Animals of the Apocalypse

frog + zebra

Frobra

eagle + rhinoceros

Eagloceros

pug +duck

Puck

cat + shark

Cark

(or Shat, lol)

tiger + squirrel

Tigrrel

squirrel + dog

Squog

The Mona Lisa

I read on the news feeds this morning that a woman threw a ceramic mug at DaVinci's famous Mona Lisa. Since the painting is protected by bullet proof glass, the lady with the world's most fascinating smile (Stay thirsty, my friends....) emerged unscathed, and the mug wielding assailant was arrested and subsequently remanded to a psychiatric facility. The incident gives a whole new meaning to "mug shot", don't you think?

This got me to thinking. What would trigger a person to attack a painting? Was the woman insane, or did she know something that the rest of us do not? What if the painting of Mona Lisa was more than a painting?

______________________________________________________________________________

Samantha Dowling was walking through the Louvre, enjoying her day off. After the high pressure job of securities exchange, she was allowing both her mind and her nerves to rest in the quiet and beautiful museum of art. She was well aware that this vacation was long overdue; her nerves and mind both were fast approaching the breaking point when her boss suggested she take some time off. Though her performance was not yet suffering from her stress-filled state, her department head, Tim Jones, could see that she was on the edge of a breakdown.

"Take some time off, Sam," he told her. "A week, maybe two. The break will do you some good."

And so, Samantha Dowling found herself roaming some of the most famous places in Italy and France. After touring the Vatican and all of the history that it had to offer, she was now seeing wondrous works of art by names like Donatello, Michelangelo, and now she was headed to DaVinci's masterpiece, the Mona Lisa. She had seen pictures of her since she was a little girl and was looking forward to finally seeing the enigmatic lady for herself.

As she neared the painting, she was surprised to see that no one was around it. She was going to be able to see it up close and personal all by herself. Now, how often did that happen to people?

As she got up close to study the painting, shivers of delight went up her back. She was in front of one of the most recognizable paintings in the world! She studied Mona Lisa's eyes, seeming so bright and alert for oil on canvas. He hair was a lustrous black that flowed down her shoulders. And her smile? Well, what could she possibly say about Mona Lisa's smile that had not already been said by countless people before her?

But despite Samantha having one of her dreams come true, the experience was being marred by her own internal voices. Seeing the serene and beautiful lady up close only served to remind her that soon, all too soon, she would be back in the stress-filled world of the securities exchange. Why couldn't she exist in a happy and quiet world? Why couldn't she simply sit, and smile, and enjoy life as Mona Lisa apparently had while still alive?

Getting as close to the framed painting as she could, Samantha Dowling whispered, "I wish I could be more like you, Mona Lisa, happy and smiling at the world."

"You can, mia caro," sounded a voice in her head. "All you have to do is want it badly enough."

Samantha jerked back and looked around her, embarrassed that someone had heard her whisper and even more embarrassed that they had answered.

"I beg your pardon," she began, but then didn't finish. As she looked around, she saw there was no one else there. She was still all alone by the painting of Mona Lisa. Looking around her yet again, Samantha could see no one even remotely close enough to her that could have spoken.

"Hello?" she whispered again. "Is someone here?"

She heard a soft laugh followed by, "Of course there is, mia caro. Were you not just speaking to me?"

Samantha paused. The voice she was hearing seemed seemed to be coming from the direction of the painting. Slowly turning to face the Mona Lisa, Samantha looked once again into the smiling face and saw the painted eyes in the beautiful face staring back into her own. One of Mona Lisa's hands came up and gave her a brief wave before being placed back on her lap.

"You desire a happier and quieter life, do you not? Or did I misunderstand what you were saying a moment ago?"

Samantha stood frozen in place. Was the painting of the Mona Lisa actually speaking to her? Samantha passed her hand over her face and took a deep breath. She was obviously under a great deal more stress than she had realized if she was imagining things like this! Shaking her head to clear it, Samantha chuckled at herself and rubbed her eyes. She wondered if she may just have to request an additional week off if she was that far gone!

Samantha looked at the painting again, knowing full well that she had imagined the picture talking. Now how crazy was that! As she continued to admire DaVinci's masterpiece, she found herself drawn once again to Mona Lisa's eyes. As she stared at them, the left eye winked.

