AJ, or Absolute Justice, became monstrous through random chance. A freak time machine accident turned him hideous and gave him perfect knowledge of the past, present, and future. Faced with dimension-encompassing omniscience, he decided to turn to his lifelong dream, creating a more just world, to give him purpose. He uses his abilities to prosecute criminals before they do wrong, crushing crime rates and gradually creating a peaceful, albeit paranoid, society. 

AJ’s actions may or may not make him evil, but monstrosity is a different beast entirely. In Monster Culture (Seven Theses), Jeffrey Jerome Cohen argues that “The monster is difference made flesh, come to dwell among us…. Any kind of alterity can be inscribed across (constructed through) the monstrous body”       (pg. 7). He argues that monsters are defined by their difference from the society that births them. In this way, AJ is monstrous because he is entirely alien to the fundamental systems of logic we all use to perceive the world: causality, the before and after of reason, syllogisms and deductions are all meaningless before his (literally) timeless wisdom. In thesis III of Monster Culture, Cohen talks about monsters challenging logic and rationality: “In the face of the monster, scientific inquiry and its ordered rationality crumble… the monster’s very existence is a rebuke to boundary and enclosure” (pg.7). AJ is monstrous because his mind is monstrous. None of us can hope to relate to AJ’s mentality even remotely. 

AJ also resonates deeply with collective dread, another one of Cohen’s common characteristic of monsters. In thesis II Cohen says “”Monster theory” must therefore concern itself with strings of cultural moments, connected by a logic that always threatens to shift,” (pg. 6). Therefore, monsters represent societal movements and fears of the time they are written. AJ represents the fear of inevitability. Once AJ has decided you are guilty, there is nothing you can do to convince him of your innocence. His knowledge is infallible. He knows you’ll do evil in the future, and there’s nothing you can do to prevent it. The fear of inevitability is a common thread in modern society, especially in gen Z. The advent of climate change and an onslaught of depressing news gives rise to the idea that we are living in a secondhand apocalypse we have no power to prevent. Gen Z is aggressively ironic and insincere because of the fear that we’re screwed no matter what we do. By prosecuting the innocent for their inevitable crimes, AJ represents and affirms that fear.  

Not everyone in AJ’s fictional United States feels that way, however. In fact, general society trusts him enough to make him a governmental entity with semi-total control of the justice system. His authority is given to him by the litany of people who put their faith in him. If AJ is a monster, he is one who makes the world better for his “victims”. He is a figure who inspires both fear and awe. AJ makes the world a better place for its people, and his motivation is benevolent and austere. His only desire is justice. Can such a being truly be called monstrous? 

In Cohen’s framework of monsterhood is tied to the general societal observer, the many unanimously declaring one monstrous. Whether for its physical hideousness, its alterity, or its defiance of logic, monsters are born from the collective consciousness, so it is always the collective consciousness which delivers the final verdict on monsterhood. When that collective consciousness fails at unanimity, what is left to declare AJ monstrous? 

AJ is a monster only because we do not live in AJ’s world. To us, AJ represents societal fears, challenges our perception of logic, and is difference made manifest. But to those living under AJ’s rule, he is a simple truth of life. To them, AJ does not embody the same breach of rationality, because they live with it every day. He does not resonate with their fears, because that fear has given way to mundane paranoia. He is not so different from the system that first rejected him, because he has come to embody that same system. In other words, a system cannot be monstrous, because a system will never be foreign to its inhabitants. The moment the monster comes to dictate the collective consciousness that judges it, it ceases to be monstrous.  

It was a moderately lit and pleasantly temperate afternoon. The Honorable Judge AJ Wellington banged his gavel on the podium, calling a recess for the accused. The sound of disturbed chatter echoed in the wide courthouse halls as the defense and prosecution exited in turn. When only AJ remained in the courtroom, he hung his head in his hands and sighed.  

This was a difficult case. The jury had been deliberating over the accused’s guilt for weeks. If she was found guilty, an innocent woman might go to prison. If she was found innocent, however, she could go on to harm again. She and her children suffered the longer she remained in court. If only I knew what she did and what she’ll do, AJ ruminated. Justice would be so much simpler… 

That evening, AJ went on a dinner date with a Whole Foods cashier named Tanya. He had asked her out but couldn’t bring himself to make conversation. He stared out the window, avoiding his pasta, while his date made small talk at him. “So what does AJ stand for anyway?”  

“I don’t know.” He said, watching a man toss his Slurpee cup into the street. “I think it just says AJ on my birth certificate.” 

“Oh.”  

A bus ran over the Slurpee cup, splashing blue and red in pretty patterns against the window. AJ watched them slide down and disfigure into purple blotches. Tanya took a few last bites of her steak and rose from her seat. “Hey, this was nice, but I think I’ve really got to-” 

There was an enormous sharp sound of thunder as a dark grey box appeared where AJ was sitting. Tanya tripped and fell over her chair. Dramatic lightning and terrible cacophony came from the monolith. It was the sound of several people and a chair being pushed through each other, particle by excruciating particle, in a freak time machine accident. Tanya ran out of the restaurant in a crowd of screaming people. 

It was an hour or more before the horrific sound and light stopped. The box hissed and copious amounts of steam poured from its innards. It unfolded and disappeared with a bright flash. Left standing in its place was… 

Tanya stepped tentatively back into the restaurant. “…AJ?” 

The creature presented itself from out of the cloud of steam. It was hideous. Pieces of chair sprung from its squat lopsided torso like the spines of a sea cucumber. It had two sets of arms of varying sizes, which writhed back and forth making incomprehensible signs. Its legs, of which it had an unclear number, were fused together with its abdomen, immobile. It had three eyes on its disproportionately large head, darting back and forth with analytical urgency. It had no mouth with which to speak the words Tanya then heard: 

“Yes, I am/was/will be AJ. This was/is always meant to be.” 

◊ 

AJ was brought into custody as a suspected terrorist. Scientists, journalists, politicians, and civilians crowded around the police station for a chance to look at him, talk to him, and study him. In the interrogation room, AJ spoke to the officer telepathically, explaining what happened inside the time machine.  

