Head to Head

About Head to Head

An experimental anthology series, where writers Justin Church, Joe Morin, and guests challenge themselves to better their storytelling. The participants use a shared writing prompt, then get one month to write short stories based upon that prompt. Finally, the writers and narrators self-analyze their work, constructively criticize their peers' stories and narration presentation, and figure out how they can all do better on the next one.

Publisher

Thought Plane Media

Category

fiction

Language

en

Explicit

Yes

First episode

4 Jan 2026

Latest episode

1 May 2026

Latest episodes

12 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   1 May 2026

   Writer and Narrator Analysis | Head to Head Prompt 3

   Joe, Justin, and Jess analyze and critique our stories and narration for Head to Head Prompt 3. Speaking: Joe Morin, Jess Yeoman, Justin Church Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A guy is scared of his own shadow... for a good reason.

2. 

   24 Apr 2026

   Sanitarium Shadows | Head to Head Prompt 3 | Story 3

   Doctor Howard Phillips conducts brutal experiments on a serial killer to uncover the origin of human immorality. Story by Joe Morin Narrated by Joe Morin Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin Head to Head Created by Justin Church and Joe Morin. THE PROMPT A guy is afraid of his own shadow... for a good reason. THE STORY Please be warned: this story contains scenes of torture, gore, and assault. SANITARIUM SHADOWS - By Joe Morin Mr Morrison writhed as the midday sun exorcised his shadow to the walkway. The Policemen at Morrison’s sides held him steady– hands cuffed behind his back– while they led him to an immaculately dressed, moustachioed gentleman, in a physician’s coat. Doctor Phillips examined this new patient upon his approach: he was tall, muscular, carried himself with poise, and stared unwaveringly into Phillips’ eyes. These magnificent emerald irises, with predatory focus, were all Phillips could see of Morrison– whose pin-striped uniform abnormally included a mask and gloves. Phillips met and matched Morrison’s gaze. The moment lingered until Morrison walked into the sanitarium’s shadow, wherein his writhing stopped abruptly. Phillips shuddered to witness Morrison’s demon return to its host. And the Doctor, in that moment, watched those emerald eyes alight. A stern feminine voice addressed Phillips: “I should hope your hospital is in less a shambles than your front entrance. My son was promised to receive the best of care.” Phillips suppressed a prideful outburst towards this slander, and forced a smile at this elegant yet sour-faced woman: “I can assure you, Mrs Morrison, that Cranston Sanitarium is the best institution of its kind in the state.” Her eyes pierced through Phillips with the same hue and intensity as her son’s. “What will it take to ensure William is well-seen to?” “He’ll be as well cared for as any of my other patients.” Mrs Morrison somehow frowned more deeply, “Except he is not just any of your other patients, is he? He is a Morrison. What is more: this wrongful conviction will soon be over-turned. But in the mean-time–” Mrs M. brazenly pulled a pocket-book from her hand-bag. The stoney-faced police officers pretended not to notice. “How much of a donation to the institute can buy William adequate accommodations?” Phillips bit his lip: “That will not be necessary.” “Your false humility does you no credit, Doctor. I know how these things work.” “All due respect, ma’am, they don’t work that way here.” The quizzical raising of this woman’s eyebrows, coupled with a grimace, sent a shiver down Phillips’ spine. These old money families could make trouble where they wished, and the Doctor feared to be on said trouble’s receiving end. “But know that Mr Morrison will be comfortable, and will receive my personal care and attention.” The irate woman shoved her pocket-book back into her bag. Phillips turned to his massive orderly, who patiently awaited orders: “John, take Mr Morrison into my office and brew us some tea.” The orderly silently took Morrison’s arm from the police and led him inside the building. “I will visit soon, William!” cried Mrs M. The patient, for the first time, broke his gaze from Phillips and turned to his mother. He addressed her in a strong and articulate tone: “I shall earn my freedom before that is necessary.” He soon disappeared through the sanitarium’s threshold. Phillips re-addressed the patient’s mother: “My recommendation, ma’am, is to allow William time to settle before you next see him. Your presence too soon may bring him false hope, and prolong his adjustment period.” “I do not recall asking for your recommendation. You may practice medicine, but you are first and foremost a jailer who is holding my son against his will.” “By the tight case of a District Attorney and the indictment of an unbiased jury.” “The reputations of these sanitariums precede them. Should William be harmed here, I shall find you personally responsible. Are we clear?” Phillips’ fake smile dropped. “If you’ll excuse me: I have a patient to whom I must attend. Good day Mrs. Morrison.” Phillips didn’t give her the chance to respond before he turned about-face to enter the building in which he answered to no-one. Phillips found John and Mr Morrison in his dim, lamp-lit office. “Remove that face covering, and unlock those hand-cuffs.” John did as was ordered. Phillips examined Morrison’s face: he looked to be in his late 30s– the same as Phillips. The patient’s features were remarkably handsome, tempered by an unmaintained beard– surely grown in jail. And he smirked wryly while he rubbed his red wrists. “Please, take a seat,” Phillips beckoned towards a chair at the opposite end of his desk. Morrison stood till Phillips himself sat. John set the tea between them, then slinked to the corner nearby a curtain. Phillips partook in the beverage; Morrison followed with hesitance. “I’m afraid that business outside was a rude and improper introduction to me. My name is Doctor Howard Phillips: Administrator for this institute, and your caretaker from here on.” “Charmed.” “You are aware why you’ve been brought here?” “Because my mother finds this sanitarium less scandalous than prison– and had the wherewithal to get me here.” “It’s because you killed five men.” “Though I was only convicted for one, wasn’t I? A street rat. Why anyone should care to see a man like that go–” “You admit to it?” “Only to some empathy for the perpetrator.” His smile widened as he leaned inward. “Do I strike you as a dangerous man?” Phillips stayed composed: “Your valor during The Great War suggests as much… though, at present, your mother seems more formidable than you do.” “The freedom to speak is one of the few which I still possess. Fighting you over comfortable quarters is her battle, not mine.” “Still: I’m afraid Cranston Sanitarium’s offerings aren’t so luxurious as those to which you’re accustomed.” “Did you fight in the war, Doctor?” Phillips stopped mid-sip, and uttered a defeated “No.” “When you’ve lived through hell, even this old lunatic-asylum should seem like heaven.” “Glad to hear it, Mr Morrison.” Phillips paused. “Tell me about your pathology with sunlight.” “Little to tell there: My skin must be covered in direct sunlight, lest I receive violent convulsions. I’ve learned to live with it.” “I have my theories on its cause.” “I’ve met many medical professionals, of more renown than you. All had theories, none offered practical cures.” “I have no cure to offer. But, perhaps, you may help me discover one through careful study– not merely to your ailment, but to… humanity’s worst impulses!” The first hints of frustration crept through Morrison’s exterior, “I am no lab rat.” He took a short breath. “But go on.” “I theorize that depraved thinking is rooted in the shadow– the dark reflections of every person– and that these shadows are demonic figures, housed inside their respective host’s bodies. But the demons have a weakness: light-wave-particles, which pass on and through these parasite’s hosts to force them out. Hence why we humans are most evil in the absence of light: it’s when we and our shadows are one.” “It is well you already spend your days in an asylum, Doctor. But what has this to do with me?” Phillips stood and turned to face the curtained window behind his desk “I will study your shadow; then I will learn how to destroy it.” “Preposterous.” “I’ll grant you this, Mr. Morrison: You're more gentlemanly than I anticipated. You play sane convincingly well. But Iet’s see if you’re so smug when detached from your demon. John, now!” Phillips and John speedily flung open the curtains and panes of their respective windows, to let sunlight’s full exposure bathe the room. Morrison’s pupils dilated as the wave-particles hit them. He abruptly flung back his chair to the ground, carried the momentum into a shoulder-roll which brought him to his feet, and rushed for the door. But John’s hulking form already blocked the entrance. Morrison cried in pain, scratched at his face, then dropped to his knees and wretched. His shadow loomed ahead. Phillips handed Morrison his mask as he declared: “You’re the missing link which will validate my research. You– who is so symbiotic with his shadow that sunlight hurts the demon AND the host.” Morrison panted in relief as he slipped on his mask “What do you propose to do with me?” “Your sensitivity is so pronounced that extensive exposure to light may be counter-productive to my aims. So let us have an easy first day. Come, I’ll give you the tour.” Phillips helped a weary Morrison to his feet before exiting the room. Morrison followed whilst John trailed the newly nervous patient. Cranston Sanitarium was a dour place– with narrow corridors, and dim lighting. Few souls roamed the eerily quiet institute. Morrison inquired, “Where are your prisoners and guards?” Phillips maintained his pace, and half-turned his head backwards to address the question, “I insist that our well-behaved patients, alongside their doctors and orderlies, spend pleasant days outdoors.” “For the… ‘therapeutic’ benefits, you mean.” “Precisely.” “And would you torture me thus?” Phillips thought for a moment: “Not until I’ve learned more of your condition.” Morrison chose not to respond. They soon arrived in the kitchen: where a stocky man, and his lanky aide prepared a stew from the bare-bones ingredients which they had about. Morrison grimaced. Phillips declared, “Here at Cranston, we subscribe to the belief that good honest work makes for good honest people. This will be your station.” Morrison seethed through gritted teeth “I am meant to cook food… like a servant?” “No,” Phillips smirked. He led Morrison to a small closet filled with potatoes, a stool and bucket on the ground, and a single flickering light-bulb on the ceiling. Morrison glanced to the closet’s door, with a bolt latch affixed to it. Phillips relished the sobering features of realization which contorted Morrison’s face. The doctor grabbed a peeling tool from the counter-top and passed it to the crestfallen savage killer. “Take up your position. I will reconvene with you later, for our first proper therapy session.” He beckoned towards the closet. The dull kitchen lighting exposed the men’s faint shadows to the ground. Phillips’ eyes darted between the floor and Morrison’s harshly-lit face. The patient’s striking green eyes stared at the potato peeler. This moment held, with even the cooks pausing for curiosity. Finally Morrison smiled, “If this is some ploy to bait my rage, Doctor, it shall not work.” “Whatever do you mean?” “These insulting aspersions of menial labor, the sparsely populated halls, and all this dim lighting– so counter-intuitive to your own theories. You’re looking to cause a scene which you can somehow exploit. And I will not fall into your trap.” “I mean you no offense, Mr Morrison. I was merely showing you–” “You cannot even look me in the eyes.” Morrison shook his head. “I will perform your pedestrian job. Though you may wish to partake in some ‘good honest work’ yourself.” Morrison marched into the closet, which prompted John to shut and bolt the door behind. Phillips cleared his throat and loosened his tie. Later, John led Morrison through the Sanitarium– but along an unfamiliar path: down a flight of concrete stairs, and through a hallway of iron-barred cells. Haggard men raucously greeted them with shouts, curses, and projected bodily fluids. “The Doctor wishes to conduct my ‘therapy session’ in a dungeon?” Morrison asked of John as he glanced about, outwardly unphased. The gigantic orderly said nothing as he showed Morrison into a spacious room. Doctor Phillips stood by a tray of various medical implements, and a reclined chair replete with leather straps. “You performed well with those potatoes, Mr Morrison. Dinner was lovely.” “What is this?” Phillips ignored his patient, “John? Show our guest to his seat, will you?” So John pushed Morrison ahead. The killer’s muscles tightened and resisted. “Do not speak around me, Doctor. I demand to know what you’re doing!” “You’re in no position to demand. Now sit!” Morrison was visibly perturbed by this authoritativeness. He debated his chances of escape– perhaps of stealing one of those medical tools. But, before he could make a move, John clamped his meaty hands over Morrison’s shoulders and shoved him into the seat. Morrison launched towards one of the sharp tools, but John clamped onto his forearms and mounted the body so that Morrison could not flail his legs. Phillips approached from behind and injected some solution into Morrison’s neck. The patient’s face slumped, and his extremities grew pliable enough to strap onto the chair. His fearful green eyes looked to Phillips as the doctor administered anesthetic to steal his consciousness. With John’s assistance– the Doctor sterilized his equipment, removed Morrison’s under-garments, repositioned the limp body to an appropriate position, and surgically incised the convict’s scrotums to reveal small tubes for severance and cauterization. Morrison awoke in a small room, on a straw mattress. His eyes adjusted to find Phillips in a chair at his bedside. “Good. You’re awake. Now we might have that therapy session.” Morrison slurred his speech through the groginess “Whadidyoudodome?” “A simple surgery.” “My… groin… is… cold?” “Yes. Ice for the soreness. I’m afraid that’ll persist for a few days.” “You… You…” Morrison found the strength to lunge at the Doctor. But his reach was impeded by the hand-cuffs between his wrists and his metal bed-frame. “Tsk tsk,” admonished the Doctor with a condescending wave of his finger. “Don’t blame me. You’re the one who killed five people.” “Allegedly,” said Morrison as he slunk back into bed, defeated. “You effectively called me a liar this afternoon. Aren’t you being hypocritical?” Morrison shut his eyes “I haven’t lied to you yet, Doctor.” “No, I suppose you haven’t… But tell me, hypothetically: why would a respectable gentleman, such as yourself, kill homeless men? Earlier you expressed a distinct lack of empathy: street rats, you called them.” “They contribute nothing to our society. Just take.” “Would many not say the same about the idle rich?” “The rich aren’t idle: my family invests in its community, provides jobs. We’re pillars of respectable society.” “Except there are too few jobs to go around since The Great Crash, is that not so?” “That’s not our fault.” “Even families with wealth such as yours were affected, yes? You had to downsize operations, scale back those community investments… to maintain your lifestyles?” “We still provide!” “And more homeless and jobless people roam the streets in spite of it. Do you truly believe it is ALL their fault, Mr Morrison?” “... They drain our resources.” “Let’s say I subscribed to your line of reasoning– that I concurred these killings were in society’s best interest. What am I supposed to make of a killer who takes such delight in slaughter–- who relishes his work, and makes his victims suffer dearly in retribution?” “Sounds to me as if you have him figured out already,” Morrison answered with a hard glare. “Now tell me: why have you removed my manhood?” “You will find your life much the same as it was before… though you, and by extension your shadow, will never propagate.” “I thought you meant to ‘cure’ me.” “I do. But I needed certain assurances...” “In case you fail?” “I will not! But I can’t make headway until you show me your demon, Mr Morrison!” The patient considered these words, then replied: “What demon you expect to see is not meant for you, Doctor.” “It is there then, just beneath the surface. It’s your conscious pathology which keeps it contained, targeted. Once we crack that, we might begin to make some progress.” “You are not my enemy, despite what you’ve done to me today: though you are an idealistic, delusional fool.” Phillips looked down and frowned, evidently hurt by the assertion. He then stood and exited the room. “Till tomorrow, Mr Morrison.” The killer turned his nose to the ceiling and held his tongue, as Phillips sneered and flicked off the light. William Morrison’s second day at Cranston Sanitarium began with John hauling him out of bed, and slapping hand-cuffs to his wrists (he lost his free-handed privileges on account of trying to grab the medical equipment