Laughing softly yet again Mona Lisa said, "You aren't daydreaming, mia caro, nor are you crazy. I am speaking to you."

Samantha simply stood and stared. This couldn't be happening, could it?

"I wish to help you achieve your dream, Samantha," Mona Lisa continued, "to see you happy and content within your own world. Wouldn't you like that?"

Samantha nodded dumbly.

"And I can help you attain that dream, little one. All you have to do is follow my directions perfectly, and we can trade places."

Samantha gasped quietly. Trade places with the Mona Lisa? Was that even possible?

"It is more than possible, Samantha," the painting said as if it could read her thoughts, "it is easily attainable. You see, I am not who I appear to be. I am actually an angel, an angel trapped within this painting by Leonardo DeVinci hundreds of years ago. Acting on misplaced loyalties, he used magical paints and materials to capture my essence and lock it within this frame, trapping me here until someone released me. And I think that someone could be you."

An angel trapped in the painting? Samantha felt as if her grasp on reality was slowly weakening. None of this conversation could possibly be real.

The Mona Lisa slowly stood, her hands coming up in supplication. "It is real, Samantha, very real. You want the peace and serenity that can be found in my painting? The quiet and contemplative existence I have? It can all be yours. I just need you to do two simple things."

"What simple things are those?" Samantha asked curiously. A chance to leave the crazy and stressful world behind her? How could she possibly not find out more?

Mona Lisa's smile grew wider, and she said, "Two simple things, mia caro. Come closer to me, place your hand on the glass."

Samantha looked around nervously. Putting her hand on the glass could earn her a one way ticket to the local police department, yet there didn't seem to be anyone around who would notice. So, Samantha stepped closer to the painting and placed her palm against the cool glass.

Samantha could now see Mona Lisa's teeth, her smile had grown so wide, and she was surprised to see that they looked liked the teeth of a shark, pointed and jagged. She gasped when she saw them.

"Now, I will explain what you must do, little Samantha. For us to exchange places, I will need to taste a drop of your blood, and you will need to taste a drop of mine. Then, when we have both tasted from the other, you must crack the frame around the painting so that I can exit and you can enter."

Samantha was confused at these directions. Taste blood? Give up blood? What kind of an angel did that? And what about those strange teeth. Something was not quite right here, but Samantha was starting to feel light headed and was having trouble concentrating.

"Wait," she managed to get out. Even her tongue seemed to be slowing down. "Who are you? I've never heard of an angel with teeth like yours, or needing to drink blood. Angels are supposed to be good and protective, not fanged and bloodthirsty.

Samantha watched in horror as the bright brown eyes of the Mona Lisa began to shift color, turning from brown to orange and finally to red. The usually sublime smile was now a huge tooth filled grin, the jagged edges even more pronounced.

"Who said I was one of those angels, mia caro?"

Samantha screamed as one of the painted hands emerged from the frame and grasped her hand that was still placed on the glass cover. Claws emerged and sank into the soft flesh, a hollow laugh echoing around the gallery.

Samantha screamed and wrenched her hand away from the picture. What was happening here? She felt her stomach heave when she saw the blood dripping from her mangled hand. Screaming again, only this time for help, Samantha reached into the bag dangling from her uninjured hand and brought out a souvenir mug she had just purchased. Throwing the mug at the twisted and laughing face before her, Samantha began to back away from the abomination filling the wooden frame.

Just as she turned to run, she felt arms grab her and push her to the floor. Thank goodness, she thought, security was finally here!

"Look!" she cried, "Look at the painting! It's a monster, a devil trying to escape!"

As Samantha was pulled roughly to her feet, her hands cuffed in front of her, she looked at the painting again and gasped. There was no devil in the frame, no clawed hands, no fanged mouth. It was simply the Mona Lisa, calm and serene, smiling unfathomably back at Samantha. Looking down at her hands, she saw that both of them were whole and undamaged. There were no scratches, no blood, nothing out of the ordinary.

As security hustled her away, Samantha glanced back one final time at DaVinci's masterpiece. It may have been a trick of the light, but Samantha thought she saw Mona Lisa's eyes glint redly above her mystic smile.