“It is/was/will be excruciatingly painful, but not unpleasant. While my body is/was/will be being compressed, the horizon of my mind is/was/will be expanding. My perception of time shatter/ed/s and coalesced/es/e into new vision. You will/did have to forgive my grammar. The past/present/future all look/ed the same to me.”  

The officer, clearly overwhelmed, pulled his gun on AJ. “Where the hell did you come from? What are you?” 

“Calm down, officer. You are/have been/will be under extreme stress. You wife is/has been/will be eight months pregnant and is/was/will be experiencing health issues. You will/are/have put your gun down.” 

The officer spluttered and tightened his grip on the gun. How could this… thing know about his wife? Was it true that it knew everything about him? His past? His future? “If you know everything, why don’t you tell me when I die?” 

“You will die/are dying/have died in forty years, with your wife and son by your bedside.” 

“My… son?” 

“Yes, officer. Your wife will give/is giving/gave birth to your child safely in three weeks.” 

Pressing his hand against his forehead, the officer slumped down against the wall. “…Thank you. Whatever your name is.” 

“You may call me AJ. It stands/will stand/has always stood for Absolute Justice.” 

◊ 

Ten years later, inside the white marble walls of the Court of Absolute Justice, a man stood awaiting trial. With bated breath, he looked up at the great podium with the letters A J emblazoned in blue. From across a raised hallway, suspended over the courtroom like a bridge, came AJ on a wide palanquin, carried by armed guards. They set him down on the podium, three eyes glinting under his hood. He stretched one of his four arms out and pronounced his verdict.  

“Jonah Elizabeth Tanner. Guilty on counts of aggravated assault and murder.” 

“Your honor, I’m innocent!” 

“That is untrue, Jonah. In three years, you will kill/are killing/have killed your wife in cold blood. It is/was/will be in the best interest of everyone present that you leave/left/will leave society.” 

Jonah opened his mouth to speak, then thought for a minute. The tension built until, finally, he stepped forward and said shakily: “This is not justice. Before i’ve had a chance to… to change? You’ll take me from my family for something I haven’t done?”  

For a moment it seemed as if this would give AJ pause, but still he spoke with the same measured tone. “You talk/talked/will talk of “Before”. Before/after/during is a distraction. There is/was/will be no past/present/future in my court. Only Justice.” 

Erlkönig was the name on the spine of the book. One of many impenetrable, thickly wrought texts from her late grandfather’s library, that she had spent weeks now digging into. She thought if she could bring herself to understand them, maybe she’d come to understand what drove grandpa Morty to do what he did. The subject no one would breach at the dinner table, absent from his obituary, from the stories told at his funeral. And so, with nowhere else to go, Pari retreated to the library in the basement, and by flashlight read the books which Morty loved so much. 

It was a melancholy task. Morty’s memory hung heavy in the air, despite, or perhaps even more because of, his final act. Every work he kept, without exception, was dense and metaphorical in nature, obscure books which Pari had never heard of in her life. It made her feel as if she had stumbled into another world, ripe with foreign meaning and emotion. An uncanny musk hung in the air and clung to the books. Pari had to go upstairs and cough periodically, just to clear her sinuses of the smell. Despite the suffocating nature of the place, Pari found comfort in it. It was a brief but welcome respite from the family.  

Erlkönig was the sixth book Pari found. She felt no closer to her grandfather after clawing her way through five of his incomprehensible books, although by now her goal had somewhat shifted. Just by being here, immersed in his world, she felt changed. Like her mind had begun to rotate, pulled into alignment by the magnetic refuse of Morty’s presence. Reading the book was a secondary goal only. She could not have anticipated how much it would engross her. 

Erlkönig was a 1904 reimagining of an operatic poem of the same name, written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. It follows the original’s story structure, of a father and son riding on horseback through the forest, pursued by a fae spirit only the son sees. His father denies its presence, attributing it to the mist rising over the plain. It is only once his son is dead that he acknowledges the existence of the supernatural Erl King. The 1904 edition embellished the story with context and clothed it in disarmingly beautiful prose. Pari read it in a single sitting. She was simply unable to pull herself away.  

When Pari went to sleep that night, she found her dreams filled with music. Grandiose and dramatic, the piano played baroque declarations while an impassioned baritone sang in German. She perfectly understood his words, despite having never spoken the language. He was singing the story of the Erl King.  

Pari awoke filled with dread. She rushed down the stairs, tripped over her foot, and caught herself on the railing, making a loud thud as her shoulder hit the wall. Her mother called after her as she ran into the basement, leaving one slipper behind on the kitchen tile. She pressed against the bookshelf and began pulling down volumes of an encyclopedia. Last night she put the book back in a hurry. Where? She had to find it, to read it again, to hear it speak to her again. She searched frantically for what felt like an eternity but found no sign of the thin yellow volume. Exhausted, she collapsed on a moldy armchair. Would her questions go unanswered? She was sure the book was calling to her, begging her to read it again. Why else would it have given her such beautiful, haunting music in her dream? Her lip began to quiver. Did the book not want her to have it after all? 

What? A book, wanting to be read? What in the world was Pari thinking? She was a strictly rational person, unsuperstitious, as devout an atheist as an atheist can be. The rotting air of the place must have gotten to her after all. She would go back upstairs and forget about this rash episode. Morty’s memory wouldn’t be tarnished any further by her refusal to remain in his eerie library. 

And with a soft rush of air, like the sound of a cushion being dropped from great height, Erlkönig fell gently into Pari’s lap. She stared at the thick black embossing on the spine, the beautifully diminished gold of the cover, its invitingly yellowed pages. With trembling hands, she opened the book once again.  

