Akhenatenator. At his birth in 1380BC he was given the name Amenhotep, after his father who was King of Upper and Lower Egypt. Amenhotep preferred to write stories and poems than to practice his hunting and shooting skills. During his youth the prince wrote an outline for a new monotheistic religion - maybe he could enter it is a writing contest later in his life.

When Amenhotep was crowned King in 1351BC, he decided the time was right to unveil his new religion, abandoning the old gods in favour of worshipping the Sun Disc, the Aten.

Amenhotep changed his name to Akhenaten, the living spirit of the Aten.

During his reign Akhenaten continued with his writing and neglected foreign policies and battles. Needless to say by 1330BC the country was not the same dominating power as it had been in his father's time. So unpopular he was that he decided to fake his own death, and live out his days writing.

His cunning plan to be reborn as Akhenaten, the crazy monotheistic preacher was genius! No one would ever suspect that this man was actually the late King.

The crazy preacher spent time in the wilderness to consider life after death. He could hardly turn to the Egyptian gods to grant him eternal life, so he started to look for another solution.

He wandered for many years before he met Xiu, a Taoist, who with a combination of training and alchemy had lived to the age of 556. Akhenaten undertook the same training at attain a state of enlightenment known as Xian. Feeling rejuvenated, he said farewell to Xiu and left China a new man.

Over the years he researched many religions and mythologies and each time prolonged his life by varying amounts. From Buddhism, Hinduism and Aboriginal Spirit Walking to searching the world for Vampires, Akhenaten left no proverbial Philosopher's Stone unturned.

In 1984AD Akhenaten was living in Arizona. One cold November day he found himself walking past the local cinema. Now a big Arnold Schwarzenegger fan, he noticed that the new film 'The Terminator' was playing. He decided to go in. Akhenaten could not remember the plot, maybe it was old age, but he became fascinated with Cyborg technology.

Twenty-five years after seeing 'The Terminator', he walked out of the hospital a new man. He prayed to the Aten that these new Cyborg implants would finally bring immortality.

Akhenatenator walked the short distance home. He turned on his computer, checked Facebook before checking Worth 1000 looking for a new category to enter a story into, secretly hoping for 'Invent a New Religion'.

Tension was rapidly accumulating with the last minute preparations for the community talent show. No one on the committee really knew who was doing what, in what order and worse, no one had wanted to do any auditions.

Nothing could really go wrong. In any case, most of the audience would be busy talking to neighbours and catching up on gossip. At least, one number was sure to be a hit. Harry, the ornithologist at the local bird sanctuary, was known to be a retired stage performer now turned conservationist.

As people filled the hall, the buzz of conversation muffled the panic stricken designated MC, still trying to find out whom to announce in what order. Without an actual list, he went to the mike, improvising a wordy presentation of local artists before a very forgiving audience that applauded on cue, but was not polite enough to fully stop chattering.

When the time came to present Harry, the MC felt a bit more comfortable and boldly stated: "Coming out of his sanctuary, please greet our nature loving Harry!" Swan Lake’s music filled the room and across the stage twirled Harry, prancing as if in a trance. A hush came over the room as he danced with emotion. The crowd was mesmerized; not so much by his talent, but by his costume. Harry was dancing away wearing nothing but a tutu. When the number ended, Harry bowed gracefully as if oblivious, and exited before a stunned audience.

Later in the week, as he ran errands in the village, he was greeted everywhere with smiles. When asked by the local butcher a few weeks later about his performance, Harry replied, "You know, I've been getting more donations and visitors at the sanctuary than ever before." As he went through the door, the ecologist heard the butcher's exclamation: "So, Harry, one tutu, it was for the birds!"

She rode up on an old Harley whose exhaust sounded like a machine gun. I could feel her staring at me through the smoked glass goggles she wore.

"Hei," she said, with this accent that I'd never heard before. Then she started chattering away at me and I must have looked especially dense, because she pushed her goggles up and looked at me again.

"You're not Roulloff?" she asked carefully.

"No," I said, "I'm Harry."

"Where are Tom and Dick?" she asked. I must have looked even denser than before because she grinned. "A joke, I learned it from my ex-boyfriend."

"Oh," I said and smiled, "clever."

"He thought so," she hung her helmet on the handle bar and pulled her hair out of her jacket. She gave her head a shake. Red hair swirled and my heart felt like it had be struck by an asteroid. "You watch my bike?" I nodded yes, not trusting my vocal cords at this moment. I would have robbed a bank if she'd asked me. She disappeared into the cafe and I tried to split my attention between her bike and her very well fitting jeans.

She came back out swinging the goggles in one hand.

"Is Roulloff here?"

"I don't know what he looks like," I said.

