We sat in awe, wondering how our Murv could have told such a powerful tale. I wondered if perhaps this evening shared together produced a special kind of magic, something that could revitalize the mind, body and spirit in ways of which one could only dream.

My notion proved incorrect, as—finished with his story—Murv deteriorated before our very eyes. His jaw hung loose, saliva depending in thick ropes from his lower lip. Both his index fingers were now jammed so far up his nose I could have sworn I saw slivers of fingernail poking out from beneath his eyeballs.

"My thtory bigly, how?" Murv asked us. 

"Yes," I told him. "Yes, Murv, your story was as bigly as stories can be." And the emotion racking my body compelled me to retreat to my safe place by the waterfall, so I could cry in peace.

Damn that Trump. Damn him to his horrific home in hell, for forcing us to flee the lives we'd lived for so very long. Damn him for bringing about forced-sterilization programs, for making even his staunchest supporters victims to his cruel and terrible regime. How many had he killed? How many generations had he terminated prematurely? How many babies had he aborted after they'd been successfully delivered, just so he could harvest their stem cells for whatever twisted scheme he'd created, before tossing them into a newly rebranded Trumpster to die?

Too many. His sadistic nature ensured more would follow.

Before we'd fled the city, Murv was meant to be castrated with a soldering iron. This was after he'd been forced to perform erotic favours for the city's entire department of Trumpolice, after he'd been thrown into a gladiator match with a starved lion (of which he was the victor, surprisingly), and after he won fifteen games in a row of Russian Roulette. They just couldn't kill him, couldn't break his spirit. Yes, after all that rotten madness, poor Murv was supposed to be rewarded by the man he'd voted for, rewarded with his nuts getting melted down so they looked like the flat crotch of a Ken doll.

Bastard.

I wiped my eyes and looked back at my gang of exiles. They were happy here, together.

I smiled as I watched Seth and Coltrane whip each other with Twizzlers. Those two, forced to give up their adopted Chinese daughter, because Trump owed Chinese investors either money or blood. Naturally the psycho chose blood. Now little Ling-Ling was decomposing in a ditch somewhere, her emaciated husk of a body drained of all its fluids for arcane Chinese rituals, no doubt to help rejuvenate some ancient Chinese vampire investor so he could live another thousand years. And those two—Seth and Coltrane—they looked so happy, but I knew they were hurting inside, haunted by their memories.

Trump banned love, but he double-banned gay love, said it made him sick to his stomach to watch, and that he watched it very, very, really, very much, more than anyone ever has. His right-hand man, Mike Pence, turned out to be a closeted homosexual, a textbook case of religion gone wrong. When he found out, Trump put the man through gay-conversion therapy, seeking to electrocute the gay from his brain, which left Pence a tremoring, diaper-wearing wreck. After being passed around like a dildo among Trump's inner circle, he was quickly executed via the new-and-improved Trump electric chair: a metal vibrator hooked up to 20,000 volts of electricity.

Use your imagination.

Naturally, the duties of our group involved a secret protest: We would be the ones who ensured love—love in its purest form; happily-ever-after love—never died. This was a world going loveless, and day by day, as the planet's parched earth wept to the universe for salvation, we would be its saviours. One day.

If we were still in the city at that very moment, we would be saying our nightly prayers to Satan, and then the Trumpolice would come and sodomize us to sleep on the boss' orders.

I wept some more. Sodomy should only be done between two consenting adults, and with ample lubrication. The bastard had even ruined that.

"Jesus, you okay?" Mr. Hardon asked, standing close behind me.

"This old world's getting to me, Brick," I said to him, still staring through the waterfall. The refraction of the water was oddly pleasant to look at, soothing.

His hand patted my shoulder. "Well, we need your strength, Jesus. You're the one who found us and got us together. You're the one who brought us here, to safety. Without you, we'd be dead or worse."

"It's not even me." I looked up at the stalactites. "It's God."

"And who's the one who talks to God, Jesus? You. None of us can talk to God. We need you. You're the shepherd, and we're your flock. Come on back, munch on a box of Nerds and I'll tell a spooky love story that'll make you feel better."

I finally turned to Brick Hardon, PhD, PsyD, MS, BA, MA, EdD, GED, XYZ. My lower lip trembled and he embraced me with a much-needed hug. I was so lucky to have a shrink in my gang. My head felt compacted, like all the pain was smaller, more manageable.

The two of us sat with the others again.

"You okay, Jesus, dear?" Dora-Mae asked me. She was the sweet old lady who knitted sweaters more than she spoke.

"Yes, thanks to Brick Hardon."

"Oh, well, that's sweet. Here's a sweater for you, dear." She handed me a sweater with a unicorn on it. It brought a tear to my eye.

"How'd you know?"

"I could see it in your soul."

I nodded, understanding. The unicorn was my favourite animal. The last one had been butchered by Trump, and he'd forced me to watch such a precious creature be disembowelled and turned into a foul-smelling footstool. "Thank you, Dora-Mae," I said, and pulled the sweater over my head.

Mr. Hardon tossed me a box of tropical-punch Nerds from his stash. "This story is a little darker than what we've heard so far, everyone. I call it

AFTER BLOOD by fallen_tear

Skyla watched the butterflies that flew around her and Rix as she sat on the grass, soaking in the warmth of the sun. One landed on his nose, and she laughed, causing her long hair to move around like a wild child or one of the fey. They were in their secret meeting place, hidden by trees from the village. The one they found next to a little stream.

