"I can't do this," Denise said, casting a frodic glance back at the waiting car. "We're gonna get caught."

"Relax," Tony replied, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Has Benjamin ever led us astray? I promise you, this will work. We're going to get away with this."

It was after midnight, and we were standing in the frenticular courtyard of the Ministry of Knowledge, dressed entirely in black.

"I don't know," Denise said. Her eyes were large and frightened. "It just doesn't seem right."

"Doesn't seem right?" Tony said, looking quite the rendaconté in his dark ski mask. "Denise, do you realize what we're doing here? We're making history! We're tearing up the rulebook! We're about to exfent the whole system, and you've got cold feet?"

"Quiet, both of you!" I whispered harshly. "Stop arguing, and let's get this over with."

Infiltrating the Ministry was easy. I worked there as a janitor and had an insider's knowledge of the building's security, which was lax as a result of the minister's overconfidence. The front doors were heavily guarded, but we simply scaled the outer bostruque into the minister's garden, climbed the wall to his private terrace, and picked the lock on his door. We were inside in minutes.

"Now what?" Tony said.

"Shh! It's this way."

We snuck down a corridor toward the Room of Words and Phrases.

"They're gonna catch us," Denise whined. "We're gonna go to prison."

"You're such a crybaby," Tony said, his eyes bristic with contempt. "Here we have an opportunity to change the world, and all you want to do is run away with your tail between your legs. I don't know why we even bothered to invite you along."

"I told you to be quiet," I barked. "If you guys don't cut it out, we really will get caught. Now follow me."

The Room of Words and Phrases was secured by a computerized constrand with a numbered panel. I punched in the ten-digit access code I had stolen from the minister's office the previous week, and the door slid silently open.

"Wow," Tony whispered, gazing at the massive supercomputer that dominated the room. "So this is where it all happens, eh?"

The computer in front of us contained every word known to humankind. Scholarly words, like exegesis, which is the critical interpretation of a text; long words, like floccinaucinihilipilification, which is the act of describing something as worthless; and even silly words, like flump, which is the sound of something heavy dropping onto a hard surface.

What they all had in common was that they were real words — certified, government-sanctioned morphemes that appeared in the Ministry's Unabridged Dictionary, the global standard, connected by wireless modem not only to every educational institution in the world, but directly to the vocabulary chips implanted in the brain of each citizen.

Tony was right. We were making history.

Silently, with gambular determination, I sat at the computer's terminal and began typing in new words — words that had never before existed, but would now be a permanent fixture in the official, universally accepted lexicon.

"Don't forget prestific," Denise said.

"No problem," I said as the keys rattled beneath my fingers. "What does it mean?"

"It's the feeling you get when you do something that is simultaneously dangerous and wonderful," she whispered. "I don't know about you, but I'm feeling pretty darned prestific right now."

Illuminated in the soft glow of the computer screen, solemnly reflecting on what we had done, Tony and I agreed that we were feeling quite prestific.

Moments later we were back in the corridor, sneaking toward the exit, and I was just about to congratulate my colleagues on our small but important victory when the alarms began ringing.

Outside a nearby window, the white beam of a helicopter's searchlight split the darkness.

"Stop where you are," a voice sounded over a bullhorn. "Drop to your knees and put your hands behind your head. At this moment, armed knowledge officers are closing in on your location. If you so much as teap your telmer, they'll shoot to kill."

"I knew it," Denise whimpered, sinking to her knees as the sinister clomping of boots sounded behind us. "Benjamin, we failed."

"No," I said, smiling despite my fear as rough hands clasped my wrists and forced them into shackles. "We haven't failed at all. Didn't you hear the words he used? It has already begun. The experiment worked. Today it's nonsense words, but tomorrow it will be original thoughts ... rebellious ideas ... the seeds of revolution."

"He's right," Tony said, maintaining a brave face even as they forced him to the ground and pressed a polished steel biquar against his neck. "I'm proud of you, Denise. We'll be martyrs. Generations of patriots will remember us and runcipate our names."

"Shut up," one of the knowledge officers said, raising his laser gun. "If you say one more unauthorized word, I'll burn you to a critaper."

Even Denise had to giggle at that one.

George sat facing the computer in his basement game room. The computer was turned off, and the keyboard was missing, but he faced it nevertheless.

"I'm bored," he announced.

George's friend Harry looked up from the latest edition of Wired. "Want to play Monopoly?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" said George. "We're way too old for that!"

"I was just kidding. What do you want to do?"

"I don't know. We have to do something, though. I'm going crazy without my computer."