"Neither do I," she said. "Too bad for Roulloff. You want a ride?"

"Sure," I said.

She lifted a helmet out from under the seat.

"What kind of accent is that?" I asked.

"I'm a suomi girl," she said, "Finnish." She climbed back on the bike and I clambered on behind her.

"Hold on tight," she said, and the machine gun started up again. I put my arms around her and she gunned the motor. My tentative grip became a bear hug and I felt her laugh as we sped away.

Colonel Dijon looked out over the African veldt. He was after something much more intriguing than any lost city or big game. He was following the trail of a tribe of shape-shifters. He had followed the stories of their prowess like a bird after bread crumbs. He shook his head irritably. He should know better than to do heavy thinking on an empty stomach.

The colonel went back to camp and had his aide cook up a light lunch while he made an entry in his journal.

"How do you spell intrepid?" he asked.

"Usually wrong, " answered Smith.

"You're no help."

"Did you hire me for my cooking or my spelling?" asked Smith as he slipped an omelet in front of the colonel.

"Mmmmmm" Dijon said, and wrote 'intriped' into his journal and closed it so he could concentrate on his meal.

His guide came back to camp that evening.

"I've found them for you."

"The shape-shifters?" asked Colonel Dijon, "Are you sure?"

"Do you want to meet them?"

"Most definitely," the colonel said.

"You come with me tonight, and meet the shaman."

Under the light of a full moon the colonel followed his guide through the trees. He tried to think of the guide's name to thank him, but couldn't think of it. No matter he thought, I'll make one up when I get back to camp.

The shaman was everything that Colonel Dijon could have wanted. He was festooned with furs and teeth and was ferociously painted. He said something to the guide.

"The shaman says to sit here and you will see what you have come for."

Other members of the tribe came out and each took a swallow from a gourd that the shaman gave them. They danced and twisted, and before Colonel Dijon's eyes turned into savage beasts, leopards, lions even a wildebeest. When the shaman wasn't looking the colonel poured some of the elixir into his flask.

He made his excuses before the dance was done and almost ran back to camp with his treasure. He would have the fluid analyzed and then he would be wealthy beyond anyone's wildest dreams. He would own the power to change shape. It would change the world.

The flask tempted him though. What would it feel like to be a beast? He needed just one swallow, there was plenty in the flask. With a trembling hand hand he took a swallow of the liquid that was at once both intoxicating and vile. He capped the flask with a hand that was already changing. It fell to the ground and he writhed in exquisite pain. When he was done he looked up at his camp chair.

'What am I?' he wondered. He was too small to be a lion. His guide came over and grinned at him.

"Shaman says, you take the shape of your soul." He held the colonel's mirror in front of him. "You like?"

The Colonel looked at the meerkat in the mirror, and wondered, 'Who could I tell about this?"

Old lady Molly was accounted by the neighbours to be slightly insane, which is to say that they didn't consider her a danger in a dark alley. The sad truth was that old lady Molly would hardly be a risk in an alley of any description. She was known for carrying large shopping bags full of produce from the remainder shelves of the Food Mart.

Occasionally for no discernible reason she would stop someone and present them with a piece of fruit that was well past its best before date. It was a treat to see the faces on the suits when the old lady stopped them to hand them a bruised up apple or a wrinkle orange. No one had ever been known to refuse her gifts. The suits would look at her with panicked gaze while their hand accepted the fruity offering. Most of them tossed the thing into the nearest rubbish bin as they made their escape.

It was Tuesday when old lady Molly cornered me. I couldn't tell you the month or even the year, but it was definitely a Tuesday. I was on the way home from class when I felt a hand grip my sweater. I turned to look at the offender and was caught by the gaze of a pair of eyes that weren't quite the same colour.

"Here," she grunted and reached into her bag. I was expecting an apple or orange or perhaps some grapes. She handed me a pineapple. It was mostly yellow and covered with brown spots. I could feel sticky juice running through my fingers.

"You eat that up. Cut off the top and put in some water and see what happens." There was something in those subtly mismatched eyes that carried me home still clutching the mushy pineapple. I like pineapple so I pulled out my cleaver and cut the top off and then went digging to find some salvageable bit of fruit. I felt the sharp sweet juice run down my chin as I ran water into a dish and placed the top in it.

The pineapple became just another plant in my apartment until I got the offer for the big job, and then the next. I became practically famous. I was moving to a higher class address and moved the now large plant with me. It sits in splendour in my office. It has been immortalized as my username. It is almost ready to produce a pineapple. When it does, I will go and find old lady Molly, or someone like her and give it to them, so that they will have their own pineapple charm.

This mystery concerns a young hiss; or it could be a mister, I’m not sure know if the gender was ever noun.