before his “surgery”-- but was allowed to have them removed for work). John led Morrison to the closet, wherein the gentleman peeled carrots all morning. After lunch, the orderly replaced Morrison’s bracelets and led him outside to enjoy a lovely over-cast day. No other prisoners were in the yard; there were few guards. A barbed wire fence, separating the sanitarium yard from a wooded landscape, was all which stood in Morrison’s way of freedom. Phillips exited the building, as Morrison examined his surroundings. “Good afternoon. How is the ailment?” Morrison looked off to the woods as he addressed his Doctor: “Your butchery pains me. But I experienced worse in the war.” He then made eye-contact with Phillips, “I am beginning to think you favour me. You monopolize my social time.” “Is there anyone else with whom you’d care to speak?” Morrison thought for a moment, “... No. I am sure that you are the only half-interesting person in this place.” Phillips’ breath fell short before he replied, “There’s also John, though he’s not much of a conversationalist.” John rolled his eyes. “Let’s walk. You require some exercise after being cooped in that closet.” The Doctor and Patient roamed the grounds, nearby the fence, with John and the guards waiting across the yard at Phillips’ bequest. Phillips opened his mouth multiple times, as if he wished to speak, but did not. Morrison appeared lost in thought. Then Phillips looked away for one moment, heard a sharp CRACK and a groan from Morrison– then turned to find Morrison devoid of hand-cuffs, with a broken thumb, and making way for the fence. Phillips appeared shocked, but not more than Morrison– who suffered the paralyzing current of an electric shock the moment he grabbed the fence. Phillips ripped the absconding prisoner off the fence, and they fell to the ground together. Phillips remarked: “New technology– used to herd livestock. I decided that it would work as well on prisoners.” Morrison’s jaw stood agape as he took in his near-death experience. John helped Phillips to his feet, and almost ripped Morrison’s arm from its socket to do the same. “This behaviour simply will not do! After I treat your thumbs, I’m confining you indoors indefinitely and revoking all privileges for the foreseeable future.” Morrison stood dumbfounded, in front of Phillips, John, and the guards. He took a sharp breath and declared at Phillips, in almost a murmur: “You planned this. With witnesses and all to make your story believable.” Doctor Phillips feigned confusion as guards dragged Morrison to the infirmary. Morrison was returned to the dungeon without incident, as it appeared he lacked the will to fight further today. Phillips would attempt to remedy that. John strapped Morrison back to the reclined chair. And Phillips wheeled over his cart– the tray of surgical equipment replaced by a large, dial-laden box. “What will you do to me now?” Morrison frightfully inquired. “Something akin to what you brought upon yourself this morning.” Phillips smiled, in jest, but received a blank reaction. He continued as he grabbed a headset, wired to the box, and fastened it to Morrison’s temples: “An experimental new procedure from Italy. The goal is to fire your neurons, such that the box in which your demon lives will be forcibly unlocked.” Morrison’s handsome green eyes pleaded for mercy. “Full disclosure: I’ve only heard of its effects in theory… but I have faith it will produce worthwhile results.” Morrison sucked in a sharp breath, and resolutely stared at the ceiling. “On with your torture then,” “Treatment,” corrected Phillips as he placed a wooden bite-block into Morrison’s mouth, set the dials, and sent the current coursing into Morrison’s head. The patient’s muscles stiffened, his eyes widened, and his whole body convulsed. Phillips counted the seconds on his pocket watch, till he saw fit to flick off the machine. During this procedure, John wheeled over what appeared to be a spotlight, and pointed it directly at Morrison. He passed Phillips a welding helmet, then donned one himself. “How do you feel, Mr Morrison?” asked Phillips while he pried and pinned open the patient’s eyes. Morrison spit out the bite-block, and declared through gritted teeth: “I… am… going… to kill you.” “Exactly what I hoped you’d say. John?” Phillips closed his visor as John activated the carbon arc lamp. A beacon of light and sparks erupted forth from the machine– coating each uncovered nook of this underground room, ahead of the lens, in manufactured daylight and heat. Morrison screamed as the wave-particles bounced off and through his skin. His pitch-black shadow hit the back of the chair. Phillips spoke up over the lamp’s buzzing and Morrison’s cries of pain: “The eyes are the window to the soul! Let in the light and be cleansed!” Morrison’s exposed skin turned red and broke into blisters. And vomit fell to his shirt between his deadened shouts. John powered down the lamp while Phillips examined Morrison. “Well his shadow is still present– as I expected. Although it may be weakened.” When John unstrapped Morrison, the patient slipped through the orderly’s grasp to tackle his doctor. He landed two solid blows to Phillips’ face, then drew back his bloodied fist for a third, before John wretched him away. Phillips stood, smiled, and dabbed the liquid-red from his nose with a white handkerchief. The Doctor mumbled to himself: “Note: the subject’s fury constitutes a desperate response on the shadow’s behalf. Treatment should be attempted thus for the week’s remainder.” He raised his voice to address his prisoner: “You’ll be receiving more scarce meals from here in– to reduce that vigor. Also: I’m pleased to finally make your true acquaintance, Mr Morrison.” Phillips left the room while John led his charge to its opposite end. There hung iron manacles and a chain collar bolted to the stone walls, which John soon fastened to Morrison’s wrists and neck. “Doctor! I will kill you!” Morrison yelled, hoping that Phillips could still hear him. He could. And Phillips, despite his dominance, felt a pang of fear. So the treatments continued once per day, with an added step: following one dose of light therapy through the eyes, Morrison’s head would be dunked into a barrel of water and held til he almost drowned– with the spotlight shining behind Morrison, to emanate his shadow into the barrel. Doctor Phillips recalled some Biblical line about demons thriving in “waterless places”, so he saw fit to incorporate an element of that ancient wisdom to his care. And these treatments showed promising results! Morrison’s desire for violence lessened by the session, as did his curses– his shadow’s strength of will for depravity slowly eroding. Phillips knew, however, that these tests were inconclusive. The change in Morrison’s character might just as well derive from poor physical stamina as it did from a change in spirit. But a control test proved impossible, once Morrison slipped into a coma from a layered list of traumas: there was the pneumonia which attacked his lungs from his water treatments and living conditions– in addition to his skin, so rash-spotted and inflamed that each movement was surely an agony. Some of his ECT sessions resulted in minor bone fractures from the convulsions. And there was the unfortunate case of his burgeoning cataracts from the light therapy. Yes, Morrison suffered– but he bore it with dignity, for the good of human-kind. Life went on at Cranston Sanitarium, much as it did before Mr Morrison. Phillips attended to his swath of other patients, with his generally coddling approach. Most of those folks were a greater harm to themselves than to others. They would just fail to co-exist in society. Though there were other sadists, none were quite so good for company as Mr Morrison had been. Their conversations were mundanely grotesque, and their eyes lacked the same spark. Meanwhile, Morrison’s body recovered in the infirmary– chained to a bed with a privacy curtain surrounding him. Phillips sat by his bedside daily. He yearned to rescue this Little Briar Rose. Though that was impossible, he occasionally held the prisoner’s hand, as if some warmth might jolt the killer from his slumber. Morrison stayed in his coma for so long that his surface wounds largely healed, and Phillips finally allowed his mother permission to visit. She’d fought to be admitted for the length of Morrison’s incarceration– always barred by Phillips with some excuse or other. Yet, now that she was allowed entry, she was absent from the region: on some mission against Phillips’ institute, no doubt. Though she was set to arrive within a few days. And, as if in advance warning of her visit, came a mighty rain-storm which battered the Sanitarium with merciless fury. Phillips was by Morrison’s bedside when the lights blinked out. Aides entered the room with flashlights, to give the administrator a report. He issued orders on his way out with them: “Our first order of business is to minimize the prisoners’ panic– return them to their cells if possible. Then we need to get our back-up power running. I authorize you to cut the electric fence’s draw. Our backup can’t maintain that alongside our more necessary functions.” Phillips thought he heard a CRACK from behind him, on his way out, but he dismissed it as he moved to contain the already spreading chaos. Mr Morrison escaped from Cranston before the power returned. Phillips realized that his patient must have, at some point, awoken from his coma and begun to fake his condition. He awaited an opportunity, and fled in the night. But he couldn’t have gone far. Phillips informed the local police that a dangerous convict was on the loose– then retired to his office for the day, in conspicuous absence. The Doctor could do little but wait and worry. Top of mind was the matter of Morrison’s mother– who was set to visit any time within the following days. And he dared not cancel the meeting. His other concern: the sky was overcast. Phillips’ heart sank when, a day later, police returned a captured Morrison to the Sanitarium with a troubling report: multiple homeless men were killed, in the vicinity, since Morrison escaped. The MO didn’t match Morrison’s, but the murders were as vicious. So he was the chief suspect, though he could not officially be charged. Morrison’s conniving smile grated upon the Doctor’s patience as John led him to Phillips’ office. Phillips took the bait: “Would you mind explaining that grin, Mr Morrison? You’re in quite serious trouble.” “But perhaps not so much as you will be, Doctor.” “And what’s that supposed to mean?” “The police might return for follow-up questions; and my mother will arrive at any time, no doubt with questions of her own.” “Spell out your threats for me.” Phillips tensed. “Not a threat… yet. Just a suggestion that I ought to be treated like a human being– lest all these questioning parties happen to inquire about any new physical ailments since my return.” “Your point is well-taken. And what will you tell them, if they ask about the… side-effects of your previous treatment?” “Only that my Doctor had the best of intentions, and that my own poor constitution failed me.” “In exchange?” “For now: a decent meal, and a request that you answer some questions… honestly.” “Done.” Phillips slumped in his chair. “Firstly: how does a doctor, who vows to “do no harm”, reconcile their oath with their cruel and unusual torture of a patient?” Phillips stared blankly, for a moment, before he addressed the question: “Because you are a monster, and because I can help others through your pain.” “Hmm. You speak with conviction, yet you do not strike me as an altruist. What is your real gain by studying me?” Phillips broke eye contact. He turned to John, “Leave us. But stay close.” John was confused, but followed his orders and exited the room. Phillips still avoided Morrison’s eyes as he declared: “I… might help myself.” “I wondered if that was the case. You call me ‘monster’ to avoid looking in the mirror.” The Doctor’s attention snapped back to his prisoner with barely concealed rage. “I know what I am, Mr Morrison! I know it well!” “Then why deny yourself?” “Depraved thoughts need not become depraved deeds! Unlike you, I can exercise my self-control.” “To what end?” “To live a respectable life.” “But, Doctor, do you not already live your life AND quench your desires?” Phillips’ features softened. “No.” “No?” Morrison inquired with surprise. “My conscience cannot allow me to enjoy myself, Mr. Morrison. And, if it did, I should end up in your position.” “But we are so alike already: monsters who act badly for a greater good.” Phillips abruptly stood– his chair falling to the ground behind him. “Do you finally admit that you are a killer?!” Morrison stood to match his foe: “I admit that I wished to kill you Doctor, and barring that to ruin you. But that would be a waste– as, in you, I have a kindred spirit. You are the only person to whom I have shown my… shadow– and I would guess few have seen yours as I. We seem to understand one another. And, so long as you treat me well, I believe I would enjoy your captivity above that of others– if it must be so. But you must understand your miscalculations: our shadows cannot be killed, because they are not some foreign demon which resides within us: they are you; they are I; they are us all!” “You will not be content here. You will try to escape again; and you will kill. Your shadow will never be sated.” “Neither will yours. That is the fun of it: a lifetime of mutual misery for us both. But we might still find contentment. What say you?” “I say…” Phillips looked from Morrison to a trail of noonday sunlight beading through his blinds. “I say… let us be cleansed. Together. John!” The orderly returned to the office. Morrison’s confidence drained. “Take Mr Morrison outside.” And, with that, Morrison’s facade cracked. “I gave you a chance, Phillips! I will ruin you!” “You already have.” Morrison grabbed a fountain pen off Phillips’ desk and jammed it into John’s neck. His spurting blood stained Morrison’s pin-striped uniform, and Phillips’ white coat. The giant man collapsed as Phillips grappled Morrison from behind. The patient was unable to shake his doctor. He stabbed Phillips in the leg, causing the Administrator to let go. Morrison brandished the fountain pen and slowly examined the scene: John was on the floor, hand cupped to his spraying neck; Phillips now guarded the path to the door. Morrison debated whether he could find an opening past Phillips, along one of the side walls, to make his escape. This moment of indecision allowed Phillips to make a running tackle at Morrison, and careen them both through a nearby window-pane. They landed together in a bed of roses, one storey down, with Morrison taking the brunt of the fall. But Phillips landed abdomen first onto the outstretched fountain pen in Morrison’s hand. Adrenaline spurred The Doctor on, while the killer regained his bearings from a probable concussion. Phillips tore into Morrison’s clothes– ripping them apart till the convict was naked– pale skin painted with Phillips’ blood. The doctor stripped his own garments before he dragged a half-conscious Morrison into direct sunlight and spread himself on the ground next to his patient– their eyes and bodies absorbing the natural light; their shadows converged. Morrison’s body swelled with hives, as he gasped for breath, and writhed in pain. This was his fastest ever observed-physical-reaction. All they needed was the un-replicable power of the sun– to throw “controlled tests” aside and let the demon’s natural enemy do its job. This time the exorcism would work! Except that Morrison’s shallow breaths soon quieted. Then he lay still. Phillips gazed upon those fierce green eyes one last time before he shut the lids. They’d seen the light, yet were forever stuck in darkness. Phillips at last realized his folly. But he still had time to find peace. So the doctor crawled himself back to his prison. And there, in the shade of Cranston Sanitarium, Phillips and I became one. EPILOGUE The Doctor survived his bout with Morrison, but underestimated his prisoner’s foresight. In those fugitive days of Morrison’s, he’d leveraged his few worldly friends to create a contingency plan for his potential death or disappearance (afterall, his conviction didn’t entirely erase his influence). First there was the written and signed testimony of his experiences at the Sanitarium– sent with haste to someone whom he trusted could keep it confidential, till the time was right to reveal its contents. Second: there was the domino effect which launched within hours of his death, and spread to the furthest reaches of influence by that day’s end. The news, in fact, spread with such haste that Mrs. Morrison was permitted to arrive at Cranston on schedule– alongside a troop of State Police– wherein they uncovered the dungeon, and the torture devices, and logged staff testimonies: all of which corroborated Morrison’s own. The investigation into Phillips’ tenure as Administrator proved him beyond reproach, except where Morrison was concerned. But Phillips had further scandalized a powerful and merciless family– and Mrs. Morrison was a chief proponent of retribution for her son. She received her wish, as Doctor Howard Phillips was tried, convicted, and ultimately admitted to his own Sanitarium. END

