I do not remember when I began. I know only that I have no end ....

I will never forget the feeling of elation when I realized I was invincible.

I was young then, still naïve, nerves raw, emotions unrefined. I had always suspected that I was not like the others. They became sick; they skinned their knees and sprained their wrists at play. I was the one who fell off the roof of his house and stood up without a scratch. I was the one who was struck in the face by a rival, and smiled and laughed when the fist bounced harmlessly off my cheek. I pummeled him into submission, and commanded the fear and respect of my fellows from that day onward.

My goodness, this was so long ago. An eternity ago.

There came at last a day when, in a fit of youthful experimentation, I attempted to puncture the flesh of my hand with a knife. It would not penetrate. There was no discomfort, only a dull pressure, and my skin resisted the blade as though my muscles were sheathed in metal or stone.

I am unkillable, I realized, my fevered, hormone-drenched adolescent brain lighting up like a sign. I can do whatever I want. I can take whatever I please. I can live without consequences.

It was only natural that I turned to a life of depravity and crime. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't anyone?

I stole with impunity, taking money and property as easily as you might pluck a leaf from a tree. It was quite simple. Without the possibility of agony or death, I could no more be stopped than could a ghost or demon.

I murdered without hesitation, without mercy. I will not lie and say that I regretted it. I relished my superiority over these weaklings. They were marked for extermination the moment they were born; the only question was when, and how. In the great span of infinity, their existence amounted to nothing more than an eyeblink. What difference did it make if they perished now, or perished later?

I feared neither execution nor eternal damnation. A man who lives forever cannot be condemned. There was, at first, the worry of incarceration, and of passing the rest of eternity as a prisoner. However, I quickly learned to surround myself with sycophants and bodyguards. It was soon unnecessary to conduct my unsavory work personally, because I had others to do it for me.

In time, bolstered by my fortunes, my thoughts turned to domination. I became a great leader of armies, and I ruled by the sword. None could oppose me. I could not be assassinated. All who stood against me were swiftly destroyed, and eventually, my domain was universal. My empire stretched from shore to shore, all that I surveyed was mine, and there were no more lands to conquer. Under my watchful eye, generations were born, reproduced, grew old and died, crumbled to ash.

I will never forget the feeling of terror when I realized I was immortal.

As a youth, I had lusted for control, for dominion over all living things, for the power to rule the world. At last this dream was realized, but my appetite was insatiable. Without the opportunity for further schemes of conquest, my mind began to devour itself. Eternity stretched before me, and I stared with dismay into the black abyss. I knew that given time, the solar system's triple suns would expand to devour the lush green planets that encircled them. What would become of me then?

It took countless eons, but eventually the end came ... and I was there. I watched the rivers boil away, saw the cities burn, observed as billions were incinerated. I heard the cataclysmic roar, felt the ground come apart all around me, found myself flung into the endless void.

And still I did not die. I am forever.

How long have I been hurtling through the dark expanse of space? How long have I floated helpless, like a fetus awaiting its first gulps of sweet air, alone with my thoughts, scarcely alive, yet unable to succumb?

I do not know. I do not remember when I began. I know only that I have no end.

And now a new world looms beneath me. I have drifted for untold centuries, and time and chance have pulled me into the orbit of a new planet, an oceanic planet, revolving around a single star of blazing yellow. Entering the blue orb's atmosphere, I feel no pain as a shroud of flame envelopes my body ... I feel no fear as I plummet meteor-like through the clouds and toward the verdant landscape far below.

I feel only the old primal joy that for millennia has eluded me, the euphoria I experienced in the heady days of my youth, when all was possible and nothing was beyond my reach.

My time has come again.

"But Papa, Evan and I love each other. How can you oppose our marriage?" Iris's voice was gentle, her affection for her father evident despite her agitation.

To conceal his distress, Laertes fidgeted with his favorite amphora, painted in 540 BCE, with himself posing as Achilles. It was by no means the oldest image of him. Many sculptors over the ages employed him as a model for the perfect young athlete or warrior.

"You and Evan are cousins, too closely kin. You have to marry outside the clan."