Ah, but already I must apologise, I am again madly wuddling my birds; something that happens when I become stressed, please forgive my mad banners. I will carry on and attend to reach the tempt without further mishap.

I first saw this loser standing on my yawn; I noticed a pheasant plaice staring at me through the window. I remember it cocked me to the shore, partly as it was so unexpected, and partly as I believe I was nicking my pose at the time and mortally embarrassed. I went over to the window and fried to look at the tigger, but flick as a crash it had vanished. As you can imagine, I was more than a little sweared and quite curried, but at the end of the day, no real darn had been hum and I could barf about it with Less, my wife.

That was the first time, but there were any mothers. It was always the same, a shark daddow, blessed in drack, bearing stack at me through the glass. It was never more than that and I never mentioned it to anyone else. I pelt I could sheep the felice out of it; they would take it for a lack of pies probably, and I did not want to come across as a shining wit.

And so I kept my queer diet stalker and nicknamed him or her - Onanymous

This history concerns a young miss; or it could be a mister, I’m not sure now if the gender was ever known. Ah, but already I must apologise, I am again badly muddling my words; something that happens when I become stressed, please forgive my bad manners. I will carry on and attempt to reach the end without further mishap.
I first saw this user standing on my lawn; I noticed a pleasant face staring at me through the window. I remember it shocked me to the core, partly as it was so unexpected, and partly as I believe I was picking my nose at the time and mortally embarrassed. I went over to the window and tried to look at the figure, but quick as a flash it had vanished. As you can imagine, I was more than a little scared and quite worried, but at the end of the day, no real harm had been done and I could laugh about it with Bess, my wife.
That was the first time, but there were many others. It was always the same, a dark shadow, dressed in black, staring back at me through the glass. I felt I should keep the police out of it; they would take it for a pack of lies probably, and I did not want to come across as a whining [----].
And so I kept my dear quiet stalker and nicknamed him or her - Onanymous

The boys were out hunting for dinner with a shovel and a plastic bag.

"How 'bout this one?" Junior said.

"Nah," Dan'l said, "It ain't ripe enough yet. You know Ma likes 'em well seasoned on account of her teeth."

"This one's plenty ripe."

"Sure, but you'd be digging a new hole for the outhouse if we took that one. It's a bit too gone."

"Hard to tell with this nose of mine," Junior said wiping his nose on an already sopping wet sleeve.

"I never knew someone to take sick like you."

"You don't many people."

"That's true 'nough. Now here's the perfect one." Dan'l said, "Hold the bag while I shovel." He deftly scraped the black and white carcass off the blacktop and tipped it into the bag. They were walking home with their find when a fine black car pulled up beside them.

"Hello. Could you gentlemen point me in the direction of Toad's Wallow? I seem to be a bit lost."

"Sure thing, mister," Dan'l said. "Just drive along this road until you get to where the old school used to be turn right and keep on till you see seven red cows in a field and turn right again. That'll take you right into town."

"Hey mister," Junior said, "We's just fixing to go home to supper. You want to join us?"

"I don't know you," the stranger said, "I wouldn't want to impose."

"I'm Junior, and this is Dan'l, and this," he said raising the bag up proudly, "is supper."

The stranger turned a funny colour and said something that sounded like "sk, sk". He rolled the window up and drove away.

"Funny name, sk" Junior said, "Where'd you learn to give directions like that?"

"Heard Pa give 'em on the other side of the hill."

"I'm hungry, let's get supper home to Ma."

She had been relaxing on the couch, reading one of her favorite books. Her kitten was curled up on the throw rug on the floor, apparently napping. All was right with the real world, and Tinkerbelle was getting mischievous in the imaginary one.

Suddenly there was a bright flash of light, followed almost immediately by a loud crash. The lightning had been so close that she jumped almost out of her skin. Her kitten had actually gone airborne, and came to a rest shivering in her lap.

She looked up and out the picture window, but the heavy rain streaking down it made everything look pixelated. She could only make out the colors of the rainbow that was forming, not the shape. She laughed, thinking of the Montana tall tale about how they were the dustings off the Aurora Borealis.

“Hey, kitty, there’s nothing more to fear.” She said. “If this were happening in my book, I’d just get Tinkerbelle to sprinkle some of her magic and calm you down. Hey, why don’t I just sprinkle some of this Montana pixel dust on you. That will comfort you, right?”

The kitten relaxed, but would not leave her lap. She didn’t mind that at all though, and continued reading her book. She could get at least one more chapter in before she needed to start fixing supper.

As she was putting the finishing touches to the dinner table, her husband came in. It was still raining outside and he was soaking wet. Of course she would not allow him to traipse all over the house like that, and besides he might catch cold. She got a towel and forced him to strip, and head in to the bathroom for a shower, while she took his wet clothes out to the washer room.