3. 

   17 Apr 2026

   Space 3-X | Head to Head Prompt 3 | Story 2

   Riley is a horny astronaut, whose need for intimacy might be met by an anomaly from the dark side of the moon. Story by Justin Church Narrated by Justin Church Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin Head to Head Created by Justin Church and Joe Morin.

4. 

   10 Apr 2026

   The Fear | Prompt 3 | Story 1

   James' worsening paranoia about the darkness requires mental health counselling. Story by Jess Yeoman Narrated by Jess Yeoman Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A guy is afraid of his own shadow... for a good reason. THE STORY The Fear Head to Head Project Jess Yeoman James sliced slowly, thoughtfully through his Grade A steak, readying a near-perfect bite. A sip of red wine to follow, always red wine with red meat, or at least so he had been told. His stunning date sat across from him, prodding her green beans around her plate playfully. “So, James…” “Mm?” He responded, barely looking up from his plate. She gazed at him with a sheepish smile, and he knew what was going to come next. Always the same questions on these dates, and no new answers, from either party involved. “Well, it’s just, you seem to be quite successful, with the whole Wall Street-bank-thing,” she gestured vaguely with her hands as she spoke. “Insurance,” James said, clearing his throat. “I work in insurance”. Why was the music in this restaurant so damn loud? It was a string quartet, fitting for such a stylish restaurant, but in James' ears it was like radio static, dissonant and distracting. “Ah, right.” The young woman looked somewhat defeated, but plodded on. “So you seem to be doing extremely well in insurance, you’ve got fancy degrees under your belt and, well…” she chuckled and paused, hesitant to play all her cards upfront. “On top of that, you’re quite a dreamboat.” This caught James’ attention, as he looked his date in the eye for perhaps the first time that evening. “I feel you’re working your way towards a point, shall we get there together before our dinner turns cold?” The young woman’s eyes fell to her lap, and she let out a small breath. Realizing he had been too harsh, James took a sip of his wine and sat back in his upholstered chair, attempting to soften his composure. The bright lights, amplified by mirrors hanging on every free scrap of wall in the crisp white dining space, were beginning to give him a headache, and likely the wine wasn’t helping either, but he knew it was only fair to play this evening out to the end. “Sorry, dear, I only meant that I think I know what you’re getting at. Please, continue.” “Well, I was just going to say that despite doing quite well for yourself, in basically every part of life that counts, nobody really sees you out,” she replied, emphasizing the last word in quotation marks with her fingers. James paused to digest her words, searching his steak for a good way to respond. It felt like she already knew the answer, though; surely his reputation had preceded him, surely she had heard stories. He sat forward once more, folding his hands in front of himself, and brought his gaze back to his date. She really was beautiful, a modern kind of beauty with some hints of old-money upbringing. Her chocolate curls hugged her cheekbones, and the string of pearls around her neck reflected every sparkle of light in the place. Perhaps she had a point, perhaps coming out of his cave would be alright now and then, as he took in all the light around him. “Well, it’s really just-” James cut off abruptly. An uncomfortable, familiar chill ran through his core as he looked beyond his date, catching sight of himself in one of the infinite mirrors in the room. The white light bouncing between mirrors and sconces and chandeliers left James disoriented as he stared, but even as he tilted his head to see clearer past the young woman’s shoulder, there was one unmistakable fact: His reflection stared right back for just a second too long, unmoving, unblinking, uncanny. “So, let’s go over this once more. I know we’ve chatted about it countless times, but I really just need to make sure you’re progressing.” The vintage furniture pieces and gently ticking clock brought a sliver of comfort to the otherwise unwelcoming room. James was tired of pretending, tired of putting on a show to convince his therapist that he was just fine, but here they were again. The woman waited patiently for James to respond, and when he didn’t, she persisted. “Look, James, it’s really just my job…You don’t have to enjoy these sessions, but you do need to participate in them, at least enough for me to cross the i’s and dot the t’s”. James looked up at this slip-up, and she winked at him. He didn’t enjoy their time together, no, but he did respect her and her career. For her, he would keep trying. “As a kid, I was afraid of the dark, as many children are. As a teen, however, this fear only grew stronger, and by young adulthood it became unmanageable.” It was difficult to say the words out loud without sounding too scripted or rehearsed, but that’s exactly what they were: rehearsed, twisted and repeated a million times until the response became an acceptable one. “Living alone as an adult, I found I had much more freedom to manipulate my surroundings, to make life more comfortable and to eliminate any of that potential darkness. I began to experience symptoms related to paranoid schizophrenia, and began practicing repetitive actions in hopes of protecting myself, similar to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.” See, he was even getting the medical terms down now, too. The therapist nodded lightly, following along with her notes as James spoke. “And as time went on, did you find these compulsions had an impact on your day-to-day life?” James had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. She already knew the story, why did they need to play this stupid game again? Just because he wasn’t able to hide his nerves at the restaurant the other night, didn’t mean he was out of control. He was a pro by now, with years of experience pulling himself out of the darkness, fighting with shadows and making his own light. He always made it through by whatever means necessary, for as long as he could remember, and he certainly didn’t need a therapist to rub it in his face that everyone around him thought he was fit for an asylum. The therapist could sense a shift in James’ demeanour, his cool exterior slipping to reveal a fidgety, agitated young man. His eyes shifted around the room, stopping at every dark corner as he processed whatever troubled thoughts must be circulating his mind. She felt somewhat guilty spurring him on like this, but being assigned to his case to monitor his well-being, she had to follow through with the questioning, no matter how difficult. She had seen a number of cases like his, of course, but James had always stood out to her as being unique, especially after the last several years of their sessions together. The elaborate stories, the coping mechanisms, the overactive imagination, it all felt different somehow from her other clients. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, and it was nearly undetectable, but something was there. James took a deep breath, and as if nothing had changed, regained his previous composure. A practiced smile appeared on his face as he responded. “My compulsions were at one point a challenge in my daily life, true, but they were a challenge that I have overcome. I no longer require my apartment lights to be turned on at all hours of the day, I am able to stay at the office alone after hours as needed, and I even enjoy some nightlife on the rare occasion.” He hoped keeping things casual would help to lighten the mood of their session, as well as to wrap things up a bit quicker. All she needed was to hear the right answers, after all. The therapist looked at James, scanning his face for any clues into his real, unfiltered self, but came out empty handed. Reviewing her notes one last time, a thought sprang to mind, and she framed her next question carefully. “The mirror though… That’s new?” The forced smile dropped from James’ face. “What?” Concerned of possibly pushing her client too far, and conscious of the limitations of her job, the therapist hesitated. “I feel like we’ve only ever talked about your fear of the dark, but it seems like there wouldn’t have been any of your regular triggers at the restaurant that night. Those who saw you out at that time reported your reaction to some mirrors, or maybe to your own reflection.” James swallowed hard. The mirror was new. The air seemed to thicken between the therapist and her client, and she could feel that she had pushed a button that maybe even James didn’t know existed. James stood alone in the elevator of his apartment complex, the dim lighting getting under his skin; not dark enough to cause unease, but also not bright enough to be at all useful. He held his keys tightly as he turned them in the lock of his unit, keeping them from jingling in an attempt to maintain the silence he had finally recovered in his mind. His apartment was just as he had left it, arranged and coordinated in a way he had perfected over years of trial and error. The standard pot lights of the unit were on and gave a reasonable glow to his home, but the real illumination came from a variety of bulbs that had been hung in a methodical, concentric pattern. It was always a bit overwhelming at first glance, but James’ eyes adjusted quickly as he settled into his safety. His cellphone rang, startling him. “Mom” appeared on the screen. With a deep breath, James swiped to answer the call. “Jamie, baby! How are you?” “Hi, Mom. I’m ok, but please, just ‘James’…” He hadn’t been called that name in a very long time, and he planned to keep it that way. “Oh, sorry honey, I always forget,” his mom chuckled. “I’m just calling to check in on you! It’s been so long since we’ve gabbed.” James couldn’t help but smile. No matter where life had brought them, his mother would always be there, trying her best. “Yeah, I’m sorry Mom, just been crazy lately.” If only she had any idea what he had been going through. She didn’t know that even after all these years, after all the seeking help and all the work he had done on himself, the Fear remained. It was easier just to chalk it all up to work, or the dating life, or whatever other trivial things mothers concerned themselves with. “Of course, I can only imagine! You’re really moving up in the world, kiddo.” James winced at the pet name. He hated it. He wasn’t a kid anymore, he was an adult, he had his own place, he had control. “Mom, please.” He bit his tongue, trying to keep from being harsh, she didn’t deserve that. “What, are those higher-ups giving you a hard time again? You pay them no mind, you do what you gotta do, be true to you, honey.” James had hoped she wouldn’t remember the slight conflict he found himself caught up in when he was first promoted to his new position. The guys in the upper management jobs loved to razz him for being a so-called “softie”, jabbing at him to get his shit together if he wanted to swim with the big fish. Those jabs may have been meant as a light hazing, but they reopened scar tissue that had taken years to heal. “Nah, it’s not that, Mom.” “Listen, baby, you can’t take all that to heart. I know that when you were a kid…” His mother trailed off, picking her words delicately. “Well, I know things weren’t always easy. He didn’t know what he was doing, your father. He said some things, did some things… He was too harsh, but he didn’t know.” A loud POP cracked the air as one of the bulbs overhead shattered, sending tiny crystal shards flying across the room. The broken bulb swung, knocking into the many others hung close by, casting light in all directions in a rhythmic, eerie sway. James could scarcely hear his mother’s muffled voice on the phone as the light and shadows danced. He held his breath as he watched the shadows grow longer, taking over the floor and walls, noticing his own shadow begin to tower above him. He stumbled in terror, barely catching himself on the polished granite countertop, and gazed up at the hands of his shadow thrashing at the walls, eager to break free. The shadow’s hands lunged at James, shoving him to the floor and knocking him out cold. “Look at this kid,” a man’s deep voice boomed in the void. “Such a wuss, an embarrassment, a COWARD!” James heard his mother’s tears faintly in the distance. “Get up, kid!” the man shouted. James awoke with a start, finding his apartment much darker than before his collapse. It seemed that the power surge had taken out a large portion of his cherished lights. This was exactly what James had dreaded; the Fear had been there before, had always been there, but now it was… changing, evolving. It felt like in spite of all the success earned, the wealth accumulated, the power attained, The Fear was still growing stronger. James set to work, still shaky from his encounter but more determined than ever. Tearing open his bedroom closet, he uncovered countless home video cameras, decades old, that miraculously still worked. He had tracked them down from every local pawn shop he could find, for some reason the old technology felt more secure than any cellphone money could buy. The idea initially came from his therapist, who suggested James film his hallucinations to provide assurance that they were not in fact real, and that he was not in any danger. This was an intelligent theory, and though he hated to admit it, he trusted his therapist’s judgment deeply; now that he really thought of it, she was perhaps one of the only people he could trust. But The Fear was real, the danger was real, and he needed proof once and for all, for himself and for all those who wouldn’t listen, or wouldn’t see. James figured the place must have looked insane to any outside viewer, but what did he have to lose? At least his money was finally useful for something. The spiral of broken light bulbs on his ceiling had been removed, and replaced with brighter, hotter ones. With every camcorder pointed in every possible angle, and every light in the apartment turned on once again, it looked a bit like the set of some demented talk-show; James couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. Next was just the wait, which he knew would not be long. James felt a chill run through his veins as the power surged just as before, only stronger this time. The circle of lights overhead went from bright to blinding in seconds, and once again exploded, fragments of glass and metal shooting in every direction. The only remaining light in the apartment came from a handful of tealights and candles, and the faint glow of the camcorder screens, providing barely enough light to see his hands in front of his face. As his eyes adjusted to the now dim room, James felt the same chill creep up his neck, like icy fingers inching closer to his jaw, pulling his face towards the darkness cast by his own Shadow. “Did you think you could overcome me?” The Shadow asked in a hoarse whisper. James could feel the grip of The Shadow tightening, digging into his skin, and watched as the soft comfort of light disappeared. “Did you think that after all these years, you could finally best me, your own image? Do you think you are immune to The Fear?” James screamed as The Shadow’s claws dug deeper. His head jerked back stiffly, and the void of The Fear filled his mind. James looked around his room, astronaut-print wallpaper peeling along the trim and a single night light struggling to illuminate the dingy space. His hands reached up to feel hot tears on his cheeks, his ears burning despite the cold draft sneaking through cracks in his windowsill. His eyes searched the dark for answers, but it only filled his small heart with despair. He looked up to see his Father leering, smirking, laughing at him. Father reached down to James, yanking him up by the collar of his pyjamas, huge hands bringing him level to icy, grey eyes. James could feel the anger in his Father’s breath. “Look at this kid, pathetic,” Father sneered. “Afraid of your own shadow.”

5. 

   6 Mar 2026

   Writer and Narrator Analysis | Head to Head Prompt 2

   Joe, Justin, and Jess analyze and critique our stories and narration for Head to Head Prompt 2. Speaking: Joe Morin, Jess Yeoman, Justin Church Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A fairy works for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation and discovers unicorns are real.

6. 

   27 Feb 2026

   The Real Story of How Maple Ketchup Helped Jerry Cherry Discover Unicorns and Fight God | P2 | S3