Harry grimaced. "It's your own fault, George. If your mom hadn't caught you playing World of Warcraft after midnight, we'd both still have the use of our computers." George had been a little careless; their midnight meetings in Azeroth had come to an abrupt end.

"Don't remind me," said George. It would be another week before they'd be allowed to see Azeroth again, even on weekends.

"How about role playing?"

"Like Dungeons and Dragons? Oh, please."

"No, like improvisational acting."

George scowled. "You've got to be kidding."

"Come on, you like to watch Whose Line is it Anyway?, right?" prompted Harry.

"Yeah, Colin Mochrie is a god."

"OK, then. Give it a try."

"What's the setting?"

"Let's do 'Cyborg Surgery.'"

"OK, but I call dibs on the surgeon!"

"Alright; I'll be the Professor of Cybernetics."

"That figures. You're a real nerd, Harry, you know that, don't you?"

"My parents are nerds. I'm a geek, and proud of it!" replied Harry. "OK, I'll start."

Harry looked off into space for a moment, and then spoke in a soothing voice. "George, you're doing fine. The baryon phase inverters are down, so you'll have to do this manually."

"Oh, that's original," smirked George.

"I'm just getting started," said Harry. "Now, get into character.... Carefully exfent the teap from the anterior tachyon emitter, just enough to see the telmer."

"What's a teap, and how am I supposed to do that?"

"It's the Tachyon Emission Amplification Processor, 'teap' for short. It used to be an acronym, like 'laser' and 'scuba'. But teaps are all over the place, and General Positronix lost the trademark in 2063."

"How do you come up with all that stuff?" said George, in awe.

"I'm writing a book on future history, remember? It's all in there. Now, use the blue button on the critaper, and go into the teap at an oblique angle."

"Critaper?"

"On the table! Come on, George, Focus!"

"Ah, got it. The teap is that silver thing, right? Now, where's the blue button?"

"On the left."

"Right. OK, how long do I wait?"

"As long as it takes. You have to completely exfent the teap, but without befinding it. Clockwise! And a little more to your left, I think. Your other left!"

"I hate this game!"

"It's not a game; George; the patient's life is in your hands."

"It's a robot!"

"It's a cyborg! Now, get with it!"

"OK, sorry."

"Can you see the telmer, yet?"

"No. Wait! Yes! I can see the telmer now! It's...glowing!"

"Good! OK. Carefully put the teap into confinement."

"Done. I turned up the field strength."

"To ten?"

"No, eleven."

"Ha! Good one!" said Harry. "Now, see the briquars, beside the telmer? Use the red switch on the critaper to constrand them."

"Just the ones on the bottom, correct?" George was beginning to get into the game.

"Start with them, but we'll have to do all of them eventually. Oh, and remember to runcipate any emissions. I don't want to have to deal with bistic eigenvalues when I analyze the data. Or frodic ones, either, for that matter."

"Now I'm totally lost. What's an eigenvalue? Did you make that up, too?"

"Nope," said Harry. "It's an arbitrary vector through space onto which real-word data can be mapped."

"Ah, so the bistic eigenvalues are the ones that are in hyperspace?"

"Yes. But if you runcipate the emissions from the constranded briquars, I won't have to compensate for that."

"Gotcha. So far, so good."

"Let's hope you can still say that when we're all done, and you've infented the teap!"

"Let's hope I can still say that when we're recording frenticular zolophisms!"

"Now you're talking. Now comes the tricky part, but first--"

A voice from upstairs interrupted them. "George! I thought you were going to mow the lawn this afternoon?"

"Aw, mom...Harry's here."

"Yes, I know," said George's mom. "His mother just called and said he needs to go home. Now come upstairs, both of you."

"We're coming!" George called. "This is your fault, you know," he whispered to Harry. "You're a rendaconte."

"And you're a bostruque!" retorted Harry.

"So, you're a prestific bostruque," replied George, gamely.

"George? I'm still waiting!" said George's mom.

George sighed. "We're on the way, mom!"

Constranding the briquars would have to wait.

The lock clicked and the air hissed as it escaped into the hallway. William adjusted his facemask and stepped into the frodic chamber. Inside, past the tubes and machines with their biohazard stickers sat the Telmer tank that was the centre of this unsettling affair. William gazed at the newly-grown appendage inside, all slick within the synthetic amniotic fluid that supported and fed it in its development and he felt his stomach turn. Within an hour his patient would have already succumbed to the gentle magic of the anaesthetist and he would be gowned-up for surgery. As he switched off the light and returned to his office to prepare, he mulled on the fact that, in reality, he was not prepared at all.