The book’s prose had not changed from the last time she read it, but she found it immeasurably more lovely than before. The words seemed to leap off the page and dance joyfully around her, then return with grim finality as the boy slumped dead over his father’s horse. Pari learned later that her mother had come downstairs, only to find her hunched and crying, reverently caressing the yellow surface of the book. She had shaken Pari by the shoulder but elicited no response. She must have thought I was grieving, though Pari, and almost had to laugh. That couldn’t be further from the truth. She was crying out of ecstasy. 

She was crying because she and the Erl King shared a beautiful secret. 

◊ 

THE ATLANTA RECORD 

VOL. 19, NO. 124 * 12 JUN 2024 

Local Hobby Group Found Hanged In Man’s Apartment 

Wednesday of last week, local landlord Sarah Highlander found her tenant Morty Linden, as well as five other seniors dead, hanging by their necks from the ceiling rafters in Mr. Linden’s apartment. Forensics investigation showed the six had been hanging for 24 hours at least.  

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Well, I’ve never seen any dead people before but – you know what I mean.” Said a shaken Mrs. Highlander to reporters. “An entire room, just up and hanged themselves…” (the interview paused as Highlander took a moment to collect herself.) “I know Morty made them do it. He’s- was- too weird to not be some – some psycho cult leader.” 

The “cult” which Highlander is referring to is likely Linden’s book club, made up of other seniors in the apartment building. They met on Tuesdays and read eclectic literature, of which Linden was fond. Evidence suggests the club hanged themselves during their last meeting.  

Large lettering in bright yellow paint was found on the underside of the carpet, reading “Praise The Erl King”. Authorities are investigating its meaning.  

We at the Atlanta Record would like to wish all Atlanta citizens health and peace of mind through this troubling event. We would also like to express our solidarity with the family of the deceased. Our thoughts and prayers go out to them. 

In the year of Kenkyū 3, during the reign of emperor Go-Toba, the season of Seimei, the mountains split and cracked, the oceans became rash with tumult, and the Kaiju emerged from their long sleep, drawn by the luster of the War Game. 

Before the weapons of future men soiled the mother earth, Kaiju were vengeful kami, fickle as the tides, selfishly drawing great strength from primal forces, indomitable, unfathomable. They woke, and ruled, and slumbered, kings in waking, gods in lethargy.  

From the Tenroku to Bunji eras, having chosen the islands of Nippon as their place of rest, they slept long and silent. Eras of warring humans ensued, conflicts unforeseen in scale and complexity. The Kaiju beneath the land became enraptured with the pettiness and squabbles of men. The game of war was the entertainment for which they had long striven. By the time Minamoto no Yoritomo was ascending to the seat of the shogunate, the Kaiju had devised a game. Combining their powers over centuries, they bent mother earth’s will into new laws of nature, forming the rules of their new War Game: 

Each will choose a champion, endowing them with strength. 

All will do battle, and the fallen kneel to victors. 

When all kneel to one, the one is king.  

◊ 

Godzilla’s slow strides trampled trees. The great craters made beneath his claws spanned meters, the quake of his purposeful march carrying for miles, birds scattering with each footfall. As he passed by Kaimu-Jinja shrine, the monks kneeled to pray. As he passed by the small Itodo village, peasants lifted their hats, staring and squinting their eyes against the glare. All failed to notice, however, the figure in his shadow who would appear towering, were it not for the titan he served. Tadashi Fujiwara ran with superhuman speed, keeping pace with the marching kaiju. He was almost seven feet tall, broad-shouldered and knotted, almost scaled, with muscle. His hulking frame was enlarged by his angular armor adorned with steel protrusions and geometric spikes. The mail on the forearms and biceps was plaited with vicious acute angles. His Kabuto featured an opening from which a layered, wiry ponytail sprouted. From the helmet hung from a hinged mask, thin and fanged. Between his bladed shoulders rested a titanic blue steel sword, at his hip a dull parrying wakizashi. In all respects, the man resembled a monster, powerful and menacing, more than he did a warrior. Tadashi Fujiwara was in no way inconspicuous, but his presence went unnoticed in his master’s shadow as he skillfully darted from limb to limb among the trees. 

Having been selected as a kaiju’s champion, Fujiwara’s mind had become attuned to conscious signals from the great beasts. These signals held no depth of communication, only transmitting basic emotions, commands, and judgements. They were powerful, jarring to humans who were not yet accustomed to them. It was like hearing a rubber ball pop, only sustained over lengths of time, as the kaiju “spoke” slowly and deliberately.  

Godzilla spoke thusly: “Ebirah Was Quick To Seize Kamakura. Those Walls Are Left Unkept.” Fujiwara, caught off guard, paused his stride to respond. 

“So once defensive measures have been implemented, our chance won’t return, Godzilla-Dono?”  

“This Time Is Best.” Godzilla ceased marching for a moment; his crashing footfalls ceasing their echo. Fujiwara leapt to his shoulder; the great lizard pressed forwards. 

“Godzilla-Dono, with all due respect, Minamoto-Sama is intelligent. He must be confident indeed in Ebirah’s champion to leave the castle so defenseless.” 

“Do You Fear?” Godzilla did not mean it playfully. In the language of kaiju mindspeak, it was an insinuation of cowardice. 

“No, Godzilla-Dono. To fear would be treacherous.” 

“Good.” 

◊ 

 The trail to Kamakura was long, but the two warriors covered the miles with abandon. As they trod along the coast, gradually the walls of Kamakura came into view. The archers shrunk back as Godzilla lumbered forth. Some fled. Fujiwara dismounted from the titan’s shoulder. Wind whistled around his armor while he plunged the fifty meter drop unafraid. Dust plumed with a thud as he landed crouched, hard. He gradually stood, Godzilla still as a statue behind him. The Kaiju opened its maw. Fujiwara drew his two-meter blade.  

Godzilla roared. 

As if shaking off the majesty of the scene before them, the archers on the walls began loosing arrows. These accomplished nothing. The duo continued their march as samurai poured out of the gates like termites. Godzilla bent forwards, his pace increasing. The samurai shrunk back, shame and terror at war in their conscious. He trampled some as he advanced. His steps appeared eager. He turned his gigantic eyes towards the crustaceous shape coiled around the castle in the distance.  