   Pak-a-mon trainer Jerald Cherry regales a group of children with exploits of his adventurous youth, and the great rivalry which defined his life. Story by Justin Church Narrated by Joe Morin Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A fairy works for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation and discovers unicorns are real. THE STORY The Real Story of How Maple Ketchup Helped Jerry Cherry Discover Unicorns and Fight God By Justin Church, Narrated by: Joe Morin An Elderly fairy sits down in a rocking chair holding a book. He is surrounded by a crowd of children sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Now, you all know the story of how Maple Ketchup discovered Unicorns, fought god and became the most famous Pak-a-mon trainer around, but today Children I will be reading to you my new book. It is called The Real Story of How Maple Ketchup Helped Jerry Cherry Discover Unicorns and Fight God. By Sir Doctor Professor Director Jerald Cherry PHD” The children all clap and cheer as SIr Jerald, otherwise known as Jerry Cherry the Fairy, opens the book. Chapter 1: Maple Finally finished his paperwork. In Pellet town’s office for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation, a 20 year-old Maple Ketchup was sitting at a desk in the dark back corner, with a single light to read by. Maple checked off a final box on the sheet he had in front of him, and placed the page on top of the stack of paper on the floor which reached the height of his desk. Maple shouted out “Professor Cherry, I’m done.” An older fairy passed out at a tipped over desk surrounded by beer bottles groaned. “By the way, this isn’t me, that’s my grandfather who’s also called professor Cherry, this was a long time ago, I show up later.” Maple stood up from his desk and walked over to the passed out Professor. “I’ll just leave the paperwork beside my desk for you, and before you ask, I triple checked, all the forms are completed.” The professor rolled over and groaned again. Maple took that as an acknowledgment and gathered his bag and walked out the door. Outside, he looked at the stable the unicorn he discovered had been staying for the four years it took him to fill out the paperwork. The unicorn was dead. “Dammit” Maple sighed, collapsed to the ground, curled into a ball and cried like a little bi- “…wait, am I allowed to say that in front of you guys?” Maple curled into a ball and cried like a little child. Inside Professor Cherry put a hand to his head and stumbled over to the papers Maple had told him about. He moved aside the 3 page checklist and checked the top page. Maple had filled out all the basic info about the unicorn he had found. He checked page 2, which was an essay portion where one needed to write all about how the creature was found and caught. He began to read it. It went a little like this. Chapter 2: Maple’s Essay of Events “My name is Maple Ketchup, and I’m gonna be the very best, like no fairy ever was.” And that day was the day he could finally prove it, because he was going to become a Pak-a-mon catcher. Maple Ketchup the fairy put on his running shoes, popped his baseball cap on, and ran out the door, completely forgetting to say goodbye to his mom. Next stop, the Department for Mythical Creature Conservation, to get his pack and select his first pack monster. As Pellet town was very small, it didn’t take him long to reach the office of the DMCC. Maple rushed through the doors and cried out in a shrill “Professor Cherry, I’m finally 16 and I’m ready to start my pack monster adventure.” Professor Cherry jerked awake from his drunken nap on his desk, looked at Maple then put his head back down saying “Oh, Maple, it’s you. I was waiting for my amazing grandson Jerry to arrive.” “Well I didn’t see him on my way over, but I’m here and ready to start my Pak-a-mon adventure! Can I pick my Pak-a-mon yet?” Maple Exclaimed. Professor Cherry held a hand to his throbbing head “Slow down Maple, we will get there. First you gotta sign some paperwork.” Professor Cherry slid the empty beer bottles off the papers on his desk and gave the papers to Maple. Maple didn’t even read them and just signed, thinking he already knew all the rules of being a pack monster catcher. “So now can I get my Pak-a-mon?” “ Slow down Maple, that’s like the last step before you leave. Take this backpack, with it you will be recognized as an official Pak-a-mon catcher.” Maple grabbed the worn looking bag and put it on then excitedly cried out “Time to choose my Pak-a-” “MAPLE!” the professor shouted “Slow down. You have to take this first, it’s your Pak-a-dex, you use it to log all the creatures you encounter, don’t forget this part, it’s basically your whole job.” “Yes professor, I know” There was a long pause, Maple vibrated with excitement, and Professor Cherry stared off into the distance. After an awkward amount of time, Professor Cherry slurped up his drool and asked “What were we doing?” “You were going to let me pick my Pak-a-mon.” “Right, right.” Professor Cherry walked over to his cabinet, slid his case of beer out of the way and brought out a case. Maple eagerly awaited, knowing the Pak-a-mon crystals were inside, and he would get to pick out his first partner. Maple’s older brother had always told him about all the amazing choices he’d had, and Maple couldn’t wait to see his options. Professor Cherry opened the case, and two crystals lay inside. It was not as many as he expected, but at least he had a choice in the matter, or so he thought. Just then, the glorious figure of Jerry Cherry the Fairy burst through the door at top speed. “See, I told you I’d show up later. This is when things start getting good.” “Sorry I’m late Gramps. Guess those are our crystals, sweet.” And before anyone could object, Jerry grabbed one of the two crystals and tossed it on the ground. With a puff of smoke and a burst of light, out popped a 2’ tall dragon. “Awesome, I’m gonna call you Drago.” He ran towards the door with the small dragon struggling to keep up “Smell ya later Maple.” and out the door he went. “What is that even supposed to mean?” Maple asked. Professor Cherry sighed, “He didn’t even get his pak-a-dex.” Maple looked at the lone crystal in the case with disappointment. “Well Maple, here’s your pack monster, and if you wouldn’t mind, can you bring Jerry his pak-a-dex. I’m sure he isn’t far.” Maple took the pak-a-dex and crystal and ran out after Jerry. Chapter 3: How Maple Came Into Possession of the Unicorn Outside he looked towards the tall grass at the edge of town, but there was no sign of Jerry. He ran up to the edge of the grass, ready to begin his adventure, who knew what could be in store for him. He stepped forward and as if appearing from nowhere, Jerry Cherry popped up. “Maple, Battle me!” “What, where did you even come from?” “We locked eyes, you gotta battle me, them’s the rules.” Maple didn’t want to look even more like a wimp, so he pulled out his crystal and tossed it on the ground. Through the shimmering light, he could see it, his partner pak-a-mon. It was a 5 inch tall yellow mouse. Jerry Cherry laughed “Haha, your partner is a pak-a-chu? I probably passed like 12 of those field mice already.” Jerry tossed 2 crystals out, his dragon appeared but was now 12’ tall and blew fire out its nostrils, and next to it was what looked like a glowing horse with a horn on its head. “How, what? You got out here like a minute earlier than me.” “What can I say Maple? I’m just a better trainer than you.” Maple pulled out his pak-a-dex and scanned the new creature, yet it came up with only ‘no data collected’. “Hey Jerry, you forgot your pak-a-dex, also what the heck is this thing?” “Pfft, pak-a-dex are for chumps, now let’s fight. Drago, blast that pak-a-chu to dust.” The dragon roared and blew a blast of flame at the small mouse. When the fire cleared, there wasn’t even ash remaining. “My Pak-a-mon!” cried Maple, as he curled up into a ball on the ground and started crying like a little- “Um…bad word again.” “Maple don’t cry, I really can’t stand that sound. I guess you weren’t ready to fight someone on my level.” Jerry Cherry summoned the unicorn back into its crystal, and tossed it to Maple. “Here, take this one, I didn’t like it anyways.” Maple wiped the tears away from his eyes as he watched Jerry mount his dragon and flew off towards adventure. Maple looked at the crystal and remembering the pak-a-dex entry, headed back to the office. Chapter 4: Maple Made a Mistake Professor Cherry cracked open another bottle just as Maple walked in “Oh Maple, back so soon, aren’t you supposed to be adventuring or whatever?” “Well, I found something you might find interesting.” Maple threw the crystal onto the floor, and the unicorn sprang out, knocking over Professor Cherry’s desk and scattering empty bottles of beer all around on the floor. The Professor just stared wide eyed at the creature. “A unicorn! I’ve heard of these only in stories. My boy this is a mighty fine discovery, hats off to you for catching a never before seen pak-a-mon.” Professor Cherry pulled open the drawer of his tipped over desk, and out came a stack of paper that filled the whole drawer, then the Professor shoved the stack into Maple’s arms. “Fill these out, this is a big discovery, so a lot of information is needed, be as detailed as possible.” “Do I have to? I kinda just want to-” “Maple! You signed the contract, this is the job you agreed to. You wanted to work at the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation, well this is it. It can’t be all fun and exploration and adventure and battles and such. Some people have to buckle down and do the hard work. Now find a desk and fill out these papers, and get that creature out of my office, it’s too big.” Maple hurriedly pushed the unicorn out the door, then looked for a desk far away from the Professor. He picked a desk in the back corner, in the dark, and set his papers down. The first 3 pages turned out to be a checklist of all the paperwork he needed to fill out. This was going to take forever. He flipped to the next sheet, A1. It was a basic info form for the creature, name, weight, height etc. Maple didn’t really care about accuracy so just made his best guesses. He just wanted to get out of there and adventure. Next page, A2, was to write an essay about all the details of how he discovered the creature. The elderly fairy yawns. “Well this is boring, you guys are bored too right? Why don’t we just skip ahead a bit. Let’s see.” The fairy flips through pages, then stops and sniffs the air, as though a rotten smell has hit him. He glances up at his audience of children and notices a larger figure in the dark back corner, then focuses once again on his book. “Let’s see, paperwork, paperwork, more paperwork. Ah here we go!” Chapter 37: Maple arrives at Jerry’s moment of need Jerry Cherry climbed into the mouth of his pak-a-mon Claydough. The creature made of soft lumpy clay shifted around until it was vaguely human shaped. By wearing the creature as a suit of armor, it gave Jerry enhanced strength and agility to take on Nazalinth, the thunderous pak-a-mon god. But the main ability he needed for this plan to work was the resistance the ground based creature provided against the lighting that weaved around the body of the god. Jerry climbed atop Drago the dragon and flew into battle against the 30’ tall human shaped pak-a-mon god. Leaping off with the master crystal he designed in hand, he clung to the gods body, feeling the lightning travel across his clay body and tickle the human flesh residing within. “Nazalinth, your day of reckoning has come!” he shouted. Using the energy coursing through him, he redirected it into growing the clay body’s size to try to match that of the towering god he clung to. His size grew, but his strength was still no match. Nazalinth slashed a light blazing arm into Jerry’s clay arm, and knocked the master crystal far to the ground. Jerry roared with pain, but did not give up, grabbing Nazalinth into a headlock. The giant clay body held the god in place, but Jerry did not know how much longer he could hold on. Then a smell crossed his nose, he sniffed twice. “Maple,” he called out “I know you’re out there, I could really use a hand. Grab that master crystal and throw it back up to me.” Maple had indeed arrived below, and ordered his Pak-a-chu to fetch the crystal. A young boy near the front spoke up “Excuse me sir, but didn’t you say Maple Ketchup’s Pak-a-chu was completely destroyed?” “Well, is it my story or yours kid?” The fairy glances at the figure in the back. “He caught a new one somewhere in the stuff we glossed over.” The pak-a-chu managed to recover the crystal and bring it back to his owner. Maple Ketchup had never been any good at tossing things, so when he threw the crystal for Jerry to catch it, he missed. It flew right at Nazalinth’s head, and crashed into it. The moment the crystal touched it, the god was sucked inside. They had done it. Jerry Cherry, with a little help from Maple Ketchup had ended Nazalinth’s reign of terror and had finally caught the god of all pak-a-mon. A girl cut in this time “I’m really confused, I think we skipped over a lot of parts. What happened to the unicorn?” “I said that part at the beginning, Maple was a neglectful owner, forgot to feed it and it died. We only skipped over like 4 years of him doing paperwork, you really want to hear the paperwork part and not the parts where I literally went toe to toe with god?” The kids all cheer the word paperwork. “I guess you’re all a bunch of chumps then. Fine, I’ll read some of the paperwork parts” Chapter 9: Maple goes home after a bit of work Maple sharply stood from his desk, frustrated with the little amount of paperwork he had gotten done during the day. He stepped over the drunken form of Professor Cherry yet again. This was his daily routine at this point, come in, do paperwork till dark, pass by the Professor Drunkard, go home, eat, sleep, repeat. He couldn’t help but be a little jealous wondering what adventures Jerry Cherry had been up to these last 2 years. As he walked up to his doorstep, Jerry Cherry stepped out the door. “Oh Maple, funny seeing you hear, I was just helping your Mom with a few things she needed to get done.” Maple, clearly not understanding the meaning Jerry had implied, instead let out his frustration “Jerry you know you’re kind of a jerk sometimes, you dumped this stupid unicorn on me and I’ve been stuck doing your paperwork in this stupid town with Professor Coors over there for 2 years now. I don’t care if you are helping my mom with stuff, I want you to leave me alone.” “Jeez Maple, I didn’t realize you’d have such an issue with me spending quality time with your mom.” The fairy looks up from the book as he realizes the figure in the back starts walking away further into the dark hallway leaving the room. “You know it’s rude to walk away, Ketchup.” The figure pauses, the children all turn to stare at the now 60 year old Maple Ketchup. “What’s wrong, you didn’t like hearing about your mother and I? Going to curl into a ball and cry somewhere?” The man in the dark hallway says nothing. “Would you come out of the darkness please? It’s quite terrifying. It’s like you’ve come here to kill me.” A 60 year old Maple Ketchup steps out of the darkness and stands across from his old rival. “I’m not here to kill you Jerry, I came to see how you were doing, to see if you’d finally grown up. I figured I already have my answer.” “Are you calling me childish? If anybody is childish it’s you, because you can’t stand hearing the truth can you” “I didn’t want to do this Jerry, don’t push me into an argument” “Why, because I’d win?” “You know what? Fine, Jerry. You wanna hear what I actually think? I think you do act like a child. You’ve held on to this made up rivalry with me for all these years, always trying to one up me. Did it make you feel tough to obliterate my pak-a-chu, or maybe sleeping with my Mom?” “She was always a looker, can you blame me?” The tension between the two becoming uncomfortable, the children all began to quietly shuffle out of the room. “I don’t even care that you were with her, but you lost my respect when you abandoned her to look after your child. You had a chance to be a good father and actually do something your grandfather would have been proud of, but instead you spent your time trying to steal an ounce of my fame. This book you wrote, it means nothing. It only lays out more evidence that you wasted your life.” “I didn’t waste my life, I was a powerful trainer who went on adventures!” “But you didn’t accomplish anything! Maybe your book is right, I got fame from the work you did. But the research and time I dedicated are the reasons I became so well known. Your grandfather had been working on Nazalinth research for many years, but you wouldn’t know that, because you refused to take a pak-a-dex. Professor Cherry had high hopes for you Jerry, he wanted you to help finish his research, but instead you squandered your life. Once again you left me with the burden of the paperwork. But your book said it right: some people have to buckle down and do the hard work.” Sir Jerald and Maple wait in silence as Sir Jerald digests the words that were thrown at him. “So what did you think of my book anyways?” “Honestly, it’s good, surprisingly funny. I don’t remember Professor Cherry drinking that much that we needed to avoid the piles, but him never picking up that desk for four years was pretty accurate. I do have a question though. When we fought Nazalinth, how did you know I was there?” “Same way I always know. I told you I’d smell ya later, and the wind was coming my way.” Maple chuckles “Do I really smell that bad?” Sir Jerald chuckles as well “Oh yeah, it’s a very distinct smell, 38 years and I still knew it was you in the back of the room.” The two sat in silence yet again. Jerry broke the silence “So about Gramps’ research, did you complete it?” “The paperwork is at the Department office right now, although it was a lot more forms and essays than the unicorn needed.” “And Nazalinth?” Maple flashes a smile and pulls out the master crystal containing the god, before tucking it back in his pocket. “Now Jerry, did you seriously write 30 chapters on me filling out paperwork?” Sir Jerald chuckles dryly, then his smile fades. After a short time Maple, with nothing left to say, turns and walks down the hall and away from his once rival. Sir Jerald looks at the book in his hands, and closes it up, stroking the cover gently, before staring into the dark hallway. Maple was gone, the children had left, and Sir Jerald Cherry sat alone, with only his book to keep him company. END