"Papa, you're married to Claudia. She's one of us, too."

"Claudia is my wife, but she is not your mother." Laertes stroked Iris's hair gently, calming them both. "Your real mother knew I would outlive her, never aging. But she loved me so well that she kept our secret, as the covenant requires. She lived as my wife for many years; when she began to age we pretended to be mother and son, then grandmother, until she died of normal human old age. You were still an infant."

"Yes, I know," she said, softening her impatient tone with a hug. "And you think because Evan has the same recessive gene that something bad will happen. It's so old fashioned, for us to stay apart when we both want to be together. Humans don't trouble themselves over such things."

"It's too dangerous," Laertes pleaded.

"Why is it dangerous?" Iris demanded. "What's the big deal? I understand about the covenant to keep the humans ignorant of us. We might be tortured and badly injured if they become vicious."

Laertes nodded. "Claudia was in a coma for centuries after the soldiers drowned her. They called her healing arts witchcraft. We have to share the Earth with humans and concealment works best."

Iris's casual gesture, a rub and pat on her flat, muscular abdomen, shocked and alarmed her father.

"Are you with child? Evan's child?"

"Yes, Papa." She had the grace to be contrite. "It just happened. We didn't mean to break the rule. But it's done now and we want to get married."

Laertes grasped his willful daughter's shoulders, shook her, and then embraced her. "The baby may have the gene from both of you. That's why we have children only with humans, to protect our offspring as best we can. Some of our children live short lives and some, like you, have one gene that allows you to live forever."

"What will happen to the baby if it has two genes? Won't it be twice as beautiful and twice as graceful and twice as wise?"

Laertes was not ready to answer that. "How long has it been?" he asked.

Iris was never good at keeping track. "I'm not sure," she whispered. "Maybe five years?"

"Then the little one has at least one copy of the gene. If that's all, the child will be born in another twenty years. After the birth, you'll never conceive again. It's a good thing, otherwise there would be too many of us."

"Will the baby grow as it should?" Iris folded her hands protectively over the developing child.

"With our gene balanced by a human gene, yes. The child will grow slowly by human standards, but eventually will achieve puberty. Then the full influence of our gene asserts itself. That's why we never age beyond what we all seem to be now, young adult human beings."

"And with two genes?" Iris barely breathed the words, frightened by what her father might say.

"Do you know about Freyja and Thor?" he demanded.

Iris, eyes wide, replied, "I know that Thor is the ancient one who made the rule against us marrying one another. Claudia found me looking in an old book and coaxed me away from it. She said it was too soon and we would have time for that later. The book had a picture of Freyja, poor woman. She's enormous. Swollen like some insect. What happened to her?"

"Freyja and Thor loved one another then and still do, in spite of what happened. Yes, like you and Evan and Claudia and I love one another. We are all beautiful and gentle and kind and happy. Why wouldn't we be? The gene that grants us our lifespan also protects us from humanity's more destructive impulses. Freyja and Thor thought they would have perfect children and celebrated their union joyously."

Iris clutched her father's wrist, pleading. "Yes, we all love one another. We play and dance and pleasure one another. We don't quarrel and fight like humans do. Surely having children is a blessing! They will never want for love and tenderness."

"Thor and Freyja didn't know about recessive genes. That knowledge came millennia later." Laertes grimaced. "Without the human gene for balance, the children they conceived never became babies. Freyja is pregnant eternally."

Iris gasped. "You said children? More than one?"

"Nobody knows how many pregnancies she now carries."

Iris sank to the grass, distraught. Her sobs wrenched Laertes' heart. "My dearest girl, my beautiful love. Don't cry. Come, we'll find the others and dance to dispel these gloomy thoughts. We have time."

The coercion of the propulsive progression
Of one of Equidae predilection
Cannot compel the gluttonous ingurgitation
Of the hydrogen-oxygen concatenation

Some men are more than the sum of their parts.

My poor socks!
Curse that box!
I lost my socks in the dryer box!

Not loaned my socks
Or tossed my socks
But lost my socks in that box!

