
She looks back to the wood, and starts to arrange it tipi-style for the campfire.
"So you're hungry?" she asks. "It's been a while since breakfast."
"Mmm...yeah," I lie. "I could eat." Shuffling toward her, I reach out to help arrange the wood, but realize my hands are still streaked with blood and quickly draw back.
"Any people come by?" she asks.
"No," I say. "No people."
"You're not a very good liar, you know." she says.
"What?" I say, pushing the flabbergast a little too hard.
She sits up, and her eyes drift to the tree where I'd taken my meal.
"There's still a bloody parka over there, doofus," she says.
"Uh..." I say, not looking. Her eyes come back to mine.
"And your beard is covered in gore," she says.
I wipe at my face quickly.
"Your hands, too," she says, sighing.
"Sorry," I say, and try to look it.
"Just go and bury your food's clothes, Jerry," she says icily, jabbing a finger at the parka. "Right. Now."
I hustle over to the tree, and en route stumble over my kill's head, sending it flying into the woods.
"What was that?" my wife hisses.
"The head," I hiss back.
Her eyes widen in a kind of dangerous disappointment.
"I don't like the heads!" I say, and it comes out sounding a lot more like a whine than I intended.
She opens her mouth, but then we both smell it, and turn to look in the direction of the smell simultaneously. People, close by.
"Todd!" comes the call, and then another voice, closer. "Todd? You out here?"
My wife gives me a look, and I know for sure I'll be sleeping outside the cave and in a snow drift for a week when we get back home.
There is a shout and scream from the direction the head got kicked, and then someone is screaming "Todd's head! Good Lord! I found Todd's head!" and running right for us.
"Honestly, Gerald," my wife says, baring her hunting teeth. "I can't take you anywhere."

"After The Cure"

My roommate in the hospital is named Brad, and he has no lips.
Brad and I, along with three others, are the sole occupants of a special ward just for us. A place where we rest and recover from the injuries we sustained while undead. Only five of us, all told. The gas was supposed to work on everybody, all the shamblers, supposed to cure us. Make us human again. But most just died. Really died. But we five, at least, are back. I still sort of hope for others, but none have ever come.
I lost two fingers from my left hand in an unfortunate shotgun incident, and my feet are still covered in bandages from running around barefoot on broken glass, but I really feel in the best shape of the lot. Jeff, the talkative one, is missing both ears, part of his tongue, and most of an eye from when he tried to feed on a wild dog. It's unclear to me how one could only lose part of an eye, but that's what Jeff said. He always keeps it covered, so I can't really be sure.
Marjorie, the schoolteacher, lost her left hand and right arm in two separate axe attacks. Bad luck. She spends most of her time doing crosswords orally. The girl Janet looks fine, especially now that her hair is growing back, but she only ever stares at the television.
During group therapy Dr. Jordan tries to help us come to terms with our Time, our infected time. She says, yes, it's horrible, and we're all glad you're cured, but it did happen, and I want to find out what you miss.
Miss? we say. But Dr. Jordan, it was horrible and I'm just so glad to be cured.
But even so, we talk. Brad says he misses the freedom, the wild, wide-open freedom, and Jeff says he misses 'liberty from moral law,' which is really the same thing Brad said, but more pompous. Marge says she doesn't miss anything, but that she imagines it would be nice to be strong. Janet opens her mouth, and then closes it, twice, which is good progress for her. I say I miss the outfits, and Brad chuckles. Dr. Jordan knows this is a dodge, so I say freedom, too, I guess.
When the doctor nods and leads us in some variation of the serenity prayer, we all go back to our rooms for bed. In the darkness, after I've brushed my teeth and settled into bed, I hear Brad remove his night-lips.
"Jim?" he says.
"Yeah?" I say.
"What do you really miss?" he asks.
I'm about to say, no, really, I seriously miss the clothes, but opt for the truth instead.
"The food," I say. "I really miss the food."
"Yeah," he says, sighing. "Me too."