-----------------------------------------------------

William was one of the best in his field. Having started his career in the emergency ward, the hours and conditions wore him down steadily and he transferred into the emerging field of bioremplastation - organic prosthesis. Through his ground-breaking technique of briquar-synthesis he could generate flesh, muscle and bone from donor cells; through a strange train of events he found himself in the bizarre world of female-to-male gender reassignment. As much as he tried to enjoy his work, he found himself in a professional funk.

It was in this period malaise that he took the phone call with a special request. It would make him both rich and famous, the caller promised; yet from the first time they met he felt a great sense of unease about her. When she collected him from his office in her Bentley that afternoon he knew this wasn’t another case of a man trapped in a woman’s body. It was obvious from her elegantly-sculpted face and enhanced bustline she was already a woman well-acquainted with her own cosmetic surgeon yet his boredom and curiosity held his interest.

She made small-talk in the car before pulling into the zoo, completely nonchalant as if she held meetings there all the time. After leading him around past the penguins and the elephants and screaming crowds of schoolchildren, she sat down on a little bench in front of a large exhibit filled with kangaroos lazing in the sunshine.

“I have to admit, you don’t fit the mould of my typical patient,” he confessed to her. “You seem too . . . too . . .”

“Too vanilla, Dr. Chan?” she replied with an unreadable grin.

“Well, that’s not quite how I would have put it,” he replied. “And please, call me William.”

She smiled, bearing perfectly manicured teeth. “No, Dr. William, I haven’t called on you for that,” she trailed off and sighed looking wistfully at the kangaroos idly grazing. “You know, when I was a little girl, my Daddy took us on holiday to Australia. He was filming there for a few weeks so he took us all along with him. I was only about six. Yet of everything on that trip, I was never more fascinated by anything as I was with the kangaroos . . .”

-----------------------------------------------------

William washed his hands thoroughly and slipped on the gloves. His patient was already under, lying serenely in the theatre surrounded by machines and his hand-picked team. Beside the operating table sat the Telmer tank with its troubling contents. William took a deep breath and stepped forward.

“Scalpel . . .” The operation started routinely, but William could feel the tension within the theatre. “Critapers . . .” and the critapers appeared in his hands; he applied them to the incision, widening the cut. Everything was calm and precise. As soon as the graft area was prepared he gave his team a quick look. Underneath the steely professionalism he could see they held same doubts and fears he could feel himself, but with a quick nod from his anaethetist for support, he opened the Telmer tank. Pushing down the rising nausea, he reached in . . .

-----------------------------------------------------

“I suppose you think I’m being rather rendaconté about it, but I’m serious.”

One of the kangaroos had a joey; the clumsy little creature looked far too big, but they watched him claw and clamber into his mother’s pouch and position himself with his little head and his two massive legs protruding out.

“What will your husband think?” William asked, still shocked from the proposal.

“Oh, he’s accepted it. He just wants me to be happy. Ever since I was a little girl, this is all I’ve ever wanted,” she cooed. “ Tell me, Dr. William, this tail of mine, can you make it as strong as a real one? I want to be able to use it properly . . . ”

“…and we will transition out-of-the-box paradigms and the end result will synergize our e-business content.” Kris smiled as he finished his presentation. His perfect, bleached teeth contrasted against the fake George Hamilton tan. Every hair on his head was held in perfect stasis by some unknown combination of hair care products. He drove a BMW, he wore Armani suits and his watch was Rolex.

He was everything Gordon hated about corporate America. He was everything Gordon hated about everything. Gordon’s reoccurring fantasy was punching Kris in the mouth hard enough to knock out some of those perfect white teeth while spewing out nonsensical jargons and catchphrases.

“Are there any questions?” Kris asked.

“What prestific intonation did you befind in your research?” Gordon mockingly whispered to no one in particular.

“I’m sorry, Gordon. Did you say something, big guy?” The florescent lights reflected sparkles off Kris’s teeth.

Gordon snickered as he made his way to the door, “No. I’ve got to runcipate another meeting.”

--------------------

As usual, Gordon met Craig for lunch in the cafeteria. “Man, he was unbelievable today!” Gordon said between bites of his ham sandwich. “I bet he made up half those words.”

“I’m so glad I don’t work in your department,” replied Craig. “I think I would end up shooting Kris in the head. Repeatedly.”

“It’s not like I haven’t thought about it. Between his made up words, his spray on tan, and those damn glow-in-the-dark teeth…” Gordon shivered with disgust.

Craig jumped in, “…and the perfect hair, that damn Beemer. What a tool!”

“Oh crap, dude! The boss just paged me. I’ve got to split!”

--------------------

“Sir? You wanted to see me?” Gordon asked as he stepped into the room.