The samurai diverged, the bravest of the group splintering off after Godzilla, hoping to do what they could. The remainder charged at the demon before them, and men fell before Fujiwara like paper dolls.  

His blade cleaved their armor and muscle and skin as if they were one consistency. With superhumanly quick, deliberate movements, he parried and spun and slashed, cleaving heads from shoulders, men in half. Blades snapped against his armor. Screams resounded. Red stained the earth as the samurai went to face their death. The steel mask snarled, but the face beneath remained stoic, even as it was stained with blood.  

Their numbers increased as hundreds more samurai flooded from the walls. Fujiwara was reminded of termites, or stampeding beasts. He cleared his mind. The field was open before him. He allowed his muscles to tighten as his posture dropped, hunching. The mail of his armor undid itself, pushed aside by primal power. Green light shone through from inside his abdomen, snaking and climbing up to his chest, then throat, as if he was burning from the inside. He was.  

His hands forced the jaw of the snarling mask open. His face was unrecognizable through the searing radiance. The sunlight appeared dim by comparison to the light that spilled out, then coalesced, then dimmed momentarily. 

With the sound of lightning splitting a stone, Fujiwara’s atomic breath was unleashed upon the horde before him. The beam vaporized the soldiers in its path, the ground around it turning white, melting, and bifurcating like the wake of a boat. The walls turned to molten gel where the ray struck. Fujiwara swiveled his head upwards and to the right. Men and earth alike burst into flame. The gate melted, bringing the wall above down with it. Molten stone, metal, soil and meat ran into a charred pool. The light diminished.  

◊ 

Godzilla crushed houses underfoot. The ants beneath dashed back and forth frantically. They screamed, but it did not reach his ears. He halted two tail’s lengths from the castle and growled at the great lobster draped over the wings of the castle like a scarf of carapace. Ebirah rose, unfurling its gigantic left claw. It spoke: 

“I Will Not Have My City Destroyed. We Will Battle Outside The Walls.” 

Godzilla roared. It was high-pitched and vibrating, barbaric, spiteful laughter. “You Speak Like A Human. You Know Well These Defenses Are Useless.” 

Ebirah remained steadfast. “Do You Fear?” 

◊ 

Godzilla and Ebirah stood on a windswept plain. They faced one another, warriors in the field of battle awaiting a duel to the death.  
 

“Why Do You Wait?” Taunted Ebirah. “I Wish To Watch Our Man-Pets Do Battle.” 

“You Will Not Live To.” Godzilla’s fist shone green. He stepped in, and with a breathy growl, delivered a strike with all his weight behind it, which the titanic crustacean diverted with its rounded right claw. Ebirah’s four eyes went wide as an explosive shockwave exploded forth from Godzilla’s outstretched arm. The tall grass around the combatants was uprooted and launched in a cloud of white strands. 

Ebirah quickly regained its composure, swiping its razor claw upwards towards Godzilla’s face. He backstepped and spun, slamming his tail into Ebirah’s neck. It stood in place, rooted by its six legs. Unfortunately for the lobster, its face was now perfectly positioned for Godzilla to deliver a sharp cross to its jaw. Its legs tore from the ground as it flipped backwards, landing hard on its back. Godzilla charged his atomic breath. Ebirah dove further away, hanging in the air as the ray struck the earth between them. 

The field rippled like water, then burst open. Ebirah was flung to the ground once more. A great miasma of dust and smoke hung suspended while pieces of charred earth fell all around the kaiju. Slowly rising to its feet, Ebirah recognized its opportunity. Godzilla had unwittingly blinded himself, whereas Ebirah specialized in spotting prey in murky waters. Its exoskull had cracked, leaking blue blood. It shrieked and lunged; bladed pincer extended. 

Godzilla staggered backwards, the claw closing rapidly around his shoulder, slashing with jagged blades at his tendons. Red blood ran like water onto the plain below. But Godzilla clenched his teeth. He closed the fingers of his maimed arm and planted his feet, gripping Ebirah’s carapace at the shoulder and tricep. Ebirah strained against his grasp, squirming with its entire length. Godzilla held tight. With a shrieking and tearing, the great lizard rent flesh from carapace in an arc of blue blood. Godzilla hoisted the claw into the air. Ebirah gazed upwards through his agony, through the smoke and ash, at his executioner, backlit by flames and painted with red and blue, as he brought down the stolen sword.  

Ebirah’s head hit the ground. Godzilla heaved, his breaths heavy with exhaustion and triumph. He raised his head into the air and roared gloriously, loosing his atomic breath into the sky, a beacon of sound and light. At that moment, he was truly a force of nature. 

◊ 

Fujiwara stood, blade drawn, in the war room of Kamakura Castle. He was covered in blood. On a mat before the central table sat shogun Minamoto-no-Yoritomo, in simple black garb. Pouring his sake was a tall, pale stranger. He wore a simple white diamond-patterned kimono. He was unarmored, but a long, thin sword hung at his hip. The tall man stood. Minamoto sipped his sake.  

“Hoping to regain your honor by killing me, Fujiwara?” He droned. He was clearly drunk. “The world is going to shit, you know. You won’t save yourself by cozying up to a monster.” Fujiwara remained silent. “You helped me take the throne. Have you no honor?” 

“You dishonored my name, Minamoto-Sama. You simply saw no use in the name of Fujiwara once the throne was yours. It is only proper I should kill you here.” Said Fujiwara. 

“Serve me again, Fujiwara! Your sword will be better placed with me than with that beast!” Said Minamoto, slurring his words. The strange, tall man looked off into the distance with palpable disinterest. 

“I will not disgrace myself again, Minamoto-Sama.” Said Fujiwara. 

“Very well then.” Said Minamoto. He waved his hand disdainfully. The tall man tensed, closing his fingers around the hilt of his sword. Fujiwara drew his wakizashi- 

 There was a flash of steel. Fujiwara blacked out.  