7. 

   20 Feb 2026

   Detective Matthew Pearce's Final Case | Head to Head Prompt 2 | Story 2

   Matthew Pearce's mundane life as a desk jockey is upended when an old flame from his field agent days pays him an unexpected visit. Story by Jess Yeoman Narrated by Joe Morin Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A fairy works for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation and discovers unicorns are real. THE STORY 1. Pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed tight enough to shut out the stunned face in front of him, Pearce released an exasperated sigh. “Was it not clear the first million times? All new Hallow’s Eve funding requisitions MUST be filed under ‘Events’, not ‘Holidays’. And you’ve entirely mislabeled these forms from the Troll Bridge Real Estate firm.” “I’m so, so sorry, sir,” the assistant stuttered, clearly hurt by the sting of his superior’s tone. Pearce looked up again from his desk at the young Fairy and, seeing visions of his own self standing there, felt his gaze begin to slightly soften. “Hey, we all gotta start somewhere, kid. But if you screw this up again, it’s gonna be both our necks on the line, and trust me when I say I won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus.” Pearce was still fuming, but tried to soften the blow with a small wink. “Definitely, got it.” The assistant ducked out of the office quickly and without another word, for fear of further upsetting the clearly irate older Fairy. Matthew Pearce had worked for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation for nearly 125 years. Just long enough, in fact, to have moved through the ranks, from a nobody taking hot cocoa orders for the higher-ups all the way to Lead Detective of his branch. Gods, did he miss the freedom of being out in the world, the smell of dewdrops in the morning, the feel of the cool air on his wings… But now, despite his years of experience in the field, he was stuck here at this crappy desk, with the closest thing to freedom being the ever-changing landscape on the wallpaper of his magic-powered laptop. It wasn’t the dream, but it paid his bills – with the rising cost of housing in the surrounding Toadstool Communities, he would take anything he could get. He spent most of his days convincing himself that moving from Detective to Human Resources wasn’t a demotion, and just a shift in positions, but it was still a painful truth to swallow… A torn wing was enough to bring you right back down to the bottom, he guessed. His work wasn’t all so bad, though; if the humans believed rumours of mythical creatures living on their turf, there was a higher chance of that land being protected and conserved, and then a better chance of those creatures’ survival. The Humans got to see the big bucks come in from their little tourism traps, and the Department was able to maintain a vast network of beings under their protection. Win-win, or as close to it as possible. Despite the success of the program, Pearce knew that this little gig wouldn’t last much longer; already the heads of the DMCC were bringing in fresh faces, updating methods and upgrading the department with the newest of Fairy technology, pushing out anything obsolete. And, soon enough, Pearce knew that he would become obsolete too. 2. Heavy rain pounded Pearce’s leaf umbrella as he trekked across town, familiar shops and the gentle glow of neon lights being the only source of comfort in the dark streets. Another day of correction, editing and painfully dull interactions with other clerical Fairy workers had left him feeling numb, and the cold damp settling into his wings didn’t help that. As he jiggled his keys in the lock of his oak tree apartment, he noticed a smudge of crimson red on the doorframe, a shade barely noticeable against the dark wood but unmistakable to Pearce. A shiver went up his back as he opened the door cautiously, hoping to retain some semblance of calm so as not to give away awareness of his unexpected guest. Breathing shakily, his eyes adjusted to the soft light of his lamps, casting a warmth around his apartment and yet still unable to ease the slow dread he felt. “Been a while, Matthew,” a cool, low voice spoke into the room. Pearce’s head spun to find his beautiful intruder standing in the kitchen, slender arms leaned back on the counter and legs crossed in front of her. Her chin tilted slightly to reveal a gorgeous jawline and thin, long neck, and of course her signature red lips. A halo of blonde waves framed her petite Pixie face in a way that Pearce could admit, despite the fear tightening around his stomach like a fist, was truly stunning. A face that he had once loved, and one he thought he had lost. “Meredith?” he managed to get out. The last time he saw her must’ve been, what, 30 years ago? On that last case they worked together… “Yes darling, c’est moi!” she said, grinning at her own little phrase and the look of shock on Pearce’s face. “Yeah, guess it has been a while,” he replied, hand rubbing the back of his neck. What could she possibly be doing here, after all this time? “Well, surely I deserve a better welcome than that,” Meredith teased, crossing her arms in front of her and playfully pouting. “I know things didn’t end off on the best terms-“ “You left the Department, you left me, without a single word. I didn’t know if you’d been taken, or killed, or if you just got tired of me and took the first ticket out. And I was left to think and overthink about all that for years, no, decades. So yeah, I guess not the best terms.” Meredith’s grin began to fade, her gaze dropping and all flirtatiousness quickly leaving her demeanour. “Look, darling, I know it must’ve been so hard for you, but at the time it was what was best… or at least it seemed like it. It wasn’t easy for me either, changing my whole life like that, but after everything we went through with the Department, all the cases we worked, all the lives we saved and more importantly the ones we couldn’t… I don’t know, I couldn’t do it anymore.” Pearce sighed, reigning in his frustration and trying to remember more deeply the Pixie in front of him, his former partner, lover, and so much more. “You think I didn’t struggle too? Look where I’m at now, chained to a desk and dealing with buffoons every day.” “That’s my point, Matthew. The Department is no good, they didn’t take care of you after your accident, they barely even kept you around, in fact they likely only do keep you around so they don’t get their wrists slapped by the higher-ups for firing an employee after a workplace injury, especially one involving the Humans.” Pearce inhaled sharply, unsure of whether to be upset at the mention of his accident or offended on behalf of his employers. “You know the Department does good work, Meredith. We did good work in our field, and I do my best now with what I’ve got.” Meredith rolled her eyes. “You really don’t get it, do you?” “Get what? Besides the fact that you’ve broken into my apartment, told me my work is essentially worthless, and come up with some crappy excuses for breaking my heart?” “Look, I know that nothing I say will change how you feel about… everything. But I came here because I need your help, and because you need to know the truth.” “The truth?” Pearce asked, still reeling from the sudden reappearance of this dazzling individual. “Yes, Detective Matthew Pearce of the DMCC,” Meredith mocked, her patience beginning to run thin. “I don’t have time to hold your hand through this so you better listen carefully. The Department has been around for ages, right? Generations of Fairies, Pixies, Dwarves, and other folk have relied on their protection.” Pearce tried to hide his annoyance at being given a history lesson. “But what about the folk we don’t know about?” Meredith continued. “What about the ones who’ve flown under the radar, living their own lives free from the Department’s close watch?” “That’s absurd,” Pearce scoffed. “We’ve worked in the Department for years now, myself longer than you. I’ve personally handled hundreds of cases, helping probably millions of Mythical Creatures live better quality lives and stay safe from prying eyes.” “See, that’s the thing,” Meredith chuckled. “What if the Department was the prying eyes?” Pearce blinked, not sure how to digest what his former partner was suggesting. “You work in Human Resources now, right? Have you never wondered why some of the legends had to be maintained, even though you’ve never seen them yourself?” “Well, sure,” Pearce said thoughtfully. “The Humans have always been creative in their storytelling, easier to promote rumours of everything and protect many than to narrow it down, all about keeping the balance.” Meredith’s grin returned, her small sprightly face lighting up. “Now you’re getting it.” “So you’re trying to tell me all the rumours are true?” “Well, yeah,” Meredith shrugged. “Pretty much every last one.” “But why would the Department try to convince us that those creatures are just bedtime stories for human children?” “Because they don’t like rogues. They like having control. Anyone under their ‘protection’ can be monitored, every move watched carefully, every word measured and calculated.” Pearce shook his head, his tired mind unable to wrap around all this wild new information. “There’s a whole world out there, Matthew, beyond what the Department is willing to admit. And you’re the only one I trust to help me save that world.” 3. The warehouse seemed smaller than Pearce remembered, but it had been years since he’d last stepped foot inside. He still wasn’t sure how Meredith had convinced him to tag along on whatever most recent whirlwind adventure she had planned, but it wasn’t the first time he’d been dragged into her schemes blindly but willingly… Though, he certainly hadn’t planned on there being a next time. Meredith led the way, stepping over strange puddles of green and the remains of who-knows-what, practically dancing through the warehouse with the light and nimble feet known of her kind. The sight of her grace and petite beauty contrasted against this desolate place struck Pearce with a humorous sense of juxtaposition, and even after all these years he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself and follow in her footsteps. Even if Pearce knew better, which he probably didn’t, he could not resist Meredith’s every request. Something about her had always just been so… magnetic. Reaching a door covered in graffiti, muck and faded posters, the pair paused and looked at each other uncertainly but fondly, memories of years spent in these halls coming to light for them both. Pearce tore his gaze from the beautiful young Pixie, knowing if he stared any longer he would not be able to keep his resurfacing feelings at bay. He focused his attention on the door instead, regretting it instantly as flashes of pain rang through his torn wing; With a closer look he had seen that anti-Human propaganda posters littered the door, a cosmetic addition which must have been contributed by some squatters in the years that had passed. The Human involved in his accident had of course got away scot-free, but Pearce had had decades to replay that night… Meredith’s tears, the Human’s non-magic weapon, and the darkest night sky he’d ever seen. Of course the Department knew about the accident, everything had to be filed and documented and clarified, but there was no way they could truly understand the internal struggle he faced in his more recent position. Every Human he interacted with was different, but every interaction brought him closer to healing… At least, that’s how he tried to frame it for himself. Pearce shook these memories out of his mind, watching Meredith open the door into a vast space full of dust-covered gadgets, technology and files. “Just like the good old days,” she said, smiling at Pearce warmly. 4. Hunched over a crowded desk, photos and papers cluttering the space, Meredith took a deep breath. “Ok, you’re going to have to follow along closely with me on this one, got it?” “Yeah, got it,” Pearce said with some uncertainty. He didn’t love being told what to do, but this whole thing seemed important to her, so he’d keep his mouth shut for now. “The Department tracks mythical creature travel patterns, they claim that it’s in order to better understand what areas of the world need more protection. After stepping down from my role, I discovered so much of what the Department was hiding, including the real ways they’re using this data they’re collecting… They’re watching every part of our lives, targeting us and even revealing our locations to certain Human groups just to maintain some level of credibility to the stories.” “But that’s sort of like what I’m doing…” Pearce said confusedly. “But so much worse,” Meredith said, shaking her head and frowning. “Your role in the DMCC is so miniscule compared to the real stuff they’re doing out there, the corruption and power plays. You’re basically just a pretty face who’s just intelligent enough to make your branch look good.” Pearce winced, but couldn’t deny that what she was saying certainly filled in the gaps he’d been questioning for years. “So here’s where it gets good. I’ve been tracking this group of unicorns over in the western portion of our region,” she continued, gesturing at a torn map with edges curling away from the table. “Seeing as they’re off the radar, I think they can give us some good insight into their lives without the influence of the Department, and maybe even aid us in finding other groups like them.” “Wait, did you say unicorns?” Pearce asked. “Yeah, unicorns, you’ve heard of them I’m sure,” Meredith said offhandedly, not looking up from her map. “Well, yeah, I just didn’t think-” “I know, darling. There’s a lot for you to catch up on.” Pearce stared, wondering what other major new information could possibly be dropped on him next. Shaking his head to dismiss his somewhat dazed mind, he ventured to ask, “So what do you need me for? Why’d you drag me into all of this?” Meredith met his gaze and stuck out her bottom lip, feigning hurt at his words and showing off that crimson red even more. “Drag you? I thought you’d be excited for one more adventure, especially given your current lifestyle.” Pearce cocked his head to the side questioningly. “Well, a desk job and micro-magic dinners aren’t exactly an adventure, now, are they Matthew?” Maybe she was right, maybe Pearce had let himself slip into retirement mode far too comfortably. Maybe one more case was exactly what he needed. With a new sense of purpose, Pearce honed in on the map. “Tell me everything.” 5. The air was cool and clear at this height, though perhaps a little too high for Pearce’s liking. The roof of the DMCC building was only accessible by a seemingly endless spiral staircase, starting from the ground floor and continuing up countless levels. Thankfully with Pearce’s Department ID, he was able to sneak them both to the staircase quietly and without suspicion… The only real challenge was all those stairs. He looked over to see Meredith fidgeting with something on the other side of the roof. Their plan was fairly straightforward, hack into the Department’s GPS systems to manually redirect signals and track the unicorn herd Meredith had been closely following. From this height they could see the vast expanse of their little world and beyond, from the little Fairy villages all the way to the Human cities. As the sun began to paint the sky all shades of pinks, reds, and orange, Pearce had a small moment of peace and reflection. He hoped this whole thing would lead to some real good… He’d joined the Department back in the day with the dream of saving lives, or at least bettering them. With everything Meredith told him, the truth and all those affected by it, he felt this was a chance at taking some control back in his life, and maybe making a real difference in this world. Maybe not right away, a case like she’d planned might take months, years, but he knew he’d be there with her every step of the way. A loud bang followed by hissing came from the far side of the roof. Pearce felt his breathing become shallow and uneven, noticing a strange pastel pink fog creeping into his vision like some sort of cotton candy haze. Confused, he spun to find Meredith, who stood proudly by some piece of DMCC technology that seemed vaguely familiar, something that looked like a satellite dish or maybe a transmitter used to reach out to the Human world... What in Gods’ names was she doing? 6. Meredith practically snorted, yelling over the increasing volume of the machines. “You really believed that stupid story about unicorns? I know you can be a bit of an airhead, Matthew, but this is too much.” Pearce stood mouth agape, the gears of his mind slipping and spinning out of control. No, surely he wasn’t wrong, surely this was just another puzzle for him to solve, another set of clues to piece together into the truth. He felt himself waning, his consciousness grappling with whatever this noxious pink cloud was. “What have you done, Meredith?” Her eyes gleamed, the pastel pink cloud growing larger and more ominous with every second. “You know it’s interesting, in small doses Pixie Dust has an almost euphoric effect, causing anyone closeby to feel light, happy, loved. But in strong concentrations, like the clouds you’re seeing now?” Meredith couldn’t contain her giggles. “Well, that can cause some pretty nasty fits of mania, especially for the Humans who’ve never been exposed to any magic.” “Pixie Dust? You’re joking…” Pearce choked out, his vision becoming foggier with each breath. He clutched his chest and inhaled sharply, his lungs trying and failing to filter out the toxic air. “That’s just a stereotype, some rumour built up over centuries of mythical folk trying to live together and failing.” Meredith chuckled, giving her typically playful grin a much more sinister feel. “And what have we learned about rumours, Matthew?” “I’m s-so lost,” Pearce managed to get out, his head pounding from the sickly sweet substance enveloping them. The sun had set and night was falling quickly. “Why would you do all of this?” “I’ve told you already, darling. The Department is no good. At least I think I said that, right?” Meredith motioned around the empty rooftop, miming a request to the darkness for validation. “But you said you wanted to help people, help the mythical creatures who weren’t under the Department’s watch.” Meredith put her hands to her cheeks and beamed mischievously. “That was a good little story wasn’t it?” All Pearce could do was stare. This couldn’t be the same Pixie he had once worked so closely with, could it? Had this so-called Pixie Dust got to her brain as well, over years of exposure? “It’s pretty simple, actually. Sure, the Department offers protection for the mythical folk, blah blah blah,” Meredith said sarcastically. “But it also deals closely with the Human population… You deal closely with the Human population. “And?” Pearce asked. “So what if I do?” “So, as much as I hate the Department,” she grimaced, fists clenched, “I hate the Humans so much more. When I heard you were going to be promoted to head of Human Resources, I came out of the shadows. And I knew all it would take was one look at me for you to come along for the ride, to be putty in my hands… just like the good old days,” Meredith winked. “Why the Humans?” “Why?” Meredith boomed. “They’re Humans! They’re an invasive species! Look at them, look at what they’ve done to us, to our world. To YOU!” Pearce took a deep breath. The last thing he wanted was to further upset the explosive Pixie in front of him. “That Human, that night…” he trailed off, a dull but all too familiar ache in his torn wing coming to the surface. “It may have truly been an accident, you know? I’ve had a hard time with it over the years… No, I’ve killed myself over it. But Meredith, it may have been an accident, he may not have even meant to shoot.” “You’re right,” she shrugged and looked at her feet. “It may have been an accident.” Pearce nodded slowly, hoping his words had eased her anger at least enough to diminish any immediate danger. “But it wasn’t, though, was it?” Meredith said, reaching his gaze once more. “Surely you can’t be so blind as to accept the story that I fed you that night, while you were barely conscious. I thought you were cleverer than that, thought you could put it all together yourself eventually. I’m almost disappointed I didn’t get found out sooner.” A sour taste came into Pearce’s mouth, his stomach tightening and his pulse pounding in his ears. “Ugh, don’t look at me like that, darling,” Meredith said bitterly, her red lips forming a sneer of distaste. “I was just playing my hand as it was dealt to me. With the inside scoop I had about the Department’s corruption, I knew I had to get out and get out fast. And I knew I could never get out with you as my partner, the Department loved us together and you loved me.” Meredith blew Pearce a kiss tauntingly. “So, a little ‘accident’ to drop you out of the Detective program and back down the ladder? Well, it was almost too easy.” Despite the now richly concentrated cloud of Pixie Dust surrounding them, Pearce’s mind became clear and silent, attempting to fit this new story into his memories of that night. “Meredith… Regardless of how you feel about the Department, about me, about us, you can’t do this to the Humans. They don’t even know about our world, really, except for what we let them. For us this is reality, this is our home and our lives and our families, to them we’re just bedtime stories. That’s why my work is so important, to bridge that gap, to-” The door to the rooftop slammed open, a loud crack cutting through the tension and darkness, interrupting Pearce. “Sir! What are you doing up here?” the young Fairy assistant shouted over the whirring machines. The sudden sound startled Meredith, causing her to jump away from the transmitters and teeter on the edge of the rooftop. She struggled, her typically nimble feet and impeccable balance stunted by the intensity of the Pixie Dust. Finally catching herself, and with one more smirk crossing her crimson lips, she winked at Pearce. “Until next time, darling.” She slipped into the thick pink fog, and as the haze began to clear, machines gradually quieting, Pearce saw that she had disappeared without a trace. Pearce felt waves of relief and confusion wash over him as he stared at the assistant. “I was working late and noticed your sign-in, thought it was weird for you to be here at this time…” the young Fairy said sheepishly. “Boy, am I glad to see you… for once,” Pearce said in an attempt to offer some lightheartedness and perhaps comfort to the young lad. And Pearce realized, the Pixie he’d once loved and lost was lost again, perhaps this time for good. And perhaps for the greater good. END