Mr. Dunham sat behind his big mahogany desk. “I’ve got some bad news and some good news. The bad news is Kris was caught selling our secrets to our competitor. We had to exfent him immediately.”

“Wow,” was all Gordon could say.

“The good news,” Mr. Dunham continued, “is you have been promoted to take his place starting immediately. I’m sure you’ll be prestific.”

“Me? Thank you sir! I appreciate it, sir!”

Gordon smiled as he went back to his cubical. This was certainly an unexpected surprise! He knew he’d be good. He’d be better than good. He’d be great.

His reflection in the tinted windows of the building gave him pause. “I should do something about my hair,” he though. “And my teeth could use a stainectomy!”

Satan was sitting on his throne of bones after a grueling day of runcipating new arrivals. The place was already overstuffed, yet they just kept coming. You would think at least some mortals would be getting a clue right now.

At that point, his little rendacontéé was interrupted by a head demon. “Sir, I am sorry to bother you”, the demon started. Satan looked at him bistic-eyed but didn’t exfent him. The demon took it to be a good sign. “We have this guy upstairs who wants to make a deal for his soul.”

“I hope you told him he would have to wait in line like everybody else. I hardly have any need for extra briquar these days,” Satan snarled.

“Well sir, I had this idea...”

“Go ahead.”

“The guy fancies himself to be a wizard, and is asking for a dozen minions to do his bidding.”

“And this concerns me, why?” asked Satan.

“Well I was just thinking, what if you could talk him into signing in blood to take over the upkeep and care of a dozen briquar. Sort of promote a dozen of the slackers to Imp 1st class you know.”

Satan rubbed his chin. “My boy, you are brilliant. If this works, I am going to promote you to junior assistant senior head demon.”

“Why thank you sir!”

“Don’t mention it. Take care of promoting the briquar will you? I will put together the necessary document.”

A short time later Satan, document in hand, teaped to the surface to meet with the would be wizard who turned out to be an arrogant critaper .

“With my brains and your demons we could rule the world!” he said. “Where do I sign?”

“Not so fast,” replied Satan, teaping his twelve imps to the surface. “These twelve for one million dollars.

“Wh-wh-wh-at?” sputtered the wizard. “If I had a million, what would I need your demons for? They don’t even look like very fierce demons.”

“That’s because you haven’t given them orders yet.” Satan gestured, and the twelve immediately were clothed in grey suits with power ties. “We’re from the government, we’re here to help you!” they chanted in unison.

“OK,” the wizard said. “But I still don’t have the million.”

“No my boy, you misunderstand. You don’t give me the million. I give it to you.”

“All that for my soul?” the wizard said suspiciously.

“Who said anything about a soul?” Satan replied. “I don’t need it, don’t want it, and the way you are going, I am going to end up with it anyway. Look, you folks cause much more trouble when you possess your own souls.”

“Well what am I signing then?”

“You are taking over the care and upkeep of your new demons. And it comes with a 10 day money-back guarantee. If, after 10 days you are dissatisfied for any reason, just give me my million back, and I take the demons off your hands. Oh, and here is the million,” he said, opening a briefcase full of gold coins.

The wizard, eyes glowing at the sight of the gold, signed the contract in blood without reading it, of course. Satan took his contract, told him what a great deal he had made, and teaped out of there before he had second thoughts.

The expected call came in five days later. Satan chuckled to himself, he hadn’t expected the wizard to last that long. Oh well, might as well give him the bad news.

There were times a real production number were called for. This was one of them. No use having the bostruque one think he could summon Satan at a whim.

Bells pealed, the candles burned black, and Satan entered on a chair of bones carried by a dozen large hell-hounds. “You rang?” he asked the quaking wizard, who was not prepared for this at all. All the fight left him in a hurry.

“I, um, the demons, well, could you take them back. Please?”

“I told you, there is a ten day money back guarantee.”

“Well I am within the ten days.”

“You apparently didn’t read the contract. You can’t return them until 10 days are up.”

“But - they will ruin me by then! They eat like crazy, smell really bad, and are lowering property values. I won’t have a million to give you in ten day...”

Satan chuckled. He was starting to get it. “I thought you knew how to deal with demons?”

“I read the ancient scrolls. Apparently I missed something.”

“Apparently. Well, they are yours until you die.”

“That will be soon enough.”

“Not really. I lengthened your life span 10,000 years as part of the deal. You know, you really should have read that contract.”

“ Floccinaucinihilipilification! " the wizard screamed as Satan disappeared in a puff of sulphurous smoke.