He forced himself to come back to consciousness. His wakizashi was cut cleanly in half. Blood was flowing from a deep cut in his torso. His vision cleared and he quickly noticed the empty space the stranger had cut him from. In less than a second, he turned and drew his sword, barely intercepting a strike aimed at his skull.  

The stranger’s freakishly sharp sword dug into his blade. Fujiwara, reeling from the blow, found the strength to inquire: 

“Name?” 

“Shirō.” 

 Shirō did not return the question.  

Shifting his stance slightly, the figure disappeared, his flowing ponytail trailing behind him like a black brushstroke. Fujiwara tensed. Half a second later came the seethe of steel on leather; Fujiwara arced his sword to his left side, forced into an awkward stance. Shirō took advantage of his unguarded right, whirling around and delivering a deep cut to Fujiwara’s ribs.  

Fujiwara almost blacked out, holding on by a thread. He caught sight of Shirō drawing his sword on the edge of his sight, reaching out his palm and blasting the tall man backwards with primal power. Shirō twisted in the air, and as he began falling Fujiwara gathered every grain of power he could muster into his other fist, roaring and clenching shining tendon and muscle; 

There was a flash of steel. 

◊ 

Fujiwara awoke to find Shirō standing over him. The upper half of the throne room was completely gone, slashed diagonally. His two previous wounds, plus one new, deeper cut along his gut, were pooling blood beneath him. He was panicked but delirious from blood loss. With wide eyes he watched Shirō, white kimono illogically clean, slowly bend down, crouching to sit with legs crossed beside his incapacitated enemy. He let his sword fall from his hand. It sunk into the wood inches from Fujiwara’s head, slicing like butter to the hilt. Fujiwara thrashed, but the movement was pathetically slow. Shirō began to speak. 

“Did you know that you can take a kaiju’s power by eating certain organs?” Fujiwara twitched and glared. He burned with shame. He felt like a prisoner bashing his head against the walls of his body. Shirō wouldn’t even look at him.  

“I’ve already consumed a small one. It’s really something… I’ve never felt anything quite like it.” He bent down to whisper in Fujiwara’s ear. “You know, I was meaning to test… Is the same true for Champion innards?” He smiled softly. Sweat beaded on Fujiwara’s skin.  

Shirō stood up suddenly. He turned his head as a soft, deep echo was heard from afar. The ground shook, subtly at first, then louder, war drums of a deity. Fujiwara thrashed, coughing up blood. Godzilla’s head began to crest in Shirō’s view. He spread his stance, a sense of joyful anticipation surrounding him. Fujiwara began crawling away, making futile progress. The rhythmic crashes of Godzilla’s footfalls set a backdrop to Fujiwara’s chaotic heartbeat. Shirō pinned Fujiwara’s leg to the floor with his sandal, never taking his eyes off the great lizard. Godzilla’s spines shone green. 

 A deep, bone-chilling hum emanated from the colossus as the sounds of his march ceased. The wind blew, an overtone to the voice of primal power. For Shirō, time seemed to slow. He tensed. He gazed in genuine awe at the gigantic silhouette hanging over the castle. His eyes widened, his vision became narrow. He saw only the great beast before him. He came to the realization that his body was going to refuse to move until the last possible moment. At this realization he felt a profound lack of fear. 

Fujiwara fought to keep himself from screaming. He fought to keep himself from closing his eyes. He failed on both counts. The humming sharpened and ceased, leaving only the wind. The wind faded and slipped away, leaving only a vacuum. He felt the pressure lift from his leg. The vacuum collapsed in on itself, leaving only the fire.  

 Fujiwara was flung into the air; his armor stripped from him by the shockwave. He began to fall, only for the fire to catch up to him. He was singed, then burnt, then combusted, the fireball eating away at his superhumanly tough skin as he fell further. His limp body collided with the stone path; garments smoldering, wounds cauterized. Trial by fire, ending with Fujiwara’s face on stone.  

Godzilla loomed silently. He contemplated for a moment. He grimaced in apparent disgust, then mindspoke to no one in particular: 

“Weak. You Are Ruled By Fear.”  

Godzilla began his return march from Kamakura. He took one step, two, positioning his foot above Fujiwara’s inert body. He stepped forwards. A resounding thud, then cracking of stone signified the masked warrior’s end. 

Godzilla’s advance halted. A primal scream, muffled by tons of muscle and scale. Godzilla raised his bulky limb. Fujiwara’s eyes were rolled back into his head. His screaming ceased; his mouth hideously open beneath his half-shorn mask. His arms were positioned above him, locked into place, pushing upwards and away from his shuddering form. Unconscious, immobile, his will to live remained against his own judgement. 

Godzilla returned to the Edo lair with a dying human on his back. He marched back through the forest. Humans and animals once again paid tribute. They once again failed to notice the bleeding warrior draped over his spines. They did not understand the way in which he degraded himself, putting a monkey into his debt. Hours later, he reached the coast of Edo. He stopped and faced the southern coastline. The peasants prostrated themselves before him. He took Fujiwara in his clasped hands, forming a pocket of air. He walked into the water, his colossal frame disappearing beneath the waterline. The sunset lit his silhouette from above. Deep beneath the water was a second tensile surface. Godzilla serenely floated down to the pressurized film, Fujiwara breathing, sheltered in his hand. His talons broke through the lower surface, falling into a pocket of oxygen, vented by holes in stone. Here, deep in the ocean, Earth’s primal power was strong. He laid Fujiwara upon the ground, subsumed by healing energy. He sat back upon his great carved throne, at rest. He did not know what strange inspiration led to saving Fujiwara’s life. He would wait to see if this failure could yet remain useful. 

Sam is alone on the yellow bus. He’s going on a field trip, to the sunflower maze. It’s dark outside but the bus keeps him warm. He rests his feet on the wheel hub, hugging his knees, and it rumbles deep in its throat, soothingly. The little windows that you’re not supposed to open groan and chatter in the cold, but the bus keeps Sam warm. He rocks back and forth. The bus heaves and caves, deep in its mechanical lungs. A low breathy sound comes from inside it and exhaust fumes emerge from its depths. Up and down, Sam is lulled to sleep.  