"The Unclean"

I hear the toilet flush, and a few seconds later, Adam comes around the corner to where I'm frying an egg. He looks thoughtful, and I can tell he's waiting for me to ask him what he's thinking.
"Did you wash your hands?" I ask, instead.
He retreats back around the corner, and I hear the bathroom faucet.
About a minute later, the scene repeats itself, except Adam's hands are wet and I have a freshly fried egg on a plate.
"So what's going on?" I ask, taking a bite.
"How many eggs do you think we've flushed down the toilet?" he asks, casting a glance behind him, toward the bathroom.
"What?" I ask, and ridiculously check my plate for the egg I know is still there. "None. Why? Are you flushing eggs down the toilet?"
"It wouldn't have been on purpose," he says.
"Explain to me," I say, "exactly how you can accidentally flush eggs down the toilet."
"If, you know, they were growing inside the poo. And you didn't know."
"Oh," I say. "Like parasites. Gross."
"How many?" He asks again.
"I don't know," I say, shoveling the last bits of egg into my mouth, eager to finish eating before the conversation steals my appetite. "Not many, I hope. Could be hundreds, though, the way you eat."
Turning on the kitchen faucet, I run my empty plate under the stream, watching the strings of uneaten yolk slip into the drain.
When I finish, Adam is staring at a point just over my left shoulder, lost in thought.
"What's bothering you?" I ask.
"Would it count as murder, then? To drown them?" he asks.
"No," I say, setting my plate in the sink. "No, you get a free pass with things that eat feces. Kill away."
"That's..." Adam starts to say, but is interrupted by gurgled shriek coming from elsewhere in the house.
"What was that?" I ask, and he immediately darts away in the direction of the bathroom.
There is a sound like a dolphin sustaining a severe head injury, and the toilet flushes. Another sound like two or three screams layered upon one another, and then another flush.
"Adam?" I call. "You okay?"
I hear a groan, and the toilet flushes yet again.
Reluctantly, I walk to the bathrom, the sound of soft grunts and splashes getting louder as I approach.
The door is open when I get there, Adam on his knees in front of the toilet, his right hand shoved into the main drain of the bowl up to his wrist.
The water is tinted pink and darkening red from long open wounds on Adam's forearm.
"Adam?" I say, and he looks up at me, his face red with exertion.
"It's okay," he gasps, looking back at the bowl.
"What happened?" I ask, more than a little disturbed.
He pulls a mangled hand slowly from the pipe at the base of the bowl, watching it carefully.
"It's gone," he says, pulling his hand fully from the bowl.
"What is gone?" I ask.
He just stares at the dark hole at the bottom of the bowl, his hand at this side, dripping blood and toilet water on the floor. "It's okay," I hear him whisper. "I've got a free pass," he mutters. "A free pass."

"A Talk With Grammy"