In went shirts
In went pants
In went a sweater from Grandma Nance

In went towels
In went sheets
In went napkins stained with beets

And then my socks—
My flocks of socks
They all went into the dryer box

Socks with bunnies
Socks with flowers
Socks I’d knitted that took me hours

Sock with ponies
Socks with bears
Old socks, holed socks, socks with tears

All my clothes went in the box
Shut inside the door that locks
They went round and round inside the box

Out came the pants
Out came the shirts
Out came sheets and towels and skirts

But not my socks!
Where were my socks?
I searched and searched and searched that box.

But they were gone
Gone were my socks
Lost somewhere in the dryer box.

A strong ego was the only requirement for success in politics. Morality? HA! In this day and age, morals only hold you back. Intellect? “You gotta talk to the voters at their level” was one of his campaign manager’s favorite aphorisms. Ideas? Put one forward and the special interests attack it like a hawk on a mouse, shredding it beyond recognition.

Jack sighed, a bad habit he had picked up in the last several weeks. At 2:00 a.m. he knew he had to get some sleep – another packed schedule tomorrow. He rubbed his eyes and looked around the campaign office. Bumper stickers, lawn placards and lapel buttons all proclaimed “Jack-in-the-box for President: Time for Change.” But he was beginning to wonder if the population really wanted change. Sure, they want it, if it is at the expense of someone else. But to even suggest that privileges be taken away from one group results in a drop in the polls.

It started years ago. The teddy bears had a lock on power and used it to cement their position. Subsidized picnics and tea parties were theoretically open to any citizen, but legislation allowed them to set limitations that essentially proscribed anything but bear participation. Non-ursine contingents could not get a paw-hold into the corridors of power.

That imbecile, Winnie, had spoiled everything. Honey flowed like water and a sizable contingency of bears had fled the corruption and favoritism of the Pooh-ites. Infrastructure had been neglected to a dangerous degree. Most horrifying was the lack of care for the sick and elderly. Sure the bears have their specialists, but let a pig or a platypus get injured and where can they go? Eventually, when it gets bad enough, they show up at the free clinic and get moldy stuffing or mismatched eyes or a peanut for a nose. It was a disgrace.

Jack started at the sound of a soft knock on the door. Damn, he had fallen asleep at his desk again. He needed a hot shower and a strong cup of coffee to get the spring back in his step. His assistant, a long time aide, brought the necessary coffee in and set it on the desk. “Jack, you have to take better care of yourself. This is a long campaign and when it is over, the hard work will just be starting.” She pulled a stack of clippings out of her pouch and laid them in front of Jack. “Polls are up again. That speech to the action figures yesterday was a big hit. All of the columnists liked it.” She smiled. Jack never once regretted taking on a kangaroo as his assistant, despite all the warnings that those big feet would never work in an office.

The coffee, the shower, clean clothes and a look at the clippings re-energized Jack. He had several appearances today and those were what made him continue the arduous process of campaigning. Interviews with journalists, negotiations with sitting legislators, the horror of fund raising, and listening to the inane pundits sapped his energy. Give him days like today and he could do this forever.

This morning’s first speech was a typical bedroom talk: a mix of old and young, big and small, weak and powerful, worn and pristine. He would cover his standard litany of issues: equal access to resources, elimination of subsidies on luxuries, rotating the front of the shelf position. Everyone should have a fair chance at being selected to spend time on the bed. That was his pet peeve. The bigger and more assertive toys would push the smaller, sweeter ones to the back of the shelf, where they would never even be seen. Jack was pumped up, ready to go out and take the world by storm!

Jack heard his campaign manager making the introductions. At first he was worried that a green wooly mammoth would seem frivolous or flamboyant to the voters, but just the opposite. Angus had endeared himself to the public with his witty comments and his genuine compassion. Another great addition to his staff, Jack reminded himself. This was no one-man-show.

Loud applause, horns, whistles (wolf and otherwise) signaled his entry. Jack looked out over the crowd: dogs, pigs, sheep and a heaping serving of bears. The adrenaline burst through his springs, his smile widened and he stepped up to the podium.