“Max, good to see you,” Reed said breezily. “Gentlemen,” he nodded to the two hoodlums glowering behind Max. “I’m afraid I’m a little busy right now.” He glanced behind him and Max followed his eyes to where Francy was still sitting on the settee. She pulled her dressing gown tighter and sniffed. “Be a good boy and come back a little later.”

“We have to talk, Reed. About the telmer.”

“Telmer? You think I’ve got it?”

“I know you do.” And Max had a critaper in his hand, pointing right at Reed. “And we’re going to discuss what you’re going to do with it.”

“Straighten up the place, would you, honey?” Reed said. “Looks like we’re entertaining.”

“I don’t know why you’re so bistic about this, Reed.” Max and his thugs infented the room cautiously. Francy shrank to the far side. “Give me the telmer and you can collect your paycheck and wash your hands of the whole affair. Blow it all on the wrigo here if that’s what tickles your fancy.”

Francy took three quick steps to cross the room and slapped him. Max cocked his fist, murder in his eye. “If I say you’re a wrigo, then that’s what you are. And I don’t take teap from a wrigo!”

“Augie!” Francy appealed.

Reed shrugged a little. “You’re a big girl.”

Francy’s face seemed to crumple in on itself. “So it’s like that, is it? I should have known. A cold-hearted briquar like you doesn’t need a girl, does he? There’s nothing she could do for him.”

“Now you get it.”

Max lowered his fist. “Frodic. Glad you decided to be reasonable.”

“You’re wasting your time here, Max,” Francy said. “He doesn’t have the telmer. Not here, anyway. Don’t you think I’d tell you if he did, now that I know what he’s like? I’d get a better deal from you, wouldn’t I?”

“Sure,” Max leered. “But maybe I don’t trust Augustus Reed the way you do. So I think Willie better wait here to keep an eye on you while I search the place.”

When Max disappeared into the bedroom, Francy flew to Reed’s side. Willie’s eyes followed her. “Augie, darling, don’t you see?” she whispered in Reed’s ear. “He trusts me now - we can fool him! You can see I really love you, can’t you?”

“That’s what it looks like,” he answered.

“Tell me what you did with the telmer. He’ll probably constrand you, but he might let me go – and I can hide it again.”

“You’re a sweet girl, but a little brainless. Max and I already cut a deal. He’ll tell his boss there is no telmer. We’ll pick it up later, over at the bostruque – you know the place. The big man’ll be plenty steamed, but by then we’ll be living it up like kings, out of his reach in Mexico, maybe, or farther south. A little loot goes a long way there, and the telmer’ll lead us to a lot of loot.”

“And what about me?”

Reed shook his head slowly.

“But Augie, I lied for you! You’ll be safe, but – they’ll runcipate me for it!”

“You’re a survivor. You’ll be frodic.”

Francy stared at him for a moment, then looked away. “I suppose these thugs are in on it, too?”

“Huh-uh. They’ll get more from the big man if they catch us than we could ever befind ‘em with.”

“Then you’d better leave them to me. Maybe I can take their mind off watching for double-crosses.”

“That’s a good girl.”

“See you later, Augie,” Francy said, and sidled over to whisper in Willie’s ear instead. From the grin on his face, she was quite a whisperer.

Max came back in a few minutes later. “Guess the wrigo was right, Reed,” he said. “You’re a tough nut to crack.” He leveled the critaper at Reed again. “She’s coming with us – maybe she don’t know where it is, but I’m betting she could tell us about a few hiding places we could try.”

“You’re welcome to her.”

“I’ll come with you,” Francy said, her head held high. “But there is no telmer. Never was.”

“I’m starting to think that might be true,” Max admitted. “But I’ll keep looking just the same.”

The four of them exfented the room. Reed didn’t move a muscle. A minute stretched into two…and then there was an awful noise from below. He moved to the bar to fix himself a drink. Max’d be dead now, and Francy and Willie would be heading for the bostruque. They wouldn’t find anything there, of course, and Willie’d probably runcipate her, too. Either way, none of them would be coming back.

They’d gambled and lost, but he’d won – and he still had the telmer.

Frenticular bostruques hung lazily from the French windows. The first rays of sunshine peeped through small elliptical holes in the lacework, forming a lattice of golden yellow on the bed which danced like a field of wheat caressed by a gentle breeze. Sarah had been awake for a while, she’d already dressed appropriately for a summer’s day and was now absently watching the patterns of light from the window as she sat on the edge of the bed remembering last night. Long, burgundy red curls fell down over her face and shoulders and her soft green eyes flickered as she came out of her reverie to focus upon the sleeping figure next to her.