The Visitor

Mark Delgado shuffled slowly towards his kitchen, his slippered feet making almost no noise on the polished wooden floor. Though there was a time in the past when he used to make fun of his mother for wearing slippers instead of proper shoes indoors, he found that, in his old age, wearing shoes all day was simply too much strain on his aging arches. Now, it was he that was being made fun of for the comfortable house shoes he always had on. It had become a favorite jibe of his nephew who loved to remark on his Uncle Mark's pressed corduroy slacks, laundered button down shirts, and flimsy slippers.

Still, Mark's visits from his nephew Vic were always the highlight of his week. Being a gay bachelor who was always too afraid to meet other men, Mark now had no one in his life with whom to share his old age. No children, no companion, and not even a pet due to his allergies. At 65 years of age, Mark held no delusions that he would find anyone who would be interested in him now. Once a very handsome young man, Mark now joked that his beauty had faded away with his feet.

Upon entering the kitchen, Mark turned the flame on under a tea kettle filled with water and headed towards his pantry to grab the tin containing his precious Heritage No. 42 Earl Grey tea. Even though it was a bit of an expense, he had it shipped to him every month from Harrod's in London. Having experienced this particular tea blend while visiting London as a younger man, Mark found that its delicious citrusy flavor still reminded him of his time in England and thought the expense was justified.

Just as he placed his slippered foot onto the first step of the pantry stepladder, Mark felt himself lose his balance and fall forward, striking his head first on the wooden shelving and then on the corner of the stainless steel Viking range. For a moment, he felt as if he were floating away before his eyesight failed him, and he blacked out.

Returning to consciousness, Mark found himself laying on his back on his kitchen floor. His head was slightly achy and he had trouble focusing his eyes at first, but eventually he managed to get back to his feet. Chuckling ruefully at his clumsiness, Mark resolved not to tell his nephew Vic of his fall feeling that the news would only worry him. Grabbing the boiling water off of the stove for his cup of Earl Grey, Mark settled into his favorite leather chair and looked out towards the cul de sac to people watch. Oddly enough, he saw no one outdoors. The children who normally rode their bikes on the rounded street were nowhere to be seen. Their parents weren't outside watering their carefully maintained yards and gossiping across the hedges either. Now, that was unusual.

Suddenly, movement from across the street caught his eye. There was a man standing on the sidewalk across the way. He was oddly dressed for a summer evening, Mark thought, with his black suit and black fedora. Surely those dark clothes just absorbed the sun's heat. As the old man continued to watch him, the oddly dressed stranger crossed the street, walking very casually as if he had no particular destination in mind. But even so, it appeared to Mark that the dark suited man's eyes had locked on to his own. Mark began to feel slightly apprehensive, his heart beating faster and his palms growing moist with perspiration.

For some morbid reason, Mark found himself remembering one of his grandmother's old Mexican folktales. She used to say that she would know when it was her time to die because death would come for her dressed in black. "I don't know exactly what he will look like, mijo," she used to say, "but he will be dressed from head to toe in the darkest black and carrying a silver guadaña, a scythe, to separate my soul from the ties of this world."

Looking quickly at the approaching figure, Mark could see that the man was younger than he had originally thought, looking like he was in his mid-twenties. The severely dark suit had given him the air of someone much older. He had pale skin and pale eyes that were set in the most beautiful face Mark had ever seen. From what Mark could tell, he was slender without being thin. It was more of a physique typical of an Olympic diver than anything else, and if anyone could make that comparison, it was Mark. He had always loved the summer Olympics, not just for the competition, but for the simple reason that he had always admired the sleek and muscular forms of the swimmers.

His reverie cut short by a knock at the door, Mark put down his cup of Earl Grey and rose to answer the front door. Opening the heavy mahogany door with a small amount of trepidation (Thanks Grandma, he thought) Mark saw the man in black standing on his porch. Looking quickly for a large scythe, he chuckled slightly when he didn't see one in evidence.

Frowning at Mark's laugh, the man said, "I'm sorry, is something funny, sir?"

Shaking his head and smiling, Mark answered, "No, no, I am sorry for that. I meant no disrespect to you, young man. Is there something I can help you with?"

Looking at him up close, Mark could see that his original assessment was correct. The person at his door was the most attractive man he had ever seen. His eyes were actually a light blue and his skin pale enough to be almost translucent. It was clear to Mark that he didn't get much sun. As the stranger removed his hat for politeness sake, Mark could see that his hair was blonde.