Sam wakes up to the hissing of hydraulic doors. He gets up and the leathery seat croaks him goodbye.  On the way out, he thanks the empty driver’s seat and it tips its hat to him. Sam steps outside and slings his work bag over his shoulder. He pauses to take in the scenery. The sunflower maze is huge and wide and reaches to the smoky-green horizon in all directions. The sunflowers are twice as thin and tall as Sam is. They wriggle and writhe in the absence of sunlight. The bus door hisses closed and it drives itself away.  

Sam, filled with wonder, takes a step closer. The sunflowers’ discomforted dance stops in unison. Together, they turn to see him more clearly. They bend to peer at him, slithering across one another. They stretch and coil and crawl towards him, like long fingers grasping for a golden apple high in a sacred tree. Sam puts his finger in the air and the flowers stand at attention. He waves it from side to side and they follow it carefully. Sam laughs and takes another step. The sunflowers part, inviting him into the maze.  

Sam walks through the doorway they carved so kindly for him, looking up at the yellow flowers’ expectant brown faces. They close behind him and he notices he’s not holding his work bag. He turns back to grab it but the flowers nudge him so that he faces forwards. He lets it go and continues, dead leaves rustling under his feet.  

The flowers twist playfully above his head. They bend down to greet him, waving their petals dynamically. One brushes his face and stands up straight, shivering with emotion. Its petals seem to glow brighter against the dusky green sky. More and more arch to kiss his cheeks, his nose, his hands. Sam walks faster as the flowers that touched him stretch orgiastically skyward. They lurk behind him reverently. They grow bolder. Tens, dozens, packs of plants trample over one another to touch Sam. Sam puts his head down. Two flowers wrestle to claim him. The larger twists its stem around the smaller and pulls.  

Sam stops in his tracks. The runt flower writhes in agony. It spins and scrapes its leaves against its lanky body, rustling for mercy, and with a pop, its head comes off. A dark red liquid pours from the hole in its neck. Sam doesn’t recognize it, but it scares him. The larger triumphantly presses its mottled, seeded face against his lips. It stands up and spins with glee, shrieking like a cicada as it gyrates ecstatically, and then with a violent tearing its head twists off, and dark red blood sprays into the sky.  

With a flash of horror it comes to Sam. The red meant blood, the thing that came out of him when he fell or cut himself, the fluid that meant pain. The flowers here were just like him, and they were his friends, and they killed one another to be near him, and then bled out gently into the solid earth, so was that just like him too? Would his head have to come off in the end, and the flowers swarm around him to study him and feed on him, kiss his wounds and lather him with twisted affection?  

Sam runs, parting the sea of flailing stems with his hands, trampling, crushing their throats. They close in around him and he lashes out, feeling their stems split. Warm wet blood pours in on him like honey, bitter viscous nectar, while a rough stem wraps itself around his neck, chest, arms, and lifts him into the air. Sam fights to gain purchase as he rises, working a finger between his skin and the stem, and pulls, desperately, while the flower grinds its seed-pocked core back and forth across his cheek, and slowly, it tears away and comes undone, releasing Sam into a fast tumble towards cold earth. 

Sam collides with the side of a hill. He tumbles down the sheer slope until his leg slams into a rock and all his momentum stops at once, and his leg splits down the middle and opens up like an egg. Sam is left staring, immobile, at an incredible field of flowers down below that expands to the edge of his vision, maze after maze, realized in interlocking circles that stretch as far as the fog will allow. Sam twists back and forth, but as the life leaks from his leg, he musters less and less motion from his inert body.  

There is nothing, he realizes, in his memory from before he boarded the bus. Sam’s life fails to flash before his eyes. The adrenaline gives way to scathing static bluntness all down his ruptured leg, but he fails to wake up. Sam loses consciousness, but the light fails to appear at the end of the tunnel. 

 A blur of curious yellow-orange crests the hill. 

-1- 

John drove his minivan down I-75, trying to ignore the dead dogs he kept seeing by the side of the road. He came to a red light and looked back at his kids. “You two okay back there? You’re real quiet.” He couldn’t quite hide his lingering sadness on the word “two.” He saw his wife May flinch out of the corner of his eye.  

“Yeah.” Replied Cal, his oldest. “Just weird not sitting in the middle.” Cal was fourteen and in the 9^th grade. The middle had always been his spot before his little sister Rose had passed away. 

It had been a year since the funeral. John and May spent whole days just crying. Cal’s grades slipped. Nina, the middle child, rarely slept. Recently, John constantly felt frustrated that he wasn’t over the loss. He was always levelheaded; he never let his emotions get the better of him. Now he couldn’t be the anchor he always was to them because he was still awash himself. 

A few days ago, May made the executive decision to take them to a beach on Lake Michigan. “We’ve been just stewing in our grief for a year. No more processing. Time to clear our heads and get on with our lives,” She had said. It was the wake-up call they needed. They turned onto their exit in a kind of hopeful trance. Maybe now they could move on.  

-2- 

As they pulled into the hotel where they would be staying, John realized why the dead dogs had been so striking to him. When rose was alive, she had an imaginary friend she called Mr. Dog. She was attached to Mr. Dog more than any 7-year-old probably should have been. Rose never did anything without Mr. Dog. He was her protector, her friend, a coping mechanism, a boogeyman she could use against her bullies. But Rose’s biggest tormentors were the people she looked up to the most: her own siblings, while John looked the other way. Cal was never an empathetic person, and he was endlessly annoyed by Mr. Dog. Nina copied everything Cal did without thinking, including his tormenting of Rose. 

John remembered one incident that had stuck with him. Rose was petting Mr. Dog, running her hands over invisible fur, when Cal looked up from his phone. 

“You know he’s not real, right?” 