"I don't want you to go," Rix had pouted again. She had lost count how many times he had said this.

None of the other children would talk to her. Rix wasn't supposed to, either, but somehow they had managed to pull it off as they made up excuses after excuses to get away from prying eyes.

"I don't want to go, either, but Momma and Papa says I have to." The sun was starting to make her hot, so she took off her sandals and stuck her feet into the water.

"But why?" Rix asked, as he crinkled his nose and the butterfly took off.

"They say I'm sick so I have to."

"But you don't look sick."

"They said that I can't see it, but that it was inside of me."

"I don't care," Rix said, pointing to the butterflies. "They only come when you are here, and I don't want them gone, either."

He stood up and got in the water in front of her, soaking the bottom of his pants and shoes.

"What are you doing?" Skyla asked as she half-wondered what excuse he would make up for why he ruined his shoes. She was sure his momma was going to be upset.

"Let's make a promise?" He put his hands on his knees as he bent down to look at her.

"What?"

"Let's stay with the butterflies."

Skyla laughed. "Promise," she said as she looked up into his golden eyes. They were always warm and welcoming to her. She doubted there was anything in the world that she could refuse him.

~~~

The warmth in his eyes continued to haunt her dreams while she slept restlessly, night after night. Memories of the past plagued her in her sleep. If only she could have reached her hand far enough out, she would have been able to save him. She was so close this time, but, as dreams go, it wasn't meant to be. Tears leaked freely from her closed eyes, falling to her pillow.

Skyla sat up, no longer able to sleep, and dried off her face with her hand. Seeing only the outlines of the furniture, she made her way outside in the dark, grabbing the dagger off the table on her way. The moon and stars shone coldly down on her as if she was beneath them, and she didn't blame them. The air nipped at her skin bitterly as she felt the wind pick up. She took a step further out into the grass and watched as it froze over; the sign that death was coming.

Out here by herself, with nothing but the wilderness that surrounded her, nobody would notice if she went missing, and nobody to call out to, not that any would come to her aid. She shook her head. It didn't matter.

The dark ones were coming again. Skyla held her ground as she watched them rise up from the lake ahead of her. They were beings made out of shadows themselves, visible only due to the full moon. Funnily enough, she wasn't scared, though she knew she should be. Her fear and every other emotion had disappeared with him.

"Idiot," she whispered, her breath showing up under the moon. Though she was referring to Rix, it was also directed to herself.

They continued towards her, lurking like shadows, as they were called by her blood. Skyla slowly moved her arm and watched as their eyes followed the direction. She was cursed by blood magic, born with it, the darkest form of witchery. It was why she was meant to be sacrificed all those years ago, but he had gotten in the way. The dark ones would never stop coming for her, because her power stemmed from life itself instead of the world around her. They were after that power, wanting to be brought to the realm of the living.

"Forsooth, my curse will be my salvation." She could almost laugh at the cold irony as she stepped towards them, dragging the dagger across the palm of her hand. It wouldn't matter if she died now, she was already dead inside. The world was a cruel place, shunned by all because she was different from them. "As I will it, so it will be."

Power flowed out of her, taking form by itself as it enveloped the shadows one by one before extinguishing their existence. Skyla could feel the ebb and flow of her magic just as she could tell the anger was beginning to get the best of her, causing her to forget her surroundings. Clouds had moved over the moon, making the dark ones invisible.

"Dammit!" Skyla yelled. She was too far away from the house, and with the moon gone, the cold became deadly. There was nothing to hold the veil of death at bay. "I'm sorry, Rix."

She sensed a slick, wet presence brush up on her as the dark ones flocked forward. This would be the end for her, finally. She closed her eyes at the sweet bitterness, only to snap them open when she felt a gentle caress on her face. Dimmed golden eyes peered out at her from the shadows.

"Rix?" Skyla half-whispered, like a prayer. She thought he was gone. Years had gone by, and there was no way he could've survived. The darkness should've consumed his soul, leaving behind a shadow: the dark ones.

She drew the dagger one more time, drawing more blood, wincing. Though it hurt, she would use it to focus her desire to bring Rix back. Skyla owed it. It was her fault he was gone. When the dark ones came he had stepped up in front of her, blocking their path to her. At the time, she didn't know how to use her power. There was no one around to teach her, as anyone born with blood magic was sacrificed to the dark ones.

"Please let this work," she begged. "As I will it, so it will be." She urged her life force into the shadow in front of her, into Rix.

He started to take substance as magic swirled into him, filling him up inside and out. It wrapped him up like a cocoon. And all she could think about was their promise to stay with the butterflies. She wished he could see this for himself. He always loved the butterflies.

"You kept your promise," Rix said as he came back to her. "I knew you would."

He had changed. The man before her wasn't the little boy she remembered, but she couldn't mistake him for the world. The cold had been swept away as the moon's light shone down on them.

"Idiot!" Skyla said as she wanted to cry, but instead wrapped her arms around him. "You shouldn't have gotten in the way."

"I told you I didn't want you to leave," he said as he embraced her.

"So you decided to leave me instead?"

"But I didn't leave." He brought his hand up to her face, and this time she could feel the heat from his palm. "It just took some time to find you."

"Why?" She let the tears come. This would be last time she would cry.

"Because I love you." He brought his lips to hers, kissing away tears of sorrow and love.