“My fellow citizens, the time has come for change.”

It was nearing evening when Manfred came into my study, his gray hair neatly parted, his black suit impeccably pressed.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" he said.

"Sit down, Manfred," I replied, gesturing toward an empty chair. "I received your note."

"Yes," he said simply.

"Couldn't read a word of it though," I said, placing the paper on my desk. "The handwriting is meaningless gibberish. What does it say?"

"Oh, I'm sorry about that, sir," Manfred said. "It has lately become somewhat difficult to hold a pen properly. I'm turning into a chicken, you see."

"What does the note say?" I repeated, not hearing — or rather, hearing but not understanding, the last part.

"It's a letter of resignation," he said. "Effective immediately, I shan't be able to work for you anymore."

"But Manfred!" I said, sputtering. "You've been my butler for thirty years! You've never worked for anyone else! I've known you since we both were young men!"

"Indeed, sir. And it has been a pleasure to serve you. I'm sorry to go."

"But why?" I said. "I pay you a fair wage. I have always treated you with kindness."

"I know, sir, and I'm grateful," he said. "However, it's time for me to move on. I'm turning into a chicken."

"You want to work in a kitchen?" I said, flabbergasted. "But you're a butler. Your father and grandfather were butlers. You aren't even a good cook, if you don't mind me saying. I know you sometimes assist Chef Simmons, but really, he does all the difficult work. You just chop the vegetables and such."

"I didn't say kitchen," Manfred said, scratching his chest with his scrawny old hand. "I said I'm turning into a chicken. And the time has come for me to go out into the world and live among my own kind. I want to peck and scratch in the dirt. I want to chase other chickens around the barnyard. I want to live on a bed of hay in a crowded coop." He said all this with the wistful air of a man describing his retirement by the sea.

"Eventually," he murmured, "Once I have lived a long life, I want to be killed, plucked, boiled in a kettle, and made into a lovely chicken soup with celery and carrots."

"But you're a man," I said, incredulous. "A man can't just turn into a chicken."

"That is certainly what I always assumed," Manfred said. "Nevertheless, that is indeed what is happening to me. Already I have begun to think as a chicken and behave as a chicken. My feet have turned to talons and my torso is covered with snowy white feathers. It's quite a breathtaking sight, actually."

"Prove it," I said. "Show me."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I most certainly will not. Anyway, I already said all this in my note."

"I told you, I can't read your note," I said. "It's ... it's nothing but chicken-scratch!"

Manfred smiled. "I do not expect you to understand," he said. "However, my mind is quite made up."

He then began to squawk, a strange, high-pitched sound, and he rose out of his chair and began to strut around the room, scratching at the floor with his polished leather shoes. "Cluck cluck!" he said. "Cluck cluck!" It was, I must admit, an uncanny impersonation of a domesticated fowl — made all the more ludicrous by the fact that it was being performed by my stolid, stodgy old butler, a man who had never even smiled in my presence.

"Stop that," I demanded. "Stop that at once, man, for heaven's sake!"

"I do apologize, sir," Manfred said, quickly composing himself. "The change is happening somewhat rapidly. I expect that I will have fully transformed into a chicken before the end of next week."

"I won't pay you the full month's wages," I said, suddenly annoyed with him. "You'll be paid through today, and that's final."

"It won't be necessary," he said, dismissing me with a wave. "I no longer have any need for money. I require only other hens and roosters as my companions, and a modicum of chickenfeed as my daily ration, supplemented by the occasional juicy earthworm."

Manfred offered his ... wing. "Goodbye," he said. "Once again, it has been a pleasure, sir."

I accepted the handshake, thoroughly confused. "Goodbye, Manfred. Good luck."

"Cluck cluck!" he replied, bowing deeply before withdrawing. I could still hear him squawking to himself as he went downstairs and out the front door.

I sat at my desk for another hour or so, writing up a Help Wanted advertisement for that weekend's paper. When I stood to stretch my legs, I noticed that Manfred had left something on his chair. In the fading light, I couldn't be certain what it was. It was quite large, the size of a big man's fist, and oblong in shape. I came around the desk, picked the object up, and stared at it for a long time.