8. 

   13 Feb 2026

   When the Dust Settles: A Clint Sherwood Adventure | Head to Head Prompt 2 | Story 1

   Investigator Clint Sherwood is burdened by his new rookie partner on their quest to rescue a unicorn from animal traffickers. Story by Joe Morin Narrated by Joe Morin Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A fairy works for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation and discovers unicorns are real. THE STORY When the Dust Settles: A Clint Sherwood Adventure By Joe Morin; Narrated by Joe Morin My old nemesis sat before me, seductive and taunting. She beckoned: “Take me Clint. Here on this table.” I turned away, my lips puckered, as this situation’s sour taste lingered a moment. Such pleasures I’ve felt before and often– the rapture, the release of my demons. Yet with each appeasement my sense is carried off, my resistance weakens, and my life’s hollow deepens. Still what would be the harm in one last indulgence? I faced my nemesis, bent to meet her– already spread across the table– and snorted the purple dust through my nostrils. First came the irritation, then the burn. Some spasms followed. And then… Clint Sherwood gazed upon himself with a new perspective. His heightened state of mind showed his reflection thoroughly, more detailed than a mirror’s constructs. Clint saw the surface: a disheveled middle-aged man; a sullen face, which looked 10 years older than it was; one good wing on his back, and another grotesquely mangled. But he saw too what lay beneath: a good for nothing, past-his-prime junkie, with no future, no legacy to leave; a passionless investigator for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation, left in the dust by changing times. These observations were old hat for Clint Sherwood. They were always the first things he noticed on the Dust. But today Clint saw something new: a boy– a young fairy, in Department uniform– who stared at him, mouth gaped in shock and… disgust. “How long you been there, Rookie?” Clint asked, with suspicion. He watched the kid jot notes on a paper pad. Odd. The Rookie opted against the standard DoMCC magical short-hand. Because that would have meant waving his fingers in such a pattern that Clint would understand. SI Sherwood deduced that a game was underway. Sherwood continued to break the kid’s concentration “Speak MB Rook?” (that’s “Mythical Basic”). “Y-Yessir,” the boy stammered, eyes still down on his pad. “Eyes up, kid.” The Rookie nervously met Clint’s glassy gaze. “Good. Now why are you in my basement?” “My name is–” “Don’t care,” Clint interjected. “I asked why you’re here.” The boy hesitated. “I’ve been assigned to your tutelage, Investigator Sherwood.” “Why?” “Because my bosses felt you could teach me a thing or two?” “Nope.” “Nope?” “You deaf?” “Nope.” “Good. Listen here, Rookie: You tell those hacks they won’t make a fool of Clint Sherwood.” “I don’t understand, sir.” “Maybe you don’t. And that’s fine. But understand this: I don’t do partners and I don’t babysit. The bosses and I have a rare understanding there.” “I was told to give you this if you put up any resistance.” The rookie handed Clint an official document, stuffed with dull jargon, which effectively amounted to “The kid’s yours, Clint. Deal with it. Signed: your bosses.” “Hrmm”, Clint grumbled. He caught the rookie smirk. “If we’re going to be working together afterall, I ought to introduce myself properly. My name is–” "Don't care. And I won't until you do something I'll remember. Till then you're just 'Rook'. Yeah?” “Whatever you’d prefer, Investigator Sherwood.” “Clint. I don’t go for the titles bullshit. Just don’t forget I’m in charge.” Rook wrote another note on his pad. “What’s that there?” “I’m a diligent apprentice… Clint. Just noting your wisdom.” “Good. Here’s summore for you: stay close, keep your mouth shut, and jump when I say ‘jump’, got it?” “Yessir.” Clint Sherwood snatched his trilby off the deeply indented couch cushions in the room’s corner; he pocketed the pair of brass knuckles stored in his desk drawer; he aggressively swung a tattered long coat over his shoulder– the tail end missing Rook’s face by an inch; and he marched out the office door. Rook followed Clint Sherwood from a respectable distance, adding more notes to his pad. Rook rode shotgun next to Clint in his DoMCC Glider (glowing pink chariot base, and organically engineered fairy wings on the vehicle’s sides to propel it). Clint barely contained his bitterness each time he rode this thing, knowing his healthcare plan could never cover such a replacement wing for himself… Here Clint noticed the young officer nervously glance his way, looking for an excuse to start a conversation. Clint preferred the kid to stay quiet. ‘Cause Rook’s next words were sure to be some snide judgment over Clint’s decision to “drive under the influence”. Or maybe Rook got that thought out of his system… on his little notepad. The kid found some courage, and began: “Earlier you expressed some… disdain for partnerships. Your last partner stab you in the back or something?” Clint turned to Rook, his face neutral, expressionless as stone: “I stabbed her in the back. There’s a lesson in there for you… somewhere.” Rook wrote something down, and the Glider returned to silence. Rook glared in disbelief at the entrance to their destination: a glittering image of Greek Godhood, bottle of wine in hand, its “arm” tipping said bottle to the god’s mouth. And underneath this tacky mascot was written the establishment’s name: The Drunken Dionysus. Clint exited the carriage and made for the entrance. He didn’t care whether Rook bothered to join him. Unfortunately, the kid was close behind. “What are we looking for here?” he asked of Clint. “A drink.” And there was another note for Rook’s supposed “words of wisdom” page. Clint glimpsed a sign on his way in: “No Satyrs.” He tore it down in one swipe while he marched to the bar. Clint had only just sat down when he heard from behind: “Hey Earth Scraper!” Clint gritted his teeth and took a breath. He wanted to give his verbal assailant a chance to rectify their mistake. “I’m talking to you, Grounder.” The voice was closer now– practically right behind him. Clint swiveled on his seat and cracked his fist against the vampire’s jaw. Clint leapt to the floor and pressed his advance, with gut shot after gut shot to his mocker. And he fought fiercely, despite standing half the height of his 6ft foe! The temperamental investigator might have pressed his advantage to victory, were it not for Rook, who ripped Clint off the vampire’s torso: “Allow us to clear up this misunderstanding,” he begged. “Stay out of this Rook!” barked Clint. “It’s you who misunderstands what’s happening here, officer,” mocked the Vampire with a chuckle, as a werewolf grabbed Rook’s arms from behind. The vampire’s arm launched out to Rook’s face, and thudded straight-on against the Rookie’s nose. The werewolf let Rook go, and the punch’s momentum carried the poor, well-meaning boy to the ground. Clint, meanwhile, sneaked around the vampire, wrapped his arms around its waist, and threw the evil creature over his head. The fiend morphed into a bat, before it hit the ground, with a “SQUEEE!” and quickly reverted to its first form. It laughed at Clint, relishing the challenge, and pounced like a predator. Rook regained consciousness as Clint laid on the ground, beaten and bloody, with the vampire standing over him: “Time to finish this,” said the vampire with menace. Rook tried to send a stunning incantation towards their foes, but was so dazed he messed up the words. Then the vampire… extended his arm to Clint and laughed while he helped the battered investigator to his feet. “You know the deal: Victor buys the drinks.” “Not fair, Alexei. You brought a friend.” “So did you.” “Not to fight.” “He stepped in.” “He’s a dumb rookie.” “Shut up and accept the drink already.” “Hrmm.” The vampire approached the bar, with a grumbling Clint behind, and a confused Rook (with blood-soaked nose) behind him. “What’s your poison?” he asked the half-delirious detectives. Clint ordered a “Hydra’s Head” (ale which slowly refills each time you cut off the frothy head), Alexei got his usual Phoenix Fire (drop a match on some treated ashes in a glass, and drink the blazing liquid which results), and Rook refused. “Take a drink, kid. Alexei’s buying,” prodded Clint. Rook took another note, grimaced, and looked at the menu a moment before he picked a “Banshee.” “Your friend here is either brave or stupid,” remarked Alexei to Clint. “Stupid, I’m sure.” “What’s the problem?” whined Rook, blissfully unaware of his faux pas. “Banshees are an omen,” Clint explained, as the server brought the drinks. They set Rook’s “Banshee” on the table, and he looked at it with hesitance. Clint and Alexei stared at him with anticipation. So Rook cautiously sipped the glass. And the most unpleasant screech his baby ears ever heard erupted through the bar. Rook was so startled, he spit half his sip. “What was that?!” cried Rook. “The Omen. Now somebody in this bar is gonna die. Today,” said Clint as he casually cut the head off his Hydra. “Are you serious?” Clint saw the abject fear in the youth’s eyes, and sought to quell it. “Don’t beat yourself up. Whoever dies here will die no matter what. People just don’t like hearing the Banshee tell ‘em is all.” “‘Cause of the scream, mostly,” added a drunken Alexei. Rook put his glass down, with a mix of disgust and regret. “So you old, old drunkard: what’s the word on the streets?” asked Clint of Alexei. “S-somebody founddd a -belch- found a uni– a unicorn.” Clint let the head of his Hydra overflow, breaking the spell. “Well I’ll be damned.” “But that’s impossible!” chimed Rook. “Unicorns have been extinct for centuries.” “Guess they miiiiiissed one,” sang Alexei. “Hahaha! But not for long.” “You have my attention,” Clint said as he leaned in. Alexei practically whispered, “Traffickers are sh-shipping it tonight.” “And where’d you hear this?” “The Lepra‘con’ man.” “He say any more?” And here Alexei’s werewolf friend stepped in. She wordlessly hauled Alexei from the bar and helped him away, while she glared at Clint and Rook. “Does that mean anything to you?” Rook asked Clint. “There’s gotta be thousands of Leprechauns around!” “Cillian Callaghan. The Lepre‘con’ man is his moniker. And he’s got connections with known traffickers.” “Alright,” Rook said with his eyebrow cocked. “I guess we should return to the precinct and look this guy up in the criminal database. See his known location?” “Nope.” “Nope?” “Get your hearing checked, Rook. That research-based detective work wastes time. Know the streets. Feel ‘em under your feet. And you’ll never need the damned database.” “Know where our man is then?” Asked Rook, skeptical. “I know where to start,” Clint declared as he made for the exit. “One more thing. And forgive me for asking…” Clint stopped, suspicious. Rook continued. “How did you get your wing clipped?” SI Sherwood kept his back to the young interrogator, “What else but a woman, Rook?” And he exited the bar. The Dust and the Hydra’s Head wore off by the time Rook and I reached our destination. And I slipped back to unreality. On The Dust, I peg this mythical world for what it is: just a bunch of glam and glitter hiding the sad underlying status quo; there’s the have-nots trying to have more, and the ones who have but never have enough. But sober, I lose that perspective; sober I’m just another sad sack making my way in a broken system. All this to say, I was glad Rook and I went to see my Dust dealer. “We’re sure to find Callaghan in a Pixie den,” I explained. Rook wrote something new in his notes. “I’m sorry. But I– you can’t say that word.” “What? … Pixie?” I prodded, fully knowing. “Special Investigator Sherwood, I must insist you refrain from that kind of language.” “What’s your problem? You’re not one.” “In the academy we learned–” “Call ‘em what you want in civie life–.” “Elven Fairies,” Rook interjected. “But on the streets they’re Pixies. That’s what we call ‘em; that’s what they call themselves, hear?” “Yessir…” Rook sulked, unconvinced. I could tell he just didn’t want to argue. “What are we supposed to call Fruit Flies now?” I asked him. Rook squirmed and avoided the question to jot another mysterious thought. I let it go. Rook turned back to me once he was done, “So how do you know which… ‘Pixie’ den he’s in? They change locations all the time, don’t they? Or is that wrong too?” “That’s right.” “You didn’t answer my first question.” “You asked three at once, and I’ve got a hangover starting.” “How do you know which den?” “I don’t.” “Should we contact the department’s Den Hounds then? That’s their whole job is to find these things.” “Good for them if they find A den. But we’re looking for Callaghan’s den. And we don’t have time to search ‘em all before this trafficking operation starts tonight.” I stopped the chariot in front of a back alley. “We’re here.” “What are you getting in there?” “Information. You stay here, unless you wanna get me killed. These Pixies get a little jumpy when they see a uniform snooping.” Rook sucked his teeth and slumped in the Glider while I entered the alley. “Tefure’s favourite customer!” announced Tefure upon my approach. “I’m not here for The Dust today, old friend.” “That’s good. Bad for Clint’s health. Though, if Clint changes mind, Tefure just got new shipment in. Premium stuff. And Tefure would be willing to share sample.” I glanced back down the alley towards the Glider. Rook couldn’t see us. So I accepted Tefure’s offer. What would be the harm in one last indulgence? So I took a bit of that purple powder on my finger, and sniffed… Clint Sherwood discovered a good deal of information from Tefure (after some brass-plated persuasion): for one thing, there’d been a string of overdoses in the Dust Dens, which the Pixies were looking to hide (bad for business). But, more importantly for the time: Tefure knew which Den Callaghan attended. And he agreed to take Rook and Clint there ASAP– lest Callaghan die before they could interrogate him. Clint noticed Rook some time ago, standing idly by, too scared to intervene. “You ready?” he asked. Rook nodded. Tefure wiped his bloodied nose and recited an incantation, which conjured a sparkling ovular portal in front of the group. Clint motioned a notably nervous Rook to step through first, followed by himself, then Tefure. Bodies lay strewn about the surprisingly vibrant and clean surroundings, in a Dust-induced fugue state. It wasn’t hard to pick out the Leprechaun, in head-to-toe emerald garb. Clint kicked the body. No response. He kicked it harder. Still responseless. Clint leaned down to check Cillian Callaghan’s temperature, and found the body cold. “Dead. From The Dust… Tefure,” seethed Clint through gritted teeth. “Tefure just sells The Dust. Addicts want to over-do, that’s not fault of Tefure.” “Hrmm.” Clint’s brass-knuckled fist flew with the swiftness of wind into Tefure’s jaw. The Pixie fell unconscious. “What is wrong with you?!” Yelled Rook. Around the corner, in another of the Den’s rooms, rang the sweet and carefree tones of a Leprechaun ditty. Clint and Rook looked at one another with curiosity. Clint took lead around the corner, with Rook in tow. In the next room was a non-corporeal, singing Leprechaun: the spirit of Cillian Callaghan. “As I live and breathe! Clint Sherwood?” “Do you know ALL the criminals?” asked Rook. “Yes,” Clint replied, deadpan– his eyes still locked on Callaghan. “Tell me about the traffickers. Now!” “You care about a lousy unicorn when a dear friend’s just been murdered?” “Talk, Callaghan! Before it’s too late.” “Ya daft fairy! The Dust was spiked, don’cha know! Turned me body to a husk and took me spirit up in a new way.” “I know! The Unicorn, Callaghan! I’m running out of time.” “Ooooh!” Callaghan’s ghostly features beamed mischievously. “Ya took a sniff o’ the dust too, didn’tcha Clint Sherwood? Alright. For the man’s dying wish: I was connin’ the traffickers, see. Me and a third party made a deal: go along a ways with the caravan; snag the unicorn and high-tail it about an hour in. Somebody musta figured me, seein I’m dead an’ all… And that’s the long and short. Peace be with you, Investigator.” Callaghan saluted Clint, with a wide grin. Here Tefure jumped around the corner, a crystal in hand, and spoke a series of words which caused shadows to emanate from said crystal towards Callaghan. These shadows stretched out tendrils which grabbed the Leprechaun’s screaming lifeforce, and yanked it into the crystal. Rook unleashed a magic stunning orb, from his hand towards Tefure. Clint couldn’t tell what happened next. His perspective was sucked back into my body’s eyes. And I convulsed, with deep pain as Sherwood desperately clung to life. But I couldn’t bear the effects of Sherwood’s self-destructive addiction. I, Clint Sherwood, died on the floor of that Dust Den. Yet death wasn't the end. For I followed the trail of old Callaghan when my spirit violently ripped from my flesh. I felt like… nothing. I had no weight, no matter. I just floated above my body like a scavenger. Ha. I floated. I could fly again! I never thought I'd see the world quite like this again. Rook ignored my spirit as he rushed to my body and mumbled a spell of stabilization. “Don't bother, kid. I'm gone.” “Not yet you aren't,” he said with a determination which I actually respected. “Ghost or no, this body still has some life in it. And I just got it stable… for now.” “So there's a chance?” “Let's get you out of here.” It was here I noticed smoke trailing from the other room, and flames close behind them. “What did you do?” I asked the Rookie, while he threw my body over his shoulder. “Magic stand-off. Went poorly. Your friend escaped. But, thankfully for us, he was in too much of a rush to close his portal.” Rook hauled ass for the portal, through the smoke, while I instinctually followed for self-preservation (not that it mattered for me). We met on the other side, back in the alley. “We’ve gotta save those junkies, Rook.” He clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and paused for a moment. “On it,” Rook declared as he held a deep breath and dived back through the portal. The Rookie came and went half a dozen more times, with half a dozen unconscious addicts on his back. And he was about to go in for more, when I stopped him: “Situation report.” “Flames are spreading violently,” he said out of breath. “My magic can’t suppress them. But there’s more people in there.” He was about to run back in. “Rookie! You’re done. That’s an order.” “But the people!” “You’re done.” Rook looked like he was about to talk back. “I might be dead, kid, but I still outrank you.” The impetuous young officer relaxed some, rushed to our chariot, and sent for a medical team with our crystal ball unit. They arrived soon afterwards, closed the Dust Den portal (before the flames could seep out of the pocket dimension into our world), and treated the wounded. Not all of them made it. The medics informed Rook that they could perform a procedure which might reconnect my spirit with my body. But the ritual would take 12 hours. And we’d have to fetch some special items to make it work. Plus my spirit would need to be present. And there was a chance my body could die before all that took place. Rook was ready and willing to do the run-around for my sake, but I couldn’t allow it. “There’s no choice here,” I started. “Rook. You and I are going after that unicorn. Save me if we have the time.” “But you could die! Go with them, Clint. I’ve got it.” “The hell you do. Dead or alive, you need my help.” “What are you gonna do? Fly through the bad-guys? Give them the chills?” “Whatever it takes. My death is on my hands. But that unicorn needs my help.” “Our help. Fine. Your call.” “I’ve just got to think… Where would Tefure go?” “No need to think, Sir. Just gotta follow my tracer.” “Tracer?” “Magical tracer on the suspect. Planted the spell while you beat him up in the alley.” “Hrmm. Good work.” “Standard DoMCC procedure.” “Then how come I’ve never heard of it?” “You can’t learn EVERYTHING on the streets… sir.” We entered the red light district just before sunset. Rook’s tracer placed that slimey Pixie in one of the brothels. “I’m going in,” I said to Rook. “That’s not a good idea. He might have another one of those crystals.” “We’re gonna catch Tefure with his pants down. You just make sure he doesn’t have the chance to react, yeah?” Rook nodded. His tracer was accurate enough to pinpoint a specific room of the place. So I made my way to it… through the outer wall. Tefure was halfway undressed, a winged, wondrous woman standing atop him. “Azaerraya is woman of Tefure’s dreams!” “Not tonight, dear,” the sultry succubus declared. “I’m really here. And you’re going to remember every bit of this.” She knelt down to the shaking Pixie and kissed him softly. He moaned as she sprung up, “Clint Sherwood?” “No no,” Tefure sought to correct, his eyes still closed. “Name is Tefure. Clint Sherwood is nothing but ghost now!” “Boo,” I said, arms crossed. Tefure jumped up in terror and covered what little manhood he had. “Good to see Clint again!” “Hell of a Dust you sell there, my friend.” Rook took his cue to kick open the door and tackle Tefure to the ground “Where is the caravan?” “Caravan is already en route. Rookie and Clint will never catch up to them.” I addressed Rook. “Punch him.” “No!” “It’s part of the game. You have to punch him.” “Clint is correct. Tefure won’t talk unless Rookie uses force.” Azaerraya nodded in agreement with Tefure and I. “I’m not going to do that.” “Then Rookie will never get Tefure’s information!” declared the Pixie, arms crossed. “Do you want to save the unicorn or not?” I asked, annoyed I couldn’t do this myself. “Yes! Of course!” “Then punch that Pixie in the face like you mean it!” Rook hesitated, then grabbed Tefure’s collar, picked him up and slammed him against the wall. “Tefure getting scared of Rookie. Good.” “Where is the caravan?” “Tefure doesn’t know exactly.” Rook conjured a ball of flame in his hand and held it near Tefure’s body hair. “Flame is a dangerous thing. Multiple people in your den burned alive today. Maybe it’s justice that you suffer the same.” “Alright, alright! Tefure will talk! Tefure knows caravan path. Can guide Rookie to caravan in Glider.” “Why should we trust you?” “Because Tefure stands to lose from deal now! Did not know Callaghan made deal with secret partner. Clint and Rookie only chance to secure investment. And Clint already dead. If Rookie dies too?” Tefure shrugs. “And you’re somehow securing your investment in the arms of dear Azaerraya?” She smirked as I said so. “Danger ahead. Need to be relaxed for trip.” Rook continued his interrogation. “What’s their plan for unicorn– I mean THE unicorn?” I threw in my two cents “Let me guess: Same as the unicorns of old? Bound to be sold… then ground into dust.” “Not just any dust, Clint! Most potent dust ever made. Made of ancient recipe. Limited quantities made from one body. So pricey!” Here Rook’s right hook slammed into Tefure’s face, and dropped him to the ground. “You sick bastard,” he spat like venom. I smiled. “Would the handsome young officer like to be relaxed before his trip?” asked Azaerraya. “No thank you, ma’am.” said Rook with a polite nod as he slapped magic-dampening cuffs on Tefure. Azaerraya looked to me in shock. So few men had ever before rejected her perfection. I eased her mind with a silently mouthed message: “Fruit fly.” And her surprised acknowledgement amused me more than anything I’d seen all day. Rook and I argued whether to call for backup. I knew it’d be a waste of time, but the stubborn Rookie didn’t listen. The DoMCC begged us not to pursue. Even Rook knew we didn’t have the time to convince them. So he hung up, and we gave chase. Tefure explained his conundrum further, on the way: this afternoon he’d received a message from the werewolf, explaining that I’d managed to coerce information about the traffickers. It was Alexei’s outing of Callaghan, and my subsequent involvement, which got us both killed. In fact, Tefure had no knowledge of this “third party” until he overheard the confession of Callaghan’s ghost (an unexpected side effect of the Kelpie hair with which he’d spiked the dust). But then Tefure wasn’t sure who to trust, so he determined to steal the unicorn for himself. By the time Tefure finished his yapping, we’d reached the back of the fast-moving caravan. Seemed we’d arrived too late– as the traffickers were in the middle of a chase with the unicorn– and a rider atop it, whip in hand. That magnificent creature outran the criminals with ease! But it couldn’t outrun me, in this state. I dashed through the fray, despite Rook’s protests, and caught up to it. Rook activated the glider’s siren as Tefure sneaked from behind to choke him with the magic damping cuffs. Tragedy unfolded around me: to my back, my best friend strangling my rookie; to my front, a criminal escaping with an innocent mythical beast; and, to my sides a myriad of criminals fleeing Rook’s siren. How could I fix this? Whatever I’d do, someone would die, and criminals would escape. I chose to help the rookie (for purely tactical reasons), and the rest sorta fell into place: he captured the criminals (with help of a hidden DoMCC sting agent– who’d conned Callaghan into making her the mysterious “third party”), I saved the unicorn by flying through the rogue rider’s face (it was Alexei. I later gifted him a Phoenix Fire in prison). And I was rewarded for my trouble with a resurrection, courtesy of the unicorn’s lightning fast speed, and unique healing magic. Another day on the beat; another case in the books. But, after all that stress, what would be the harm in one last indulgence? EPILOGUE: Rook made a point to burn that cursed notebook in Clint Sherwood’s presence. “What about my precious ‘words of wisdom?’” Rook shrugged. “You can do better.” “You were their pawn, weren’t you? Trying to get me ousted. What changed your mind?” He smirked and sidestepped the accusation: “Ready to hear my name now?” “When you do something I’ll remember, Rook.” Clint said with a wink. END

9. 

   30 Jan 2026

   Writer and Narrator Analysis | Head to Head Prompt 1

   Joe, Justin, and Ryan analyze and critique our stories and narration for Head to Head Prompt 1. THE PROMPT A guy breaks both legs from jumping/falling into the suicide pit, and landing on the other bodies to break his fall. 00:00 What is Head to Head? 02:28 Origins of Prompt 1 07:02 Hole of the Living Dead 23:36 Ryan and Justin's Comments 29:06 Stop at the End of the Line Speaking: Joe Morin, Ryan Walker, Justin Church Edited by Joe Morin

10. 