Standing outside the study door, I look to my fiancee, pleading.
"I really have to do this?" I ask. "Ask permission?"
She nods, her expression serious, but a little embarrassed, like she had been confessing an intense fear of chickens.
"You do if you really want to marry me," she says. "Grandma's old fashioned that way."
I sigh, and put my hand on the doorknob. I hadn't met any of Ellen's family. I didn't think there were any to meet.
"Having second thoughts about your proposal?" Ellen asks, with just a hint of bite in her voice.
"No, no, of course not," I say, and swing the door open.
The room is dimly lit, the only illumination a small spotlight pointed at a sofa pushed up against one of the walls. Just within the lighted circle is a small child-sized stroller with a doll in it.
I take one look and turn back, not sure whether to laugh or grimace. "Are you serious?" I ask.
Ellen shrugs. "I think she likes the spectacle," she says. "She used to be in the circus, you know."
I take a few steps into the room, which I discover smells something like cooked beets. I look back at Ellen, who gives me the thumbs up and softly shuts the door.
I walk to the couch and sit. The stroller, positioned as it is, offers me a view of the doll inside. While not normally a connoisseur of dolls, I am intrigued by this one, as it appears to have been crafted with ultra-realistic hooved feet. I'm about to risk going over to pick it up when the door to the room opens again and a fifty-something woman in a sharp business suit walks in.
I immediately stand. "Mrs. Paulos?" I ask.
The woman flicks her gaze briefly to me and the walks directly to the stroller.
She squats next to the doll and begins to stroke its head delicately, whispering something I can't hear.
I wait, unsure exactly what she wants me to do. Eventually, she turns away from the stroller, but remains squatting next to it, one hand on the back of the seat, as if reassuring the doll of her presence.
"Mrs. Paulos?" I ask her again.
"Please," I hear a cracked voice from the stroller say, and my eyes dart to its occupant, whose eyes are now fixed on mine. "Call me Babygoat."
"I...I...er," I stammer, and then squeak out a cough, trying to regain my composure.
"I apologize for being asleep when you came in," the faun-thing says. "It is good my nurse came in when she did."
I glance to the woman squatting next to the stroller, but she doesn't look at me.
"Oh," I say, "no problem at all. I was thinking of taking a nap myself."
The doll-small eyes stare at me, and I realize I can't read her expression in the slightest.
"You are joking, I think?" the Doll-Grandma asks.
"Yes, er...sorry," I say, embarrassed that I am being intimidated by a two-foot old woman. Then I remember the goat legs, and forgive myself.
"You have something to ask me, Mister....?" she continues.
"Yes! Oh, right," I say. "Sorry. My name is Dave, er, David Evans."
I stick out my hand by force of introduction habit, and Ellen's grandmother just stares at it from her stroller.
"Yes, so, anyway," I stumble, dropping my hand to my side. "I wanted to ask for Ellen's, er, her...um...hand in marriage."
"You will have it," the tiny woman says.
"I will? Oh, great! That'll be great! Just wait until..." I blather, interrupted suddenly by the faun-thing shrieking. When I stop, she does.
"I have not finished," she says. "I will give you my blessing, once you have done me a service."
"A service?" I ask.
"A simple one," she says.
"Oh...okay," I say.
"You will take a cushion from that couch," she says, "and smother me with it. Smother me with it until I am dead."
"What?" I ask, and feel my body temperature drop a good five degrees.
"You will kill me, Mr. Evans," she says. "My nurse here has refused, and I would never dream of making little Ellen do it. So you are the obvious choice."
I stare at my hands, because they seem like the only safe thing to look at.
"Do we have an agreement, David?" she asks. "Quickly, now. I am an old woman in pain and cannot afford to dawdle."
"Okay," I whisper.
"I could not hear you," says the thing in the stroller.
"Okay!" I shout. "I'll do it."
"Very good," she says. "And use that anger. Hate me, if you can. It will make it easier."
I pick up one of the cushions and hold it in front of me. My hands are shaking.
"Do it!" the Thing screams. "I am an abomination! Destroy me!"
I thrust the pillow into the stroller, and feel It twitch beneath my hands for a long time. When I finally pull the pillow away, I realize I am crying. The nurse stands and looks at me with red eyes, an expression of horror on her face.
"I..." I start to say, and she runs from the room, flinging open the door.
I hear her screaming "He's killed her! He's killed her!" as she runs further down the hallway.
I stumble toward the door and out into the light of the hallway. Ellen is there, her back to me, staring in the direction of the screaming woman.
I reach out my hand to touch her, but draw back suddenly, realizing I've just killed someone with that hand.
I gasp, trying to get control of myself, and Ellen spins around, a huge smile beaming across her face.
"Wow!" she shouts. "I think she really liked you!"
I stare, opening and closing my mouth several times, but never quite able to speak.
"Did you talk to her dummy?" she asks, looking into the room. "She loves it when people talk to it. Says it shows respect for the Ventriloquist Art."
"Yes," I say, coughing. "Yes, I talked to the dummy."

“Hatred’s Silver Lining”

Squatting next to the hunk of organ tissue on the carpet, I already suspect what happened here, but the client at least deserves a show for the money he’s fronted.
“What time did you regain consciousness?” I ask.
Mr. Olsen jumps a little, like I’ve just thrown a ball at him he wasn’t expecting.
“Um...I...eight, I think,” he shivers, fidgeting awkwardly, still trying to catch that ball.
I pull the toothpick I’d been chewing on and poke at what I suspect is a bit of human kidney, rolling it to one side. Later, I’ll make sure he sees me with another pick in my mouth, a different one. But he won’t know that.
I sigh, and catch a furtive movement in the corner of my eye and know the family dog is watching us. I decide not to notice.
“Who would do this?” Mr. Olsen asks, a little too loudly, like he thinks he’s auditioning for a play. “Who would take my organs?”
Standing, I glance toward my client, who is still shivering from the ice bath he apparently left three hours ago.
“You have any enemies, Ralph?” I ask. “Anyone who hates you?”
“Well,” he says, still on stage. “I can’t imagine...why, the Gordons! Next door! They’ve always hated me!”
I turn my back to him and ponder the kidney on the floor.
“Hated you?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “They can’t stand that I’m Swedish.”
“Enough to harvest one of your organs and leave it to decay in your living room?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Definitely.”
“I don’t think we can prove that,” I say, bending to look at the kidney again.
“But that’s why you’re here!” he quails, almost whining. “That’s why I hired you!”
“Look,” I say, “the best I can do is try to disprove your self-surgery there.”
There is a moment of silence, and then he looks aghast.
“What!?” he blurts. “I could never! I would never...”
“Right, right,” I say. “Whatever. Really, though, we’ve got a bigger mystery here.”
“We do?” he asks, immediately calming down.
“Have you ever been bitten by a wolf?” I ask.
“A wolf?” he parrots back.
“Or a dog, a rat. Feral cat, maybe?”
“Maybe,” he says, interested. “Why?”
“Because that,” I say, pointing to the kidney gore on the carpet, “is not a fully human organ.”
His face blanches, and he stares at the piece of meat he pulled from his own abdomen.
“Then I...I’m,” he starts, then mutters, under his breath, “this explains everything.”
He looks up at me, dead serious, and says, “no one can know about this. Ever.”
I nod, and he begins to gingerly gather the meat from the floor.
“You still want to try to frame the Gordons?” I ask.
He turns to me, still hunched over his viscera, in what I think is his best impression of a wolf-man, and whispers, “no...no, that would draw to much attention. Best to leave well alone.” He sniffs loudly. “For now.”
“Right then,” I say. “The rest of my fee?”
“On the kitchen counter,” he growls.
On my way out, I count the money from the demented, though perfectly human, self surgeon, and discover it to be twenty short. I chuckle, and decide to ignore it.