The next morning, Chef Simmons made the egg into an enormous omelet with farmer's cheese, tomatoes, and fresh herbs from the garden. It was the most delicious thing that he and Manfred had ever made.

The following week, Mrs. Baldwin, the maid, told me that the price of candle wax has gone up again and that she thinks her husband might be turning into a giant pineapple.

My daddy always said that common sense isn’t very common. I’m pretty sure he was thinking about Jimmy whenever he said it.

Jimmy was a good ole boy, a really smart one. His daddy was a doctor, his mama taught at the university. All of his brothers and sisters went off to big-name schools and came back with fancy letters after their names. They were smart, educated – and didn’t have a lick of common sense between them. Sometimes the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

We drifted apart after high school; he followed the family tradition and returned a few years later with his doctorate in mechanical engineering. He wasn’t back in town a week when he came into Teague’s Butcher Shop. I was in the back cleaning up when I heard his order.

“I’d like a 600 pound pig, please.”

You could have heard a pin drop. But Mr. Teague was never one to pass up a sale; five minutes later Jimmy had himself a whole lot of pig. The pig was too big for Jimmy’s Mustang, even with the top down, so Mr. Teague agreed to deliver it the next day.

Curious about what he was going to do with so much pig, I volunteered to ride along on the delivery. Jimmy’s parents had a nice place just outside of town, a two-story brick Colonial on a few acres of land, and he’d asked us to bring the pig around back when we got there.

The pickup was the first thing I noticed.

It was an ordinary old pickup, the kind you saw on any country road. Except that this one was suspended six feet in the air, held up on the ends by columns of old tires. The cargo bed was full of liquid and the open area underneath was set up for a bonfire.

Jimmy came running out from behind the tires.

“Cool, huh?” His eyes were full of excitement.

Mr. Teague seemed speechless, so I stepped in. “Sure is an interesting pit barbecue you got going there, Jimmy.”

“That isn’t a pit barbecue. It’s a revolutionary new way to cook pork. I call it the Porkinator.” His chest was practically swelling with pride.

“Where you want the pig?” Mr. Teague didn’t seem impressed.

“Pull it around the Porkinator and I’ll put it right onto the trebuchet.”

I didn’t know what the heck a trebuchet was; if I had, I’d have started running right then. Instead, we pulled around and backed the truck up to Jimmy’s other contraption.

It took all three of us to wrestle that pig into the net on the trebuchet.

“This isn’t the final delivery method,” he assured us. “The commercial Porkinator will have a winch mechanism to lower the pig into the oil.”

Alarms went off in my head. “Oil?”

“Didn’t I tell you? The Porkinator is the porcine equivalent of a turkey fryer.”

Mr. Teague and I started to back away from the trebuchet as Jimmy lit the bonfire. Huge flames shot up to lick at the bottom of the pickup truck.

Jimmy was smart enough to drain the gas tank on the pickup; common sense would have told him to make sure there weren’t any fumes left, either.

Jimmy didn’t have much common sense.

I watched as the gas tank exploded like an overripe tomato. The pickup rose slowly into the air, vegetable oil splashing over the sides. Oil and explosion met, sending a fireball upward in a display worthy of the Fourth of July.

Flames fell from the sky like a hot rain. Pockets of fire sprang up on the grass as it landed. Suddenly, I heard a loud swoosh.

Flaming oil had landed on the trebuchet, burning through the ropes. The machine released its pent-up energy, slinging that pig around like it was a feather. When it reached the top, the pig was released.

There’s a reason why pigs don’t fly. That pig flew through the air as gracefully as a ten pound catfish shot from a cannon.

Jimmy must have missed his class on trajectories, ‘cause that pig flew over the pickup and kept right on going. Jimmy started running, but he didn’t stand a chance; you can’t outrun a flying pig.

I went to Jimmy’s funeral and to the reception afterwards. Out of respect for Jimmy, I skipped the ham.