Rose paused for a split second. Her expression shifted slightly. Nina knelt next to Rose and put her hand where Mr. Dog had been. She waved her hand back and forth, as if to prove nothing was there. Rose looked down. She sat long after Nina and Cal had left, just staring. Abruptly, she stood up and began walking up the stairs. John, watching from the kitchen, felt uncomfortable for some reason he couldn’t place. He hated that Cal and Nina had hurt her feelings so deliberately, but someone was going to have to break the news eventually. After all, any imaginary friends she had were just that: Imaginary. 

-3- 

The hotel faced the water, looking out onto a shining beach that was so gold it seemed almost white. John opened the door to the lobby. The receptionist smiled as they entered, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.  “I’d ask what kind of rooms you wanted, but as it stands, we’ve only got two left. 067 and 364, both singles,” She said. May paused. “Well, Nina can sleep with us,” she said. “And Cal, you’d be fine with your own room, right?” Cal nodded. “You sure?” said May. “we’d be three floors away.” 

“Mom, I’m fourteen now. I’ll live.” Cal replied. May looked reluctant. “Come on, it’s getting late,” John said. “We should go unpack our things.” Nina and her parents piled into the elevator. Cal had already taken his room key and was walking away. 

Later that night, Cal lay awake. His face bathed in blue light as he doomscrolled. John was asleep. May was asleep. Nina was asleep. Cal scrolled past everyone he knew and some he didn’t, all their struggles and mistakes. Why didn’t he feel anything? 

Since the day he was old enough to think for himself, he had always been numb. He understood how the minds of his peers worked; he knew how to play people to his purposes. He was popular but had a reputation for being cold and ruthless. But the only time he ever felt an ounce of guilt was when his sister died. 

Cal felt near crying. He turned the phone off and away from him. He was prepared to try and sleep when he suddenly heard a strange noise, like floorboards straining against a weight, a massive weight. But it was past midnight… wasn’t everyone asleep? He turned his phone flashlight on and pointed it at the door. The creaking grew louder and was joined by a strange squelching, like stepping in roadkill. Cal’s heartrate spiked. A shadow of some huge doglike thing was spreading over the floor. Boards snapped as it closed its monstrous jaws around the doorframe, and slowly, almost delicately, ripped it from its hinges.  

A rotted, withered dog’s head with caved-in holes where its eyes should be forced itself into Cal’s vision. He screamed, and the jaws closing around him echoed two low, quiet words: 

“YOUR FAULT.” 

-4- 

 When May woke, for a moment she forgot that Rose wasn’t there with her, and she felt a kind of happiness she had almost forgotten she had. But then she remembered that her daughter was dead and she dropped back into the deep melancholy she carried with her. She walked into the stairwell and shouted down to Cal in the loudest voice she could muster: “CAL! BREAKFAST IN TEN!” There was no response, but after all he had just woken up.  

Suddenly the phone rang. John picked up and heard a shaken, dry voice on the other end. It was the receptionist. 

“Hey, um, whoever’s there, you might want to come downstairs. The room where your son was staying, it’s a little…” 

“Yeah?” said John. 

The receptionist was breathing shakily. “Just come downstairs.”  

As they rushed to the elevator, may felt her ominous feeling return. By the time they were at the ground floor, May’s mind was racing with horrific possibilities. They turned the corner from the elevator and saw the yellow shine of police tape, and a step later they were frozen in their tracks by what they saw. 

The door and frame were thrown against the opposite wall, jagged wood protruding from the corners. Floorboards were splintered, sheets were shredded and scattered. Police stared, puzzled. What possibly could have done this? 

John was stunned. The shock was so great he could barely breathe. But May was already moving.  

“I’m going to go look for him,” she said, marching towards the exit. John thought about stopping her, but he recognized the determination in her eyes. She wasn’t ready to lose another child. 

-5- 

John was back in the room, trying to comfort Nina. May was at the police station putting together an AMBER alert. John ran his hand over Nina’s back. She wasn’t crying, probably numb from the shock. Comforting Nina was all John could do. 

“You want to go for a walk? See the beach?” he asked. Nina nodded. He grabbed her hand and walked with her to the stairs. He decided they would walk around the second floor to calm Nina down, and once they reached the lobby, they would go down to the beach. Hopefully, this could keep her from breaking down until Cal was back. 

As they exited the stairs to the second floor, John heard a strange sound echoing from the stairwell down the hall. It was quiet, but distinct. It was squishy, almost wet. Cal paused as the sound grew louder.  

“Nina, let’s just take the elevator.” He dragged her to the elevator and pressed the button. Nothing happened. The sound grew louder. He pressed the button more rapidly. Still nothing happened. He turned around and walked quickly back to the stairs they had come from. The door was locked. He whipped around to face the direction of the sound. Something was emerging from the stairwell.  

John grabbed hold of Nina, opened the door to the supply closet, and hid. Whatever this was, it had to be related to whatever had happened to Cal. Nina opened her mouth to speak. John clapped his hand over her mouth and put a finger emphatically to his lips. John peeked out of the closet to see some strange rotted pink tendril probing the rooms one by one, tearing the doors off the ones it found locked. The ripping sounds grew closer and closer, Nina’s breaths heavier and more frequent. A flash of pink could be seen through the crack in the door. Relief washed over John. It was passing them by!  

But Nina was panicking. John looked down and shushed her, but it was too late. She ripped John’s hand away and let out a piercing shriek. Suddenly the pink thing was moving, retracting to the door, grabbing it by the doorknob and tearing. It wrapped itself around Nina, grabbing her from his grip almost effortlessly, and darted quickly out of sight, taking Nina with it. John heard two muffled words, too faint to make out, as the massive shadow of a titanic dog shuffled out of sight. 

-6- 

John drove down a dirt road at nearly twice the speed limit. He understood now, he knew what he had to do, and that was to find his wife and escape with their lives before the adrenaline faded. After Nina was eaten, he realized that the horrific animal that had been hunting them was Mr. Dog. The shock was the only thing keeping him going. He knew if he stopped to think, even for a second, he would break down, and there would be no one left who could save May.  