"I hope so, sir," the man responded. "My name is Gregory Sterling, and I am looking for Mark Delgado. I am hoping that he lives here. You see, I've been asked by an acquaintance of mine to find him and deliver this letter." Pulling a buff colored envelope out of his coat pocket, the man continued "You see, he dictated a letter on his deathbed to Mark Delgado, confessing that he had loved him for years in silence and wanted him to finally know."

Mark stepped back in shock. A man had loved him? Loved him without his knowledge and didn't want to take that secret to his grave? Intrigued at the story the young Gregory had related, Mark invited him in. Once they arrived into the parlor, Gregory sat in one of the armchairs, his black clad legs draped casually one over the other. As Mark sat in the other armchair, he cast his admiring eye over the young man once again. Seeing the way he moved, the way he carried himself, and the way he spoke with his hands, Mark was certain that young Gregory was gay himself. Gregory's "acquaintance" very well may have been an older man who enjoyed the younger's companionship and love. It was possible.

Grabbing his reading glasses and unfolding the letter, Mark read the words in silence. He recognized the name of Gregory's mysterious companion, an old college chum named Sebastian Moran. According to the letter, Sebastian had fallen in love with Mark almost immediately, but was too frightened to admit his own homosexuality. He had eventually married, had children, and refused to acknowledge his attraction for other men. As a result, he had suffered anxiety and depression throughout most of his life, and shared a bitter and loveless marriage with someone who deserved better. Now that he was dying, he wanted to finally tell the world about who he really was.

Mark put the letter down in his lap. He couldn't believe what he was reading. He remembered Sebastian quite clearly. He had been a beautifully built blonde man, very attractive and quiet. He remembered even having a slight crush on him for a while. Now, wasn't that ironic. If only one of them had admitted to their attraction, each of their lives may have turned out so differently. Perhaps he and Sebastian would have fallen in love and even spent their lives together. Mark wouldn't have had such a lonely life; perhaps Sebastian would have had a happier one.

Looking up at Gregory, Mark finally noticed the resemblance the young man had to his memory of Sebastian. "You are his son, aren't you, Gregory."

Gregory didn't answer. He just stood up and held out his hand. "I was asked to dance with you once before I left, if it's okay with you, Mark."

With tears in his eyes, Mark placed a CD in his stereo system and punched in the track number of a slow song. Feeling Gregory's hands on his shoulders, Mark turned and put his arms around the beautiful young man. Deep down, Mark was thinking that he should be feeling weirded out about what was happening, but for some reason, he felt relaxed and happy in Gregory's arms. With his eyes closed and his head upon Gregory's shoulder, Mark didn't see Gregory take a silver blade out of his coat pocket. Even when the spectral cords that bound him to the mortal world were severed, Mark continued to dance in the arms of the beautiful man in black, imagining he was young again.

_____________________________________________________________________

Vic Delgado, Mark's nephew finally arrived at his uncle's home. There were two police cars and an ambulance parked there already. As Vic entered the familiar home, he steeled himself for what he was about to see.

"Mr. Delgado?" one of the officers asked. At Vic's nod, the officer said, "If you would come into the kitchen, sir, we are waiting for you there."

In the kitchen, thought Vic, how ironic. It was Uncle Mark's favorite room in the whole house. As soon as he walked in, Vic could see his uncle's dead body lying on the floor. He was dressed in his favorite pants and house shoes. Vic smiled slightly at that. He never could understand how his uncle, always so neatly dressed, could love those ratty looking shoes.

After identifying his uncle's body, Vic asked if the police could tell what had happened. They explained that they couldn't say anything officially, but that it appeared the old man had fallen over his stepladder and hit his head twice, once on the pantry shelves and once on the stove corner. The blows, or perhaps even just one, had killed him instantly.

Vic looked down at his uncle. He knew that Uncle Mark had never been truly happy. He had always regretted not exploring who he was. But even so, Vic was happy to see that his uncle's face didn't look pained. In fact, the old man was smiling. Vic hoped this was because death had come for him in the shape of a good looking man.

Wouldn't his uncle have loved that.

The Gate of Eternity

The Angel stood at his post at the Gate of Eternity. He had been the keeper there for millenia, chosen for his dedication to duty and his love for mankind. He had made it a point of honor on his part that no minion of the Dark One had ever snuck past. Now, there had been instances when one or more minions had battled their way though the Gate to cause death and destruction on Earth, but those were the rules by which he had to abide. Any spirit, good or bad, that entered the mortal world through the Gate could do as they wished with no interference from the Angelic Guard.