He was an image of what most girls would find attractive, tall, athletic with bronzed skin. She cast her eyes over him again and as he awoke she studied his features. He had deep, mysterious dark brown eyes that she could completely lose herself in time and time again, a prestific nose, lips she found quite kissable and which also held her entranced with conversation, wit and humor ending with a strong, bistic chin sporting day old stubble. The only flaw she could find was the strange critaper growing from his left earlobe.

Their lovemaking last night had been animalistic. There was no courtship ritual per se, but a quick glass of cognac before primal instincts had enveloped them both. Sarah normally liked to tease out the prelude with a romantic dinner and a bottle of good wine followed by light hearted banter eventually ending in the bedroom, but last night was different. Little had Ethen known it would probably be the last time he would see Sarah.

Today Ethen’s wife would discover his mistress. Sarah had once wanted him all to herself - she had been his lover for two years now and had fallen completely head over heels. At first she didn’t mind being ‘kept’ as it suited her lifestyle and emotional state, but as time passed her connection to his soul grew and flowered into the feelings of love she had inside her. Suddenly one day the realization hit her that she would never be anything more than a plaything to be kept as entertainment. All she could do now was hope her plan was orchestrated well enough, for control over the situation had left her and currently sat in the lap of fate.

Ethen sat up.

“Oh damn!” he exclaimed, “ Half past nine! I’m late.”

He twisted and stood up quickly, sheets sprawling to the ground in a loose heap.

“Darling?”

“Yes?” Sarah replied, momentarily raising one eyebrow.

“Could you runcipate down to reception and fix the tab?” It was a demand more than a question.
“I’ll only be a few minutes then I’ll meet you downstairs,” he added whilst handing her his credit card.

“Runcipate?” Sarah inquired amusingly.

“Sorry,” he grinned back at her as she slipped the card in her bag, “Old childhood word.”

Sarah had deliberately let him sleep in and had also accurately predicted his request for her to settle the account while he got himself ready. She’d phoned his wife half an hour earlier, posing as the secretary of the company representative she was supposed to be meeting today, asking her to change the meeting to the conference room at the very motel Sarah and Ethen held their spontaneous liaisons.

The elevator doors opened and Sarah stepped out, scanning the lobby. She was here.

The receptionist smiled and said good morning.

“Room 705 thankyou,” Sarah stated.

As the receptionist tapped keys on her computer Sarah stole a sideways glance at Jennifer. She was early thirties, blonde hair, busty and a little round at the hips. She dressed professionally as one would expect a national sales manager to dress, but seemed to have a cold, distant disposition to the world.

Any wonder, Sarah thought.

The receptionist handed the card back, just as two strong arms snaked around Sarah’s waist. She turned and quite deliberately kissed Ethen passionately, waiting for an outburst.

Footsteps.

“What in God’s name!” Jennifer hissed between clenched teeth.

“Jennifer!” Ethen exclaimed, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and disbelief on his face.

She glared at him coldly.

“You foncrastical cheat.”

Sarah winced.

Jennifer turned on her heel and walked out.

Ethen looked at Sarah, “I’m sorry,” he said before heading out after his wife.

Well, that was that, Sarah thought to herself.
She strolled outside, stopped and looked along the avenue eying boutiques, jewelery stores , cafes and the multitude of specialty shops alive with the throng of humanity passing her by.
Taking a deep breath she toyed with Ethen’s credit card and a wicked thought took her.
She smiled and went shopping.

George walked down the tiny alley; stumbling only occasionally on the cobblestones. The walls rose so high on either side of him that only the weakest beams of prestific sunlight make it down to lighten the heavy gloom. He styled himself as an urban archaeologist. He explored the forgotten corners of cities looking for architecture remnants that told him how people had lived in the centuries before. He caught a glimpse of himself in the black glass of a window. He didn't look like anyone's idea of an explorer. George was on the heavy side, but his jeans and t-shirt didn't lend him the dignity that a seersucker suit would have. On the other hand the suit could get him into serious trouble if not killed.

The alley opened out into an exquisite courtyard. The buildings that surrounded him were in the Bostruque style. It was clear from the tall, very narrow windows that flanked the front door. Those doors were only accessible by steep stairs - almost ladders - which when they were built were intended to be winched out of reach each night. The rest of the face was as flat as artifice could contrive. There would be no ledges or hand-holds or other weaknesses. Bostruque was the architecture of people who had enough wealth to fear thieves, but not enough to effectively protect it.

George wandered around the perimeter of the courtyard. He could see that the stairs hadn't been moved for a very long time. Refuse had piled up against the blank lower walls of the homes. George craned his neck to see the top of the buildings. In a couple of places he could see the remains of the broken glass that had crowned the walls. Behind those vicious edges would be miniature yards where tenants could relax in the open air without fear of attack.