She could hear him singing in the shower, and yelled for him to hurry, before their supper got cold. He called back that she should check out a certain website he had heard about that day, while he was finishing up in the bathroom. “I’m sure you’ll like it,” he yelled.

Mumbling about cold food to herself, she went to their computer in the den and typed in the site. The first thing that popped up was an amazing photograph that she thought could not possibly be real. She was getting into the site, and forgot all about the meal, until her husband surprised her when he came up behind. “Told you you’d like it” he said.

While eating, they talked a little about their days, culminating in the storm, before the conversation went back to the computer site. They were still talking about it when they finished.

“Why don’t you register onto that site while I’m doing the dishes,” he said. “Supposedly then you can vote and comment and stuff.”

She started the process, and as she was wondering what to use for a name, thunder and lightning struck again. "That’s it," she thought: PixelDustMT!

Pete walked into the downtown coffee shop and saw a man dressed in a wrinkled costume sitting in the back booth. He sensed a good story and ordered an extra coffee and carried them over to the booth.

"M'names Pete," he said and slid a coffee over to the costumed man. He wasn't as old as Peter thought.

"You want my story," the man said, and sipped on the coffee, "I'll need pie."

Pete waved at the waitress. She looked over at him and rolled her eyes. She pulled out a couple of slices of pie from the cooler and brought them over to the table. The costumed man started in on the coconut creme so Pete ate what he sincerely hoped was blueberry.

"Your story," he said between bites of what was shockingly good pie.

"I started out taking lunch money from newbies," said the man, "it wasn't much, but it kept me fed. The problem was those plastic cards."

"Plastic cards?"

"Yeah, flimsy little things that you loaded at the beginning of the year and swiped through the register. They had your photo on them. I would look ridiculous trying to use the card of some red-headed newbie now wouldn't I?"

Pete opened his mouth, but at a glare from the man in costume he shut it again.

"Good choice," the man said, "I was out of the lunch money business, so I had to find some new gig to keep the flesh on my bones. I saw that Kick Ass movie and figured I could do that."

"So you fight crime in that costume?"

"Are you crazy?" the man said, "Those guys carry guns. Guns hurt. I ordered the costume and I sit around in different joints and let rubes buy me food and stuff to tell my story."

"What if they get annoyed at being conned?" Pete said cracking his knuckles. The man waved a squirt gun.

"Filled with Tabasco Sauce," he said, "It's impossible to get out of your clothes, never mind what it's like if you get in your eyes."

Pete laughed.

"So what do I call you."

The man stood up and twirled.

"They call me PacOdaTacO"

Grace looked out over the moonlit garden and sighed. For three weeks now she had been watched for the return of the huge pale green moth that had astonished her. She had been feeling down. Well, to be truthful, she thought, she had been feeling just this side of the black pit of despair. So many things had gone wrong at once. Disasters had come in showers, then in monsoons.

That night she had come home from arguing with a sympathetic security guard that she needed to get her stuff from her desk. It had her purse in it. Her purse had her cards, her phone, her <i>life</i>. Unfortunately, while sympathetic, he was also unbudging. The company had gone into receivership and no one was allowed into the building until the courts decided who was getting what. It was too bad she had forgotten her purse in her desk, but she would get it back eventually, probably.

Grace had left before she did something illegal, or worse embarrassing. She'd spent hours cancelling cards and waiting on hold. Finally she'd had enough and had wandered out into her garden in the pale light of the crescent moon. She loved her home and garden, but without her job, she didn't know how she was going to pay for it.

The lake, a large pond really, had beckoned. No one would miss her. Her feet were actually in the water when she saw it. It was the palest green she had ever seen and it looked like it almost glowed in the dark. The moth beckoned her away from the pond to the butterfly bushes where it fluttered and fed for hours. When Grace finally when inside cold and sleepy, the darkness in her heart had vanished.

Now she wanted to see it again, not because she needed to, but because she wanted to.

"Excuse me," the voice said behind her. Grace almost jumped out of her skin. "Sorry to have startled you, miss." The security guard held out her purse. "They released the personal effects from the building. I knew how much you wanted it."

"Thanks," she clutched it to her chest.

"I brought you something as a thanks for not making a huge scene." He held out a tiny stone that was shaped into a crescent moon. It was the exact colour of the moth.

"It's beautiful," she said, "I saw a moth that colour just a few weeks ago."

"A Luna moth," he said, "They're amazing."

"So this is a Luna stone," she said gazing at it. "Would you like to come in for tea?"

"I shouldn't really."

"Do you have somewhere to go?"

"No, I guess not."

"I'll bring it out here. Maybe the moth will come back."