The Gate he guarded was one of four main entry points for spirits, both good and evil, to enter the mortal world and gain access to man. The evil spirits, the Spawned, reveled in tempting mankind to perform misdeeds, to harm their fellows, and to turn away from the Light. The Host, on the other hand, did whatever they could to bring as many mortals as they could towards the Light, by encouraging kindness and compassion. And despite the fact that the Angel, as a representative of neutrality, could not interfere in the affairs of either the Host of the Spawned, he secretly wished the Host well.

The affinity he had for the Host, however, did not keep him from challenging and blocking their passage through the doorway, just as he did for the Spawned. As an Angel, his job was to keep mankind safe from the manipulations of either side, to give mankind the chance to make their own destiny and choose their own paths. The interference of the Host or the Spawned both made mankind's decisions false and forced. That was not what the Creator had planned.

Hearing a slight sound behind him, the Angel turned his head and saw four glowing figures rushing towards him, each holding a weapon. Two glowed a bright white while the others glowed a purple so deep that it looked black. Bringing up his sword, the Angel fended off the attacks of the two Host with the white auras and one of the purple Spawned. The second Spawned circled around behind him, making for the unprotected doorway.

Parrying the three attacks and pushing the smaller figures back, the Angel stepped towards the Gate, barring the evil spirit passage. The Spawned fell back and crouched, its cowardice in the face of the mighty Angel robbing it of the ability to flee. As the Angel raised his sword to dispatch the foul creature, he felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder and staggered forward. Spinning around, he saw that one of the Host had drawn a bow and was fitting another silver arrow to fire.

The Angel leapt towards the archer, giving the cowering Spawned an opening towards the Gate. With a glee filled shriek, the evil spirit bounded through the arched Gate and disappeared. Frowning in anger, the Angel struck at the Host armed with the bow, snapping the shining weapon and striking the Host in the arm. In an explosion of silver dust, the archer was no more.

The remaining Host and Spawned came towards the Angel, weapons weaving a pattern around them. As one, they attacked the Angel in an attempt to drive him away from the doorway. With the silver arrow still in his shoulder, the Angel was hard pressed to stand his ground and was slowly forced back. When he was pushed far enough from the glittering archway of the Gate, the two spirits turned and ran towards it, each hoping to make it through, to either tempt or save mankind as per their natures.

Making a quick decision, the Angel threw his sword like an oversized dagger, impaling the Spawned between the shoulder blades and watched as the spirit exploded into black dust. Throwing itself forward, the last of the Host jumped through the Gate, disappearing into the void beyond, its baritone laughter echoing back to the wounded Angel.

Walking over to pick up his weapon, the Angel shook his head in disappointment. Two spirits had managed to make their way to mankind, to interfere with the Creator's Great Work. Well, at least he had kept the balance in check once again, with one Host and one Spawned making it through. Ultimately he knew that he could never keep them all away from mankind. He was one Angel; the spirits, on the other hand, numbered in the tens of thousands. But, he could try his best to keep the interference to a minimum and to keep their manipulations balanced.

He knew that allowing one side or the other to gain an upper hand would spell disaster for the easily influenced mortals. Darkness and Light. The truth was that each had a place in the world. Light cannot exist without casting dark shadows, and darkness would be nothing without the light to define it. The Creator knew this and so allowed the two forces to continue to battle for the attentions of man.

The Angel again began to pace around the Gate, keeping his eyes open for more interference. It was not his place to question the Creator, but he would do his utmost to help mankind make their own choices. Vowing to allow no more spirits through that day, the Angel planted himself at the Gate, his eyes searching the darkness.

It's Not Nice to Fool Mother Nature

It was the year 2120, and mankind had finally mastered his surroundings. Disease was virtually unheard of, food production had been refined so that there was no inhabited place on earth where food was not available, and now, even the weather had been tamed. Due to a new and ingenious invention by Dr. Scott Robertson, all weather patterns and phenomena were now controlled by the Weather Institute. No longer were there uncomfortable temperatures, hot or cold, and all rainfall was carefully planned out so that areas designated as farmland received just the right amount. As far as the common man was concerned, the earth was now a virtual paradise. Or at least it was yesterday.