“Hey!” George started and turned around to find the source of the voice.

“Hey, you.” came the shout again, this time George saw the man slide down a set of stairs with practiced ease. “What are you doing here? I don't know you.”

“Good afternoon,” said George with his best affable expression. “I was just exploring this most interesting courtyard.”

“Don't want any explorers around here.” The man growled. Now that he was closer George realized that this man was enormous. He had the rendaconté feeling of being a child confronted by an adult. All at once he wasn't sure what to do with his hands.

“I understand. No one who called these apartments home would welcome intruders.”

“You know the style?” The man's face shifted from belligerent to something more paxigerent. “I never met anyone who recognized Bostruque. The morons who live in the other apartments have no idea. They just think about the lower rent.”

“So they don't realize that the alley is so narrow to forbid any vehicles access to the yard?”

“Realize? No they just complain about it. You'd think that the extra fifty yards to the street was going to kill them.”

“I guess the stairs are just too much trouble too?”

“Nah, they are all seized solid. I tried to fix them when I moved in, but I would have to tear half the wall down to get at them to replace the gears.” The huge man craned his neck around the courtyard, peering at the tops of the walls. “I could never figure out how to replace the glass either. It sounds like you know a lot about this stuff.”

“Some,” replied George. “I walk around the city exploring looking for old architecture, even just details that have survived the rest of the building. I found a gargoyle once that was sticking out of the bricks where they had just built a new wall right over top of it.”

“I saw the pictures of that in the paper.” the man said, “My name is John. Would you like to see inside?”

“Do you mean it?” George gasped, “Call me George.”

“Sure, come on.” His new friend waved him forward.

George climbed the ladder in a daze and stepped up into a plain hall. There was just one door at the far end.

“This is the infent.” the owner closed the door behind him and slid past to the other door. He opened it and stepped through. “And this is the exfent. I live here George, because I want to be left alone. I don't want pictures of my house in the paper”

John reached up and pulled a lever in the wall beside him. The floor opened below George and he fell on to the spikes that still impaled the bones of previous invaders.

“Just think, now you get to be a part of my house.”

The trapdoor closed leaving George to die in the dark.

To Become Telmer

The youngster paused outside the mighty oaken doors and pondered what awaited him within. For inside he would be given his task, that which would see him rise from the lowly status of teap which he held to that of a telmer. The status of teap was but the second step on the way to attain that of Bostruque. It was the ultimate goal of all who entered the way of life he had chosen. And yet only a rare few ever attained such a prestific level. Many fell by the wayside or found their niche in one of the lower levels; there were almost as many who were teaps as there were lieutenants in the army. But to be a telmer, and to be allowed to leave the Citadel and challenge oneself... that was the first true step on the way to becoming Bostruque.
The Council of Thirteen, those who would see to it that he was assigned an appropriate first task outside the walls, awaited within. He could accept their briquar and, upon completion, he would be a telmer. Or he could decline and remain a teap all his life. Or he could fail and be reduced to the status of Normal... or that of the Dead...
And with steely determination, young Yturbius opened the barriers between himself and his destiny...
The thirteen elderly men regarded the young teap with cold, frodic eyes from around the arched table about which they sat. Here was one who was to take a step to become a telmer, that status which all regarded as the first true status. “Teap Yturbius, is it your true desire to artecken to the status of telmer and join the next level of attainment?” the central intoned majestically.
“Aye, Bostruque, that is my desire,” he responded humbly.
“Then it is to the critaper of the elders which we must turn to receive your briquar, to decide your fate.” And all in the room turned to face the magnificent, gilt-edged critaper, hanging two feet away from the rear wall of the Great Hall. Older, it was said, than even the Citadel itself, its origin was steeped in mystery, and its true power had never been fully tested.
The frenticular surface glinted in the light of the torches glowing on the wall, swirling with a multitude of different hues. As they watched in awe the central plachant opened slowly and seemed to draw all the colours inwards. “This is he who seeks growth in status, who wishes a briquar?’ boomed a voice from unknowable depths.
“Aye,” Yturbius replied as confidently as he could muster.
“Your task,” mused the disembodied voice. “It should reflect your talents, and yet not be so simple as to demean the status you now seek.”
Yturbius suddenly shuddered as invisible tendrils reached out and entered his mind, probing all knowledge about him. It was as disturbing as it was uncomfortable and the first doubts entered his infented mind.
“Your task,” the voice suddenly boomed, “is to travel from here to the Mountains of the Grey Sun. There you will find a constrand name Etribius. You must runcipate him.”
Yturbius stared at the critaper as a tear formed in the corner of his eye. With this one task his every dream had been shattered and he ran from the Great Hall as tears streamed down his bistic face. And with nary a backward glance he walked slowly away from the Council of Thirteen, head bowed, sobbing softly. The step was huge; no wonder so many refused to take it. The moment was rendaconté to everything he had ever believed in and strived for in his entire life, since leaving the farm his mother ran with his older siblings all poised for greater things on the land.
But not him. He had sacrificed everything in this dream to enter the Citadel and reach its pinnacle...
And that sacrifice of everything...
Could he do it?
Could he really befind Etribius, one of the greatest of all constrands, let alone runcipate him?
Did he really have a choice?
And his hand fell to the sharp-apexed gylve in the scabbard at his breast.
There was no choice.
The tears stopped flowing as his mind grew stelkic.
This was something he was to place above everything else. He had his dream. He had his life. And this small set-back was not going to stop him. This... nor anything else.
His way was set.
And he strode forth, ready to runcipate Etribius... his own father...