    23 Jan 2026

    Hole of the Living Dead | Head to Head Prompt 1 | Story 2

    Victor injures himself during a suicide attempt, and must survive or die in a pit of kindred spirits. Story by Joe Morin Narrated by Joe Morin Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A guy breaks both legs from jumping/falling into the suicide pit, and landing on the other bodies to break his fall. THE STORY Hole of the Living Dead By Joe Morin Please be advised, the following story contains graphic descriptions of suicide, the occult, gore, and cannibalism. "Please be quick," I think as I leap into the pit. The voices of reason I hear moments before my jump, which urge me to choose life, continue t heir irksome prattling as I fall to my demise-- distraught at what they witness. They ought to get over it; they'll be next, if they came all the way to the pit. Or maybe they'll be scared off. The half-assed warning signs to urge away wanderers might have done it; or could be the anguished and unprepared folks who write their notes at the last minute; or maybe the horrendous smell of uncountable corpses which waft out from the chasm. Yes, my would-be saviour might be scared off, but not me. I marched from that bus stop straight here and threw myself in with confidence! Now the breeze whips around my head as I fall, and whisks away my pesky final thoughts as I think them. Thoughts like: Is there an afterlife? Am I ever going to hit the ground? Who was speaking to me just before I fell? And why the hell are their voices getting LOUDER?! Did I hear one of them say “A day”, and another “An hour”? What does that mean? I've had more time to think than I thought I would. Time for thinking is done. Time to be paste on the ground. I land on the mound of bodies feet first. The impact ripples up my legs, to shatter and dislodge my bones from one another. The bones’ sharp edges rip through my skin and cover my legs in crimson. Not a bad start. But I’m still alive. Damn. And I’m in pain. Ouch. Yes, I’m in severe pain. This is what happens when the government neglects their suicide pits for too long: the bodies pile up, and cushion the fall. Funny that: incompetent bureaucrats found a way to mess up my life AND my death. Bastards. It starts to dawn on me that this is much worse than I imagined. Suicide seemed like a good idea when I thought it’d be quick. But now I’m going to bleed out slowly, or starve to death, or catch a disease from one of these corpses… I don’t want to die those ways. What did I do? Why did I do this? Pull yourself together, Victor! No point in fearing death now. You made your choice. And now you’re going to die here, painfully and all alone. Tough. “Dude, that sucks.” I jolt my head in the direction of this voice. But I see no living beings. “Who’s there?” A face-down body near me twitches, and turns its broken neck around a hundred and eighty degrees to face me. Well, I call it a “face” out of courtesy. It’s more like shredded flesh on a human skull. “What are the chances you’d survive this fall, huh?” “Freaky,” I reply as calmly as I can muster through my pain and unease. Talking helps take my mind off both. “Don’t worry, man. We’re in good hands. The ghosts are decent folks, on the whole. Gail is a bit grouchy, but means well.” This man must have hit his head too hard. Or maybe I did? Wait, no, he definitely did. Am I really speaking with a zombie right now? Meh. Tell me zombies were real yesterday and I would have freaked out. Today, I couldn’t care less. And that thought actually makes me sad. “What?” I ask nobody in particular, still gaining by bearings. “Gail,” repeats the zombie. “Sorta the ghost leader. Been here the longest.” “Can she finish me off? Cause I am suffering horribly right now.” “Nah. She mostly just helps the spirits come to terms with their deaths.” “Argh! Too bad. Did she help you?” “What do you mean?” I hear a voice drift into my ear, almost imperceptibly. “He doesn’t know he’s dead yet.” Is that my conscience? A ghost? The pain has me so delirious I can’t tell what's real anymore. But I figure I’ll play along. Keep my mind occupied. “Lovely,” I reply. “Well someone ought to tell him.” “Tell me what?” asks the zombie. “That you’re dead, my friend. Another corpse on the mound. But one which can speak.” The zombie turns a dangling eyestock towards its rotting flesh. “Oh. I see. Wow, man. That’s trippy.” The zombie’s body collapses back into the corpses, face first as I found it, with a soft THUD. And from the back of these remains rises an apparition of a man– handsome, tall– dressed in pristine versions of the garments which adorn the zombie. I sharply twist my neck to glance beside me, as another apparition– that of a middle-aged woman– takes form from nothing. Her figure resonates a faint glow, as now does the man’s. “Gail?” he asks, voice quivering. “Jackson,” she replies with a warm confidence. “Welcome.” “I’m dead?” “Yes.” “How long?” “Some time.” “And you never told me?” Gail’s lips drop into a frown. “Do you understand what’s happened to you?” “No.” “See, Jackson: those who survive their falls almost never realize once they’ve actually died. And they cannot join our spirit world until they’ve acknowledged the fact. Till then they control their bodies. And their own perception of the world limits their mobility.” “I think I understand… But why did you not tell me?” “That was, I’m embarrassed to say, part of a game some of the spirits like to play. They bet on how long it will take the deceased to realize their fate.” “I see,” says Jackson, his gaze downturned at his body. “My apologies. But you too will crave little amusements when you’ve been here as long as some of us.” “Excuse me!” I interject. “Yes?” replies the female ghost. “I acknowledge I’m dead too!” “But, dear boy, you aren’t dead yet.” “I worried that was the case.” Gail’s demeanor hardens as she addresses me with evident frustration: “Consider yourself thankful. You’re the only soul in this pit who still has a chance to live.” I quiet my natural inclination to a witty response and try to match her seriousness: “I’m here because I made up my mind.” “Then you’re a fool,” she retorts. “Have you no regrets about your decision?” I look towards my bleeding, broken legs, then back to Gail. “Some.” “Good. Hold onto that regret, tightly as you can. Use it to ignite whatever spark of life within you remains, and get yourself out of this pit by any means necessary.” I grimace as I reply: “You seem to mean well, Gail. But I’ve made up my mind to die here. It’ll just be slower than I’d have preferred.” Jackson chimes in: “Bud, I agree with Gail. You want to die now. So did everyone here. But do you want to be stuck in this pit forever?” Suddenly the permanence of the situation dawns on me. “Forever”, he said. My body crumbling down here, probably being buried by other poor jumpers; my spirit bound for who knows where, or for how long? But no. I made up my mind. And, whatever becomes of my spirit, it’s better than my painfully wasting away down here… or up there. I can’t very well take another jump. Still there has to be SOME way for a guy to kill himself inside this pit… Let’s see: maybe I could impale myself on one of these jagged bones which line the ground, from other destroyed bodies like mine. Then again, that sounds painful. Why is my first thought to impale myself? Let’s try asphyxiation. Yes, that’ll probably be terrifying, and require some measure of will to pull off properly. It’s doable though. I just need to crawl over to that heavier looking body there. Ow! My God, what shooting pain that causes. My fingers grip on torsos, legs, arms, heads– whatever they can find that’s sturdy enough to get me to that husk. I slide my stomach across the human remains inch by inch towards my target. Easy does it. OK. Now I’ve just got to roll up the torso a little bit. And I’ll just stick my head under like so. And set her down onto my skull. I try to hold my breath at first, to avoid the putrid stench of decaying flesh RIGHT in my nose. Then I remember that losing oxygen is kinda the point here. My lungs are empty. I’m feeling OK. Then my body craves air. Badly. I resist breathing for as long as I can. I start to writhe. I tell myself to stay strong– exercise that willpower which I knew I’d need. Then I chicken out and suck down a big snort of… nothing. My mouth and nose are crushed. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe! I throw the corpse off my head and take the best breath of air I’ve ever consumed. It’s like breathing for the first time. Sweet, precious oxygen restores me. I sit for a while and ponder my predicament. I sit for so long the sun sets and rises again. Two attempted suicides. Two failures. Third time's the charm , as they say. But how? A new spirit appears: a man in working apparel. Some kind of labourer I suppose? He points at a cluster of bodies: “Had a pocket knife in my jeans if you wanna use that. You'll have to dig a bit, but…” “Morgan!” Exclaims Gail with disgust. “The man's made up his mind. You tried. Let him finish the job. It's better than starving to death down here.” Gail turns away from Morgan, seething. She doesn't want to admit that he’s right. “Thank you.” I offer. “I’m offering you mercy. But also death. I don't deserve your thanks.” I pause while I consider Morgan's suggestion. “Is there ANYONE here who doesn't regret their decision? “No,” answers Gail, decisively. “Nobody left.” “Of course I have to ask what you mean by ‘nobody LEFT’” Gail smiles for the first time since I've seen her: “A few of the lucky souls– the ones who've unloaded their burdens are granted the privilege of ascension.” “Like heaven?” “Nobody here can say for sure. All we know is that the people who finally find peace with their lives and deaths are whisked away.” “Does anyone ever… descend?” I ask with concern. “Yes. Do you wish to take the risk you'll be one of them?” I weigh my options. I'm a flawed person, definitely, but not the kind to descend… I think. But do most people who descend know they're the kinds of people who would? This is a conundrum. Likeliest scenario is I wind up a ghost here with the others, then work my way to heaven. Yes. That sounds like a plan. I pull my way over to the section which houses Morgan's body. And I start to roll corpses out of the way. That is, of course, harder than you'd think with two broken legs. I have to leverage the weight on my stomach. Bingo! There's Morgan. And there in his pocket… a nice, razor sharp pocket knife. I stare at it. This tool will bring my salvation. All I need to do is raise it up to my throat like so. And… Aaaaaaand. Aaaaaaand. Cut! Come on you coward! Actually do it. Just slice open your throat and bleed to death. Is that so hard? I notice Gail and Jackson observing me. Now I‘m embarrassed. All this big talk about killing myself and I can't follow through. They must think I'm pathetic. “Go on,” I goad. “What do you have to say? I can't do it. Are you happy?” “What’s your name, my boy?” asks Gail. “Victor Hill “ “Victor. Tell me: why do you want to die so badly?” I hesitate. I haven't really talked about this with anyone. But I may as well share with them, if they're to be my company for eternity: “Because I'm alone.” “You have no family, wife, friends, pets?” “Friends. Some family. But it's more that I FEEL alone. People care about me but I can’t ever shake the feeling that, on some level, their lives would be easier without me.” “Oh?” “I'm a bit of a burden, see. Cause I'm pretty oblivious. Sometimes downright naive. And I take an embarrassingly long time to catch on to stuff other people find obvious. And my always being the guy to whom people need to stop and explain things: it has a tendency to piss those people off after a while. I've also got a penchant for melodrama, if you haven't noticed. And patience sometimes wears thin with that. But I can't change who I am, you know. I go out of my way to keep people happy, however I can; I listen and do my best to learn; I keep my mouth shut and my head down. It's not enough. People still get angry at me. And, at a certain point, a guy has enough of that. My best efforts don't make a difference. So forget it! If I'm the problem, then maybe my death can be a solution. I figure some people might miss me at first. But they'll find their lives better off, in the end. I'm just an annoying person who everybody has to work around.” “Do you honestly believe that, Victor?” “Look here! I've failed no less than 3 times at suicide in the last two days. And now you're going out of your way to talk me out of my stupidity. You’re just as annoyed as anybody else gets with me. I can tell. ‘You’re a fool’ you said.” Gail is taken aback. She sees I've caught her. But she presses on: “Do you have a mother?” she asks. “Yes.” “And do you love her?” “Dearly.” “And will she miss you if you die here?” I hesitate. “Maybe.” Gail's features contort. “Don't pretend you believe that. You know she'll face the deepest heartbreak of her life when she hears you've died. And it'll all be because of your stubbornness.” I can't think about that. I'll start to cry. So I double down on my self-pity: “I can't live right; I can't die right. I seem to cause negative feelings no matter what I do.” “Victor, do you know why I'm here?” She questions in a way which leads me to think I’ll hear her answer regardless. “I'm here because MY son was killed. And I couldn't bear to live without him. He was a frustrating boy too. But that didn't matter– not when he wasn't there anymore.” “I– I'm sorry.” “Thank you. I admit freely that I tell this story to cause you some guilt. Because, as much as I hate to watch a nice young man die, the thing I really dread is the thought of his mother having to hear the news.” I have no words for Gail. I just think over her words. Over and over. “Jackson? Why are you here?” I begin. “If you don't mind sharing.” “Nah, man. Not at all. I'm here ‘cause I didn't get accepted into college. Worked my butt off through high school. And all for nothing. I had no future.” “My husband left me after 20 years of marriage,” chimes in Morgan. “If my own spouse couldn't love me, then how could anyone else? I'd die old and alone and unfulfilled.” A hard-faced old woman in layers of tattered clothes appears: “I was homeless, and my only living relatives disowned me. Society pretended like I didn't exist.” Then more spirits emerge before me, each with their own stories: lost all their money, cheating boyfriends, despair over the state of the world, insurmountable debts, terminal illness. You can name any reason imaginable, and there was someone here because of it. The spirits regale me of their tales through the night and into morning. The overwhelming tragedy of it all first fills me with indescribable anguish. Then my soul stirs from its long-lived lethargy. I stand before all these people whose lives were cut short by their own hands… and I start to laugh. I laugh like I haven't laughed in ages– so hard I start to cry. Then tears of empathy, and self-pity, and epiphany join my tears from hearty laughter. I laugh so hard that I'm momentarily distracted from the pain in my legs. I turn to Gail. “You know what's ironic?” “Explain.” she answers, curious. “I used to think I didn't believe in suicide. There was a time, not long ago, where I would have looked down on each and every one of you." "Really?” Gail asks with a tinge of sarcasm. “What happened?" "I got sad.” “As did we, Victor.” She pauses a moment to make sure I still listen. Then she continues: “But sadness, like all emotions, is fleeting. It can last for longer than we'd like; it can be all consuming. Sometimes it consumes until we're convinced that our only solution is at the bottom of a pit. But the truth is: we're forced to work through our problems one way or another – in life or in the afterlife. At least in life you get to work them through and see your mother.” “You can make it through this, Victor,” adds Jackson. “Do it for all of us who won't get a second chance.” The spirits cheer on the sentiment. I don't know if I agree because I'm a habitual people pleaser, or if I'm just caught up in the moment, or if I actually have some measure of hope… but I agree to try and survive. Of course, surviving down here brings its own set of challenges: there's no water, or good food; my legs are still broken; and the government doesn't check this place for survivors, ‘cause 99% of the people who come here either die or want to die. Maggots and bugs which crawl over the bodies are my best source of nourishment. They aren't too filling. But then again, my appetite dwindles by the day. I eventually lose it altogether. Still I eat, because I MUST survive. I promised to try. Truth be told: I’m still not sure these ghosts are real. But they're good company. They're pretty lively for a bunch of dead, suicidal folks. Some of them try to advise me where they can – the doctors, nurses, and other healthcare people, mostly. I'm not a quick study but I get the gist of their advice. Their suggestions help ease my pain, till I practically forget it's there. I scream for help to the landing above, day and night. My cries seem to fall on deaf ears. Countless people leap into the pit each day– so many I lose count. And not one seems to acknowledge me. But I hold out hope, each and every time. There on the precipice stands a woman. One more chance. And I cry out to her as loudly as I can muster: “HELP! I'M TRAPPED DOWN HERE! GET HELP!” Some of the spirits start to place their bets: “Straight away.” “Nope. Three days.” “An hour.” I shush them: “Shut it, you guys. Morgan, I'm looking at you. I've got my chips on her not jumping at all.” I can tell she hears me. She doesn't care. The girl jumps into the pit and breaks her neck. A soul rises from the body (“pay up” Morgan beckoned – ‘cause he banked on “straight away”). I see this girl's soul and she’s different to the others down here. Her essence radiates darkness and… bad. I know somehow that it's bad. The other spirits “boo” the dark soul while she stares at us in horror. And, as quickly as she appears, she vanishes– sliding down through the bodies towards the bottom of the pit, or further, by unknown forces. “She's the type that wouldn't even stop to help a guy in need. I see why she's a descender,” I declare. “I'll doubt if a failure to listen was her only sin,” says Gail. “Most of them up there don't. You didn't.” I sigh as, with my breath, a bit more hope exits my body. “Well I– you're right, of course. They're too busy dwelling on life up there to acknowledge life down here.” Jackson joins our conversation: “Don’t give up, man. You’ve gotta stay strong!” He’s still my cheerleader, despite the odds stacked against me. I chuckle, “Ha. I can’t say I’ve EVER been strong. But thank you for saying so.” Jackson smiles, with full belief in his words, “Not one of us would have tried this hard to survive, if we’d lived through our falls. You, my man, are the strongest spirit in this pit.” His faith helps clear my mind enough to unveil a new idea– a bad idea. I address Gail and Jackson, “How bad a person would I be to– BLEGH” I can’t even finish the sentence without an involuntary wretch. Jackson and Gail stare at me in confusion. I continue, “Do you think I’d end up descending if I– BLEGH” another wretch interrupts me, “--if I eat… something meatier than the bugs?” Jackson doesn’t catch my meaning, but Gail understands. She looks at me with a flash of horror, then softens her features and kneels next to my body. “My boy, you do whatever you need to do. I will not judge you.” I crawl my way over to the body of that woman– that apparently despicable woman– and brandish Morgan’s pocket knife. I draw a deep breath. Then I saw into the flesh. It’s just like carving a turkey on Thanksgiving. That’s all it is: nice, succulent turkey– a big ‘ol cut of bird. The blood drains from the chunk of meat in my hand– drips down my wrist as I bring the torn skin and muscles to my mouth. It’s just turkey. It’s just turkey. I chomp down on the meat… then throw up. The remains of digested bug carcasses rest on the ground next to the body now. My resolve drains. Jackson stands next to me, “Ew.” “I know. I know.” I can’t even look up at him. “Victor?” I keep my head turned to the ground. “Dude. Eyes up here.” I sheepishly glance at him. Jackson is resolute. “You’ve got this, man. I’m still wrapping my head around all the spirit junk– but I gather this lady was NOT a good woman. You’re a good man. And you’re gonna get out of here to be a good man out in the world, cool?” “Cool,” I reply, unconvinced. “And you’re gonna do that by getting your strength back, yeah?” “Yeah,” I respond with a touch more enthusiasm. “And how are you gonna do that?” “By eating this body– BLEGH.” “Yes sir.” “It’s my Thanksgiving dinner,” I say to myself, much to Jackson’s confusion. “But I can’t very well eat this fine meal before giving my thanks: I’m thankful for the support of my friends; I’m thankful to get a second chance; I’m thankful to still be alive.” And I feast. More days pass. My energy fades. I think I might have developed an infection in my leg wounds. And there’s nothing around to cure it. But my will to survive remains. Jackson, Gail, Morgan, and the others encourage me. Still I can see that look in their eyes– a look which says their encouragement is that empty kind which people give when they don’t wish to be rude. I still hope beyond any reasonable measure that I’ll escape this place. Yet the reality of my situation has finally caught up with me. I can pretend no longer that I have a good chance to survive. Gail, perhaps sensing this discouragement, appears to me. I struggle to ask her that question which, before now, I’ve been afraid to even think: “I'm never getting out of here, am I?” “Nonsense, dear boy!” She smiles through what I perceive to be melancholy. “I know it.” Funny enough: she doesn't seem to be lying. Her confidence refills mine. I can do this. “Enough, Gail!” Jackson interjects. “I can't let him continue this way. Not enough of us want to acknowledge the truth– to Victor or ourselves– so I’ll say it.” Jackson turns from Gail, then to me. “Man, you've fought so hard to cling to life– even harder than you tried to die when we first met… We all know that’s saying something. You’ve inspired us– inspired me– in ways which I can't begin to describe. You set me free from my bonds, and now I need to return the favour. You're–” “Dead, aren't I?” I pipe up. Jackson nods while Gail hangs her head, almost in disbelief. Now I can see myself: hardly a man at all anymore. Just another rotten corpse on the mound. “I didn't realize a body could decompose so badly in a week.” “A year,” Gail counters, emotionally, as if she just came to a realization. “Excuse me? “You died a year ago, after about a week.” “The longest time till acknowledgement by a mile!” Morgan notes. “Oh.” I have no other words at that moment. I tried so hard to live, only to die. So what was it all for? I turn back to Jackson to see his spirit glow the most brilliant, beautiful light I’ve ever seen. “Jackson?” “Goodbye, dude– friend. Thank you for guiding me down my road to peace. May we meet again soon.” Then Jackson’s glowing form rises to the heavens, radiating light and… good. I know somehow that it’s good. And my struggle helped him achieve that elegance. Gail and I shift our gaze from Jackson’s ascension to each other. She addresses me: “I’m sorry.” “I feel like I let you down.” “You tried harder than anyone else here ever has. First to die, and then to live.” “And now?” “Your afterlife. We will purge our demons, then–” she points to the sky, where Jackson’s form still rises, a mere speck in the distance. “Well…” I say, “let’s start by trying to keep optimistic. I’m dead; I died horribly; I’m full of regrets. But at least I’m surrounded by people who get me.” Gail smiles as we turn our attention towards the pit’s edge, where a jumper stands at the ready. We call out to dissuade them. We fail. We place our bets. We welcome them. We hope the next one chooses life. END

11. 