"Professor Reardon," called out the young intern. "There seems to be another storm developing in the middle of the Atlantic."

"What?" called out the white haired professor. "That's the third one to stir up in the last 36 hours. That's not supposed to be possible. I wonder if the WeatherNet is malfunctioning."

The WeatherNet, as it was called, was the series of satellites orbiting the planet that both monitored the earth's weather as well as controlled it through directed plasma discharges and energy collectors. It was the WeatherNet that made it possible for mankind to finally exert complete control over his environment.

Scratching his head in thought, Professor Reardon looked at the various readouts on the monitors before him. According to what he saw, there was, indeed, a storm brewing in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, a storm that should not be able to form considering the WeatherNet was draining away all excess atmospheric and oceanic energy. The fact that a storm cell was developing anyway suggested there was something wrong with the system.

Sighing to himself at the thought of endless hours of diagnostics that were surely in his future, Professor Readon looked at the intern, Santos was his name, and said, "Mr. Santos, target the center of that cell with the 'Net if you please, and drain it of all of its energy. No storm has been scheduled for today."

With a few taps on his keyboard and a thousand computer calculations made in .2 seconds, the WeatherNet locked on to the center of the storm cell and positioned two satellites accordingly. With a flash of plasma discharge, a bolt of blue energy shot from the satellites and struck the center of the storm. At first, the monitors at the Weather Institute showed that the storm was shrinking, it's energy drained by the plasma streams. But as Professor Reardon watched, the storm center began to grow with unnatural speed, the outside edges growing at a rate of a mile a minute. Professor Reardon had never seen a storm react that way before.

Watching the status of the energy collectors aboard each satellite fill to capacity, the intern, Mr. Santos, shut down the plasma stream before they exploded. Looking at Professor Reardon for instruction, Mr. Santos saw that the old man had gone as white as his hair.

_______________________________________________________________________

"Do you see, Dr Mandragora," snapped the tall lady standing before the large font of shimmering water. "They think they have the right to tell me where and when to send my showers, my winds, my waves of warm air. I have been tending this planet for millions of years, and suddenly they think they can do the job better than I!"

The man known as Dr Mandragora stood up slowly from his seat, his young apprentice scurrying over to help steady his master. Dressed in an old fashioned black frock coat, a silver waistcoat, and black trousers, the aging Mandragora walked to where the goddess was standing, leaning heavily upon his black oak walking stick.

"I know you are distressed, dear Lady Gaia, but their attempt at weather control is not meant to be slight to you. In all fairness, they aren't aware that you exist and are seeking to better their planet."

"Better it for themselves, you mean, don't you, Doctor?" accused Gaia, Goddess of the Earth. "Mankind has used and abused the planet that was placed in their care, they have stripped it of its resources, destroyed any other life that was in their way and all in the name of progress." Her lip curling in a sneer, the Earth Goddess Gaia continued, "And it wasn't just animals and plants they destroyed, Doctor, and you know that. They killed their own kind as readily as they destroyed my defenseless creatures, all in the name of progress. Yes, all sacrificed on the alter of 'science' and for 'the betterment of all'."

Dr. Mandragora watched as Gaia looked back into the font of water and saw what had captured her attention. She was watching a storm cell swirling in the ocean, the Atlantic, unless he was mistaken. "Now they seek mastery of the very elements? Mankind has gone too far." And so saying, Gaia placed her finger in the water, touching the center of the storm and swirling it in a circle, the arms of the storm circling faster and faster in response to her movements.

Seeing the hard look Gaia had on her face, Dr Mandragora asked, "What are you planning then, dear lady?"

"Planning? Isn't it obvious Doctor? I am going to brush them off the face of the earth."

_______________________________________________________________________

"Professor Reardon!" shouted Intern Santos, "A third satellite has just exploded! The storm is sending large pulses of energy back through the plasma stream. It's overloading the collectors! We are going to lose the entire 'Net if we don't shut down!"

The old scientist, Professor Reardon, ignored the frantic shouts from the staff in the WeatherNet control room. His eyes were glued to the instruments before him. The storm cell had grown to a monstrous 300 mile radius. He had never seen such a powerful storm in his life. The hovercopters sent in to the edges of the storm to gauge the wind had been reporting speeds at 350 miles per hour, an unheard of speed for wind to travel naturally. If he couldn't get the storm broken up, the computer was estimating landfall on the eastern coast of the United States in just over two hours.