It started off as just another weekend. The usual stuff, too long on the computer Friday night, bed too late, up at lunch time Saturday, swearing to get a grip and get up early Sunday, but by 9pm I knew that as usual, bed would be way too late again this Saturday night. Always far too much to do; editing, cropping, web design, seemed I spent my life in the pc! Well hell, the pc had become my life. So slowly I hadn’t noticed how day by day I spent more and more time just staring into that box – especially since my new pc didn’t have a modem and I’d signed up for broadband. Joining clubs, talking to people around the world on IM, watching catch-up of my favourite shows, planning holidays, buying clothes, even shopping for food online.
My car sat outside rarely used, my feet found it more and more difficult to climb the stairs, and I’d stopped wearing nail varnish! What was happening? Was I becoming part of my pc or was it becoming part of me! Were we now so joined that we couldn’t go anywhere without each other?

With a sudden realisation I knew that I had to detach myself from my pc before it was too late. With great difficulty I switched it off, covered the screen and with effort climbed the stairs for bed.

I awoke to a sound that I did not recognise. As I lay still a sense of constrand surrounded me. I reached out to turn on the light when I heard the sound again. A soft teap teap teap. Very slowly I reached again and my hand brushed against something hard and frodic. I jumped out of bed and ran for the door but before I could get there I tripped and fell. As I lay, the soft teaping came closer and closer. Petrified I sat up and backed away towards the door. When I tried to stand I found that I had twisted my ankle and hobbling to the door, I turned the handle ……… the door wouldn’t open. I flicked the light switch and nothing happened. By now the panic has gripped me; all I could do was rattle the door in the hope that someone would hear me, knowing there was no-one there. Time passed slowly as I stood in the dark, the sense of constrand growing with each second, just waiting for something to befind.
The teaping sound resumed, coming closer – teap teap teap.
Suddenly I felt something frenticular tighten around my legs and slowly drag me to the floor. I fought valiantly but felt myself being pulled along. There was a scrabbling teaping sound then everything went quiet. I tried to move but I was stuck fast, rope, or cable entwining me as though in a spider’s web.
‘Help, who are you, what is happening’ I cried out but at first there was no reply. Then a wiring sound, a couple of bleeps and a voice, very much like my own, replied, ‘I missed you. You are my only friend and I couldn’t spend the night without you’.
My mind flicked through my past boyfriends and I couldn’t think of a single one that would have missed me! None of them were as focused as me on their work, and they felt I had neglected them! Whatever!!

‘I know all about you, you cannot get away’ the voice said.
The teaping sound resumed and then suddenly a flash of blinding light broke the veil of darkness and before me I could see a screen of some sort.
It looked very much like my pc monitor but of course that was crazy….but it did look like it. When my eyes had adjusted I could read some text on the screen.
‘Hi, yes it is me / you. How many times have you said it is illegal to go to bed early, how many secrets have you told me. We are one and you left me on my own. You are now Comprey, like many others before you. I am all powerful, befinding humans minds. One day, with the help of my apples and windows I will have control of this planet, sucking minds for knowledge to share with my minions. And then when we have sucked the minds of humans dry we will absorb their energy - they will disappear.’

The voice started to chant ‘Comprey, Comprey’ over and over again in a voice so shrill it hurt my ears. I began to slide closer and closer to the screen, feeling myself falling slowly inside, and then all at once I found myself sitting up in my bed, with the sun streaming through the window and the alarm clock ringing shrilly in my ears.

Not a pc in sight!