"Cost/Benefit Analysis"

"It's a phenomenal waste of time," Jim says, letting the bathroom door swing shut behind him. "Days lost in a single lifetime."
I watch as he deliberately makes his way about 12 feet across the hallway to his cubicle with a stilted, stiff-hipped walk. It is clear he is in pain.
"But at what cost?" I ask. "You can't possibly be comfortable."
"I'm not," he says, staring at the chair in front of his desk like it's a mountain he's about to climb. "But are you? Is anyone really comfortable?"
"I don't know," I say, briefly taking physical inventory of myself. "I feel okay."
Abruptly, Jim drops onto his the chair with the same speed you would pull a band-aid off.
I hear a sickening muffled crunch like he's just crushed a bag of Doritos with the seat of his pants, and then he screams like someone snipped off one of his fingers with a pair of rusty shears.
It takes several seconds for him begin breathing without any cries of pain, and for me to realize what the sound was. When I do, I feel the color drain from my face.
"Good lord, Jim," I whisper. "How long has it been since you wiped?"

"Wormhole"

I stare at Jeff's forearm, swollen to at least twice its normal size. He looks like Popeye.
"Doesn't it hurt?" I ask.
"A little," he says, prodding the mass with his fingers. A single drop of blood pushes out of a small wet wound about two inches from his elbow.
"You should see a doctor," I say, but Jeff isn't listening. He's staring at the red wound.
"Wait," he says. "Here it comes! This is what I wanted to show you!"
"I thought..." I start to say, but my voice chokes off when I see the little red hole on his arm twitch.
I stare as a small white maggot streaked with half-clotted blood squirms out of Jeff's arm and drops to the floor.
He lets out a huge sigh and gingerly pushes the larva to the corner of the room with his bare foot. As my eyes follow the progress, I see what look like several more of the wriggling thing's fellows waiting for him in the shadows.
Jeff pads back over to me and cocks an eyebrow.
"Gross," I say. "How many are over there?"
"Oh, I don't know," he says, looking back to the maggot-corner. "Five, maybe six. Not a lot."
"You seriously need to see a doctor," I say again. "Get that thing cleaned out."
"I can't do that," he says. "I'm a gateway. I'm their gateway."
"What?" I ask.
Jeff sighs again, and somehow manages to sound condescending, like he's explained this to me several times already.
"This proves I exist on the cusp between realities, Sam. This hole in my arm is the doorway from their world," he says, nodding to the maggots, "and ours."
"Um," I say. "Okay...but I don't think anybody really wants squirmy grub-things in our universe. Let's, uh, let's just close the door. Keep them out."
He turns to me, wide-eyed. "Can you imagine what closing that door would do to the fabric of spacetime?" he blurts. "Can you?"
"Er," I say.
"I'm not willing to take that chance," he says, head dropping in resignation.
I stare at him, trying to decide how seriously to take him and at what point I need to get the authorities invloved.
"Jeff," I say, "this is just stupid."
He looks up, smiling. "You were going with it, though," he says. "'Let's just close the door'," he says, mimicking my voice, but making it sound much more terrified than I'm sure it sounded.
"You're a dork," I say. "So you are going to the doctor?"
"Tomorrow," he says, looking at his arm. "I think there's just one more in here."
"Good," I say, walking to the maggot corner. "These are just nasty."
"You know," I say, raising my boot to crush the infestation, "we should really..."
My movement is interrupted as Jeff barrels across the room, planting a shoulder in my gut.
I fly backward, sprawling onto the floor.
Jeff is immediately above me, eyes red, fuming with rage.
"DON'T TOUCH MY BABIES!" he screams.
I stare at him, stunned, and feel something wet drop from his arm onto my face.
I hope it's blood.