"Santos!" Reardon shouted out, "focus all of the remaining satellites on the leading edge of the storm. We have to slow that thing down!"

"Yes, sir," answered Mr. Santos, fingers flying across his keyboard. Once he had finished and no one was looking at him anymore, Jason Santos opened up a small window on his computer, quickly sending a message to his wife's mobile phone. The message simply read, "Get to shelter now!"

__________________________________________________________________________

Walking in circles around the magical font, Dr Mandragora, hands clasped behind his back, was trying to distract the agitated and ancient goddess. "Now, Lady Gaia, I will grant you that mankind has not been the most conscientious of guardians. They have made some rather large blunders in the past, but they are far from being the villains that you are making them out to be."

Making a rude noise, Gaia waved her hands to shush her visitor. "Do be quiet, Dr Mandragora. As if I would listen to you on the subject of mankind. You have spent millennia watching them, nudging them, advising them, and I believe you have lost your objectivity." When it appeared that Dr Mandragora was going to interrupt, Gaia raised her hand to stop him. "Oh yes, Doctor. You have lost the ability to judge their actions fairly. You were sent here ages ago to help them develop into righteous beings and look at what they have done. Look!"

Gesturing towards the font, the clear water within clouded over for a moment before revealing a strip of land that was scarred and dead, three concrete towers looming over everything like dark sentinels. "Look, Doctor, at what your precious humanity has wrought. Nuclear power plants, poisoning everything around them, because man needed more power. More power, more power, they always needed more! More energy to run their factories so that they could dump more poison into the air. More power to run their weapons systems so that they could more efficiently kill each other and everything else around them. More power stripped from the earth, and to what purpose."

Dr. Mandragora stared into the font, taking in the scene of desolation before him. He recognized that power plant. It was famous for being run poorly and for poisoning the land for decades. He didn't know what to say.

"Look, Doctor, at what their drive for more power has accomplished. Radioactive land, warped animal life, poisoned water. I refuse to allow them to continue."

_______________________________________________________________________

The Weather Institute had been built below ground to conserve more space topside for homes and parks, not to provide it with protection. Ironically, underground as it was, the Weather Institute was immune to the weather which was, at that moment, scouring the ground above.

Professor Reardon had just gotten off of the phone with the Director of the World Government and had given him an assessment of the weather situation. Every satellite connected to the WeatherNet was destroyed. No matter how much energy they had absorbed from the storm front, the clouds, wind, rain, and lightning continued to advance. The storm had hit America three hours ago and already thousands of people were dead. This storm was not like any other ever in the history of mankind. This storm lashed and assaulted everything before it, winds were knocking over buildings, lightning was shattering concrete and stone with ease, and the pouring rain was then washing away all signs of what had been there before. Once the storm had been through an area, all traces of man were gone.

Professor Reardon watched his monitors and saw that the leading edge of the storm was about to pass over the Weather Institute. Even though he was below ground, he could feel tremors in the earth. He had no illusions that they would be spared.

________________________________________________________________________

Dr Mandragora stood on a tall outcropping of rock, watching the storm move away from the city. There was virtually nothing left to mark the passing of man. A metal girder here, a slab of shattered concrete there. He placed his arm around the shoulders of his apprentice, who looked around them in horror.

"Master," the boy whispered,"is everybody gone?"

"Yes, my dear lad," the Doctor said sadly. "Gaia chose to leave nothing behind. She wanted to wipe the slate competely clean so that the Creator could start over again."

"Will he?"

The Doctor didn't answer. He didn't know the mind of the Creator. What mortal did?

"Are we the last humans on earth, Master?"

Nodding in agreement, Dr Mandragora said," Well, you are, dear lad. I am not human."

In a rumble of thunder, Dr Mandragora and his young apprentice heard the voice of the Goddess Gaia once again. "It is done, Doctor. With the exception of you and your boy, man is no more." Pausing for a moment, Gaia then whispered, "And I am sure you already realize that I don't dare make exceptions."

Mandragora's eyes squinted a fraction, knowing what the goddess intended.

"I'm sure if anyone understands, Doctor, it is you. Farewell old friend."