He swerved around another car, oblivious to anything but finding May. The police station came into view. May was outside talking to a police officer. John stepped on the gas even harder and was too late to notice the bus-sized shape crashing out of the trees at him, jaws agape. He swerved desperately, spun out of control, heard a muffled whump as his head hit the airbag, and blacked out.  

He came to fifteen seconds later. He was sprawled out on the asphalt. He could tell from the angle that his arm was broken, and there was blood dripping from his mangled nose, but he didn’t feel any pain. There was nothing on his mind except the gigantic shape towering over him. It was horrible up close. Its skin was a milky white film, riddled with holes and stretched thin over blackened ribs. It was unnaturally thin, but its legs rippled with lean muscle. The blackened cavities above its lipless snout stared more intensely than any eyes ever could have. John was ready to give in. May could take a police car, escape with her life. That was enough. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw May sprinting as hard as she could. But she was growing larger in his vision, not smaller. John’s eyes widened as he realized she was running towards him. Did she think there was anything she could do? There was no way to escape now. He had only one choice left. He mustered all his strength and leaped at the beast.  

“YOUR FAULT.” 

-7- 

John floated in darkness, an empty liquid womb. There was no light, no way to know how deep the pit went. He couldn’t move; his muscles and joints were paralyzed with formless fear.  

“DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE, JOHN?” The voice was quiet but echoed in John’s bones in a way he couldn’t place. He didn’t respond because there was no point. There was no point in anything anymore.   

“YOU ARE WITH YOUR FAMILY AGAIN, JOHN.” A painful acidic ache joined the echoing through his body.   

“YOUR CHILDREN DID THIS TO ME, JOHN. THEY ERASED ME FROM ROSE’S MIND, LEFT ME TO ROT IN HER SORROW.” Some dull realization dawned in the back of John’s mind but was lost in the growing fire in his nerves. 

“I ATE HER FIRST, ATE HER AILING MIND. I THOUGHT THAT WOULD BE ENOUGH FOR ME, JOHN. I TRULY THOUGH I WOULD BE SATISFIED.” It was with dull horror that he realized what was happening. His skin was melting off his bones, floating away into the acid. 

“BUT MY HUNGER STRUCK AGAIN, JOHN. I NEEDED SUSTENANCE, NEEDED TO REPAY MY MURDERERS.” John’s consciousness was going numb. Thinking was no longer a choice. 

“BUT AS YOU CAN SEE, JOHN, MY BELLY IS NOWHERE NEAR FULL. I NEED MORE. I DO NOT NEED REVENGE. I NEED SLAUGHTER”. John was jolted by contact with something soft. He had reached the bottom of the stomach. A rumbling laughter replaced the deep echoing voice. John’s reflexes slowed. Sensation slowed. His sight was gone, but there was no difference from before. John realized it was over. This fear, this melancholy, this pain, these would be the last things he would ever feel. A single tear rolled upwards from his empty eyelids.  

The end! Happy Halloween! 

The first time I stepped foot in the pine-scented mud near the games room, I had never thought a sport, or even a serious game, could be a part of my future. Seven-year-old me was gliding through life, taking the easiest possible route through everything. It was a shock for me once I hit middle school and other people had expectations for me. So, when I squelch back through that same mud with the clementine orange shirt of a C.I.T. on my back, my mindset is different than the foosball days of old. I’m finally ready to tackle the ultimate game: Ping Pong. 

My eyebrows knit to the rhythmic click-clack of ball on paddle. Muscle memory takes over my legs, dashing side to side while I chase the ball with my wrist. A quick flick sends the ball sailing over the net, deflecting off an inaccessible corner and into the floor. Cooper sighs as I slide him the paddle. 

“4-3, your serve.” I say with practiced ease. We both know the score isn’t important. What matters is the flow of the game, staying in the mindset that keeps you reactive, dexterous. Suddenly a white line travels at blistering speed down the length of the table, and I register Jonah’s “Boo-yah!!” before my arm even starts moving. “Nice one.” mumbles the counselor, who barely glances from his phone. 

Jonah glances at his watch and his eyes widen. “Shoot, we’re gonna be late!” We toss our paddles into a plastic bin and dash out through the back entrance, onto the steep asphalt road where young me skinned his knee so many times.  

This competitive ritual has become routine. Every day, we spend our hour-long break in the games room. The room is empty except for the counselor, a college-age guy named Jamie, who stares at his phone with blue light playing over his face. He says he’s good, but he never plays either of us.  

The next day, a new challenger approaches when a tall, gangling counselor pays a visit to the games room. His frizzy ginger hair sticks up as he ducks through the doorframe. The scent of B.O. slowly fills the room while he waves.  

“Yo.” He picks up an extra paddle and asks to play. Jonah and I nearly shove each other out of the way getting to the table. “You first.” He waves me over and gets into serving stance.  

His first serve is surprisingly slow. I follow it with my eyes and return it from corner to corner, but he’s three steps ahead of me. He calmly sails his paddle arm to the ball and flicks his wrist.  
 

We go back and forth for a dozen or so strokes, but he seems almost bored while effortlessly defending every angle I hit him from. Volley after volley, point after point, he shuts me out of the game. I get a few lucky spikes, but by the end it’s clear who the better player is. He shakes my hand firmly and I retreat to the wall, my face heating with embarrassment. Jonah fares slightly better than I did but still loses badly. The counselor ambles out through the door with a somewhat condescending thumbs-up, leaving us to stew. 

A realization suddenly dawns on me. It came to me that the only people Jonah and I have played for the last month have been each other and 8-year-old kids. We’d been playing in a vacuum, and for the first time we were aware of the fact we were big fish in a small pond. If we wanted to truly become ping-pong masters, we couldn’t be satisfied with being the best CITs. We had to reach higher. 

The next day, Jonah and I play with steely determination, silently settling into our rhythm. New moves emerge along with ways to compensate for our weaknesses. For every ball that makes it past my side of the table, every time I fail to notice a spike, I gain valuable insight into the inner workings of the game. I knew I was growing as a player, and I could tell Jonah was too.