With a bright flash and a loud crack, an enormous bolt of lightning struck where Dr Mandragora and his apprentice were standing. The lightning stayed attached to the ground for several long minutes, the energy crackling and spitting as it burned everything around it. Once the bolt was completely discharged and the resulting smoke cleared, Gaia looked at the spot where the last of humanity had been standing, expecting to see the charred remains of Mandragora and his young charge. But instead all she found was the burnt and cracked walking stick the wizard had been carrying.

Of the boy and the aged sorcerer, there was no sign.

Gaia frowned in irritation for a moment. Then her countenance cleared and she broke into a smile. Laughing out loud, she waved her hand and bright sunlight flooded the earth. A new day was dawning, filled with bright promise and excitement. Such things were not meant to be enjoyed alone. Lifting her hand so that a bright red cardinal could land on her finger, Lady Gaia went in search of some company.

The Temptation of Sir Galahad

Sir Galahad was the youngest knight to sit on King Arthur's Round Table, but that distinction brought him little joy. Since the day Merlin had declared that he, Galahad, would be the greatest knight in the world, he had been the object of people's attention.

Some of the other knights were jealous of his reputation and challenged him continuously, the ladies of the court were intrigued at the fact the he was celibate and were always trying to entice him into their chambers, and the younger squires would follow him around hoping to be his friend. And though Galahad didn't mind talking to the squires, he rarely gave the ladies more than a few moments of his time.

Many of the older knights were impressed with Galahad's strength in remaining celibate in the face of so many beautiful females. In reality, it took little effort on his part to remain true to his vows, because the fact was that he wasn't attracted to any of the women of the court. Or to be more precise, he wasn't attracted to women.

What threatened Galahad's pledge to remain virgin was Sir Tristan, the second youngest knight in Arthur's service. As the youngest knights, Galahad and Tristan inevitably gravitated towards each other, finding they had common interests and outlooks on life. But where Tristan was in love with the Lady Isolde, Galahad was in love with Tristan.

The day finally came where Galahad's vow was put to a serious test. After practicing in the yard for a few hours, both knights made their way to the heated bathing pools beneath the castle proper. As Tristan undressed, still talking about his spectacular defeat over Sir Medes, Galahad found that he could not take his eyes off of his fellow knight.

As more of Tristan's clothing was discarded, more of his muscular body was revealed. Galahad's breath caught in his throat, and he felt his body flush. Tristan was beautiful.

His shoulders were broad and smooth, the sweat on them glistening in the torchlight. His chest was muscular with short light brown hair covering his entire torso, thicker hair around his nipples. As Tristan stretched to help relax stiffening muscles, Galahad stared at his toned arms and the dusting of darker brown hair underneath. Tristan turned to enter the pool, the muscles on his tanned thighs flexing as he shifted his balance onto one leg, his bare bottom taut. He turned and looked over his shoulder at the mesmerized Galahad, his dark and sensuous eyes staring out from underneath long brown hair.

"Aren't you coming in?" he asked. "I'm may need some help scrubbing the sweat and grime off of my back." Seeing that Galahad simply stared at him, Tristan quickly amended, "But only if you don't mind."

Galahad quickly began to undress.

Written by Dr Mandragora

The Goddess Approaches

Looking down from her lotus blossom perched high in the heavens, the Goddess Lakshmi witnessed the daily trials and tribulations suffered by mankind. In her four hands, she held the secrets of the four ends of man: dharma/righteousness, kama/desires, artha/wealth, and moksha/escape from the wheel of reincarnation.

She saw her loyal followers struggle to make ends meet, she saw their dearest dreams shattered under the yoke of reality, and she saw their faith weaken with each new disappointment, and she grew sad.

But tonight was different. Tonight was, finally, the first full moon after the festival of Durga Puja, the one night a year she could descend from above and walk amongst her faithful.

The Goddess of Luck and Wealth used this night to reward those individuals who had shown faith and perseverance, those who worshipped her daily, no matter their circumstances. The goddess looked forward to dispensing her blessings. Why else would she exist if it were not to bring succor to others?

As Lakshmi prepared to descend amongst the mortals, she looked about her one final time. So much sadness in the world this year. War, death, famine. She sighed as she realized even her blessings could not defeat all of the ills of mankind.

But perhaps she could ease away some of the pain.

The Goddess descended, golden light spilling from her hands, beating back the darkness for another year.

Written by Dr Mandragora