    16 Jan 2026

    The Stop at the End of the Line | Head to Head Prompt 1 | Story 1

    Marcus' search for his missing friend takes him to a horrific place, at the outskirts of his city: The Stop at the End of the Line. Story by Justin Church Narrated by Ryan Walker Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A guy breaks both legs from jumping/falling into the suicide pit, and landing on the other bodies to break his fall. THE STORY The Stop at the End of the Line By Justin Church; Narrated by Ryan Walker Please be advised: the following story contains scenes and discussions of suicide, gore, and the occult. My mother always warned me to never miss my stop, never go to the end of the line. Everybody knew anyone who went to the end of the line never came back. Its official name is Terminal Station, but all the kids at school call it suicide drop. My Mother thinks Terminal station is home to some kind of evil or something, and it pulls people in regardless whether they want to or not. It was always in the back of my mind while I rode. We live on the outskirts of the city, the second last stop. From the rear window of our apartment I could see the fields that lined the city, headed out in rolling hills– hills that I could only imagine led to the woods where the demon residing in the chasm pulled people to their end. Local legend is that after the city by-law passed enforcing the criminalization of suicide, a girl named Beth McCormack went to the last stop just outside the city, walked down the forest trail and jumped into the chasm, and was never heard from again. There have always been people who have gone missing through one means or another, but my mother was sure that the rise of disappearances was a direct result of the by-law. See what used to happen was some depressed person would go home and off themself, be found by their family, everyone would be sad, then move on. After the by-law, your family would all face the criminal charges of your actions. Some people went to jail, and the threat was enough to make people get a little more creative. Once the story about Beth started making the rounds, people had found a loophole, and suicide drop turned into the easiest place to go. I’d never really seen a real forest, living in this city my whole life. We had the odd tree here or there in our concrete jungle, but a forest was a thing we only saw in movies. Naturally I’d been riding the subway by myself since I was 8, and the ride downtown to the school was long, and so the subway became like a second home to me. I did homework, and used to hang out with my friend Alexander, until he moved away a while back. Now my friends are a little different. I used to avoid the homeless people because they smelled funny, but eventually I got to know some of the regulars. It wasn’t hard actually, because we weren’t so different. We all called the subway home, the only difference is I had another home to go to, one with a shower. The woman I was closest with, Mrs. Gibbons, it turned out she was Alexander’s grandmother who he used to live with until she fell on hard times. That was why he moved. I didn’t believe her at first when she told me, she was always exclaiming to her audience on the train, stories about her husband saying things like “My husband was a soldier, he fought the wars for y’all, died for your sins” or “My husband was a doctor, he made the downtown hospital what it is today”. But nobody really believed her stories. But she knew details about Alexander and things checked out. I would have confirmed with him if I ever saw him, or tried to text him, but Mother would never allow it. She didn’t like Alexander because his parents were rich. He always came to school with new shoes and a flashy new smartphone. My mother didn’t even have a phone with a touchscreen, let alone me having a cell phone. But then there was Mrs. Gibbons, if she was Alexander’s grandmother, why was she on the streets? Did her family abandon her? One day heading home on the train, I saw Mrs. Gibbons, sitting with a hard look on her face. She was quieter than usual. I sat down next to her and waited to see if she would talk to me. After a long while in silence, she finally spoke in a sad tone “I have received some terrible news. My boy, Alexander, he was seen riding the train up beyond the safe stops. He went to the end of the line.” I could see through her hard exterior, it looked as though she might burst into tears at any moment. I hesitated before asking “Is he…missing?” but she never answered. She didn’t need to. I knew what happened at the end of the line, everyone did. Mrs. Gibbons and I didn’t speak for the rest of the trip. She just stared off into the blackness of the tunnel through the subway window ahead of us. My mind was swirling with the information I was just given. Alexander was gone. Even though we hadn’t spoken in over a year, he was still my closest friend. We had been friends since kindergarten and had done everything together. We had spent hours riding the subway together just talking. We could talk about anything. I snapped back to reality as the train announced my stop. Ordinarily most of the homeless would get off at the stop before mine because it was the last stop that was still underground and provided shelter from the rain. Usually that was when Mrs. Gibbons would get off, and her departure usually alerted me to the fact my stop was next. Without thinking, I ran out of the car. There was no way I was missing my stop. Then I turned to look back and saw Mrs. Gibbons was still sitting in the same spot as before, staring out the window as the light of the sunset poured in through the window, lighting all the shadows of her hard face. Before I knew it, the automatic doors had closed, and I watched as the train pulled away, with Mrs. Gibbons still staring out that window. I knew that would be the last time I would ever see Mrs. Gibbons. When I arrived at home, I didn’t tell my mother about Mrs. Gibbons or Alexander. She wouldn’t care anyways. I never spoke to her much at all these days. She worked long hours at the hospital and spent most of her free time sleeping or drinking, or sleeping then drinking. I used to sleep on the couch, but she got in the habit of passing out there for the night, leaving her bed free, which is where I spend most of my time. I laid back in bed, closed my eyes, and found myself thinking about Alexander. Why would he go to the end, what does he have to be depressed about? As far as I knew he lived in a nice home downtown, with his rich parents who loved him. He had a good life. And what about Mrs. Gibbons, was she really gone? It took a long time before I could push the two out of my mind and fall asleep. I awoke the next morning, creeped slowly past the hungover form of my mother passed out on the couch, grabbed a stale piece of bread out of the refrigerator, and silently went out the front door. As my second home rolled to a stop, I got on hoping to see Mrs. Gibbons still sitting in the same spot. Sure it would be weird if she was still there, but at least I would know she somehow got away from Terminal Station. But there was no Mrs. Gibbons. I rode all the way downtown hoping she might show up at some point, but by the time I got to the stop closest to my school, there was still no sign of her. I sat in class, barely paying attention, imagining what could have happened to her. I pictured her on the train, with the doors of the car open towards the dark wooded trail, the dark whispers on the wind calling out to her, forcing her to leave the safety of the train and away from Terminal Station. The train takes off the moment she exits and she does her odd shuffling down the forest path with that cold expression upon her face. Despite her wearing every piece of clothing she owned all at once, she shivered as the wind blew, and the trees closed in behind her as she walked. The dim moonlight barely lit the path ahead, but there was no path behind her any longer. No choice but to keep going, she made her choice when she stayed on to the last stop. Finally she approached the edge of the chasm, a deep pit so far down you couldn’t even see the bottom. Giant teeth lined the edges and tentacles of pure darkness lay strewn about like tree roots. Mrs. Gibbons leans over the pit and calls out Alexander’s name. She waits for a moment, and yet, does not even hear the reflection of her own voice, as if the being of darkness that lay within the pit swallowed it up. She tried to call out again but no sound would come out. Mrs. Gibbons’ hard face turned into a look of pure dread as she began to analyze her surroundings. The trees had gathered so thick, it was as if even pure daylight couldn’t pierce through. The trunks stood like bars of a cell, lining the area around the pit, trapping Mrs. Gibbons with the being of darkness below, and only one option of going forward. The shadowy tentacles creeped out of the pit, moving their way closer and closer to Mrs. Gibbons, yet remaining out of her sight. She stood up away from the pit, staring defiantly down, knowing what she had to do, the only way to learn the truth about her Alexander. For a brief moment she mentally prepared herself for the plunge. Before she could make her move, the shadows grasped at her ankles, dragging her down. Her fingernails scraped at the ground, leaving deep trails scratched into the earth, leading straight to the lip of the pit. For one brief moment, she clung to the very edge of the pit, the tentacles burned the flesh around her ankles where it grasped. And then In a flash she was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the chasm, never to be seen again. I awoke sharply as the classroom bell rang. My classmates rushed out the door. I tried to scoop up my papers to put them in my bag, but Mr. Barkley, my teacher, walked up to my desk. We both noticed at the same time, the dark doodle I had done in my dreams. It looked like the visceral scene of Mrs. Gibbons, dead at the bottom of the pit, with tentacles chewing upon her flesh. It was rather good, one of my better sketches, but the look from Mr. Barkley was enough to know it wasn’t something to be drawing at school. I tucked the drawing into my bag. He asked “Is everything okay Marcus? Should I be concerned? You weren’t paying attention most of the day, and you’re doing drawings like this. You know, typically this would require a call home.” I nodded in acknowledgement, “Yes sir, I know, I’m sorry.” He paused for a moment, sighed and took my notebook. He pulled out a pen and wrote something in it. “I know your situation at home is tough, but I need you to be present and I need you to be alright. But if for some reason you have an emergency, you can call this number and we can talk, okay?” “I understand sir, thank you.” I quickly took my notebook back and put it in my bag, and got out the door as quickly as I could. I didn’t really know what he was implying, but I shrugged it off and headed to the subway. The ride was long and quiet. I didn’t do any homework or talk with anybody. I sat and stared at the spot Mrs. Gibbons had sat in just yesterday. I couldn’t get the images out of my head, the look of terror on her hardened old face. Nobody would even care if she was missing. Nobody cared if she lived or if she died. She would still be there in that pit, maybe even still alive. Was there a chance I could help her? Now I can’t explain what happened next. Was it an act of bravery, curiosity, stupidity? But I know I wasn’t going for the reason anybody else did. I didn’t want to die. Part of me believes that I felt the pull of that dark force, telling me to stay on the train. The doors closed as the train pulled away from my stop, heading towards Terminal Station. Towards Suicide Drop. I looked out the window at the familiar hills and watched as we went by. It took longer than I had expected to get to the stop, it seemed as if the train crawled to our destination. It was the most uncomfortable I had ever felt on the subway, and I knew the path I was on led in only one direction. The train hissed to a stop, and the automated message came over the speaker “Terminal Station, door will open on the left. This is a terminal station, all passengers must exit the cars”. I hesitated a moment in front of the open doorway, contemplating my decision, when a door swung open from the front of the train and a man stepped out. I hadn’t even realized there were drivers for the trains, I had always assumed they were automated. The man looked at me and said “You don’t have to listen to that message son. You can just stay on the train and we will loop back around.” He went back into the cab, closing the door before I could say anything. I heard his words but the meaning didn’t register in my head. This is Terminal Station, this is the end of the line, if you ride this far you have to get off, what he said went against everything I had ever been told about this station. But before I could wrap my head around this idea, I felt a tingling in my legs as they began to step forward, off the train and away from the station. The train doors closed and it took off down the tracks, leaving me in the dark, with the lone light that hung on the ceiling of the overhang that was Terminal Station. I could see the forest path ahead of me. It really didn’t look much like I had imagined it when Mrs. Gibbons went. Clouds covered the sky, blocking out most of the moonlight, and yet the path didn’t seem as dark as I had imagined either. My curiosity drove me farther down the path. Maybe Mrs. Gibbons was still there, I could still help her. I continued down the unfamiliar path, when I saw it, the edge of the pit. There were no teeth and no shadowy tentacles, and despite the lack of light, I was pretty sure I could see the bottom. It had odd shaped lumps below and looked as if it were no more than 60 feet down. Still a deadly drop, but nothing like the bottomless pit of my imagination. I called out Mrs. Gibbons' name and waited. There was no answer. I called out again, and I was shocked to hear her yell up to me “Waddaya want?”. “I’m here to help you Mrs. Gibbons.”. “Leave me alone. I came to this hole to die.” I leaned a little further over the edge to see if I could locate where she was, but I couldn’t identify her amongst the lumps below. But before I knew it, I felt the presence of a darkness. The same darkness that had gotten Mrs. Gibbons. I felt the flesh around my ankles burn, as the tentacle of darkness coiled around me, climbing up my body, wrapping around my neck. I tried to bolt upright, but it was too late, and I felt myself plummeting feet first off suicide drop. I awoke to the tingling sensation in my legs I had felt before, but when I tried to move, everything hurt. I started to regain focus and look around when I saw what formerly were my legs. They dangled grotesquely, a tangle of shattered bones and torn flesh, like a cruel sculpture crafted by the impact. Blood seeped through mangled skin, rolling down the body I lay atop. The information my eyes brought in came all at once. My legs were destroyed for one, but I was also atop what remained of Mrs. Gibbons. I couldn’t keep myself from screaming out through the pain, and the recognition of what I had done “I killed Mrs. Gibbons!”. A few more minutes went by like this before, over my screams, I heard a deep rasping voice that called out “Marcus! Quit your blubbering Marcus, you’re giving me a headache.” I quieted myself and looked around. Then I spotted him. Alexander, laying two feet to the left of the body of his grandmother with his head split wide open. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My jaw dropped. With a wound like that it was a miracle he could even speak. I whispered his name aloud but there was no answer. With all my might, I used my arms to drag my body a little closer to my friend. Adrenaline worked miracles, as I seemed to feel little pain from my mangled legs, although the rest of my body certainly alerted me to its complaints. I reached out and grabbed Alexander’s hand, it was cold. He was dead, just like poor Mrs. Gibbons and the dozens of other lumps lying around in this pile. A shrill sound ran out from Alexander’s pocket. I reached in and pulled out his new smartphone, with the glass screen shattered. Someone was calling him. I carefully pressed the broken screen to pick up the call and let out a faint “Hello?” with my voice quavering. A woman’s voice came over the phone “Jesus Alexander, we were worried about you. Where are you?”. I said nothing as the woman paused. I didn’t know what to say. I was sure this was Alexander’s mother, but what could I even say to her? “Hi Alexander’s a little busy at the moment, can I take a message?” “Hi your son is dead and I stole this phone off his corpse, can you help me?” I said nothing and hung up the phone. She didn’t want to know her son was here anyways, nobody would want to hear that. Besides Alexander made his choice, he came here and did this to himself. He was my friend, but he was gone, and I had to worry about me now, and this phone might be my only salvation. The first number I dialed, I knew off by heart. I’d called it from payphones many times years ago when my mother still cared to know where I was. It had been a long time since, but I still remembered and dialed. It rang and rang and finally as I thought it was going to voicemail, I heard my mother’s voice “Hello?” I realized this was the first word she had spoken to me in over a week. I tried to keep myself calm and collected, averting my eyes away from the fleshy remains of what once were my legs. I spoke as clear as I could: “Mother, it’s me, I’m in trouble.” “Marcus? Is it really important? I’m very busy at work right now, can I call you back?”. “No, I’m hurt, badly.” “Okay” she said, “where are you? Can somebody there help?” I hesitated before answering “I went… I went to the last stop. I’m at the pit.” The only way I could tell she was still on the line were the faint breaths coming through the phone, then she responded “Are you at the pit or… in the pit?”. I knew exactly what she was thinking. I said, “In, but I didn’t try to-” the phone cut me off as the other end of the line went dead. The raspy voice of Alexander’s corpse cut through the silence “She doesn’t care Marcus. Once you’re in the pit, you never leave. You made your choice already. You came here and did this to yourself.” I screamed at the undead corpse “Shut up you liar! I’m not like you, I didn’t do this on purpose.” “Nobody comes here by accident Marcus.” The corpse lay there with only the mouth moving, spitting out these awful lies about me, and without thinking, I swung my bag off my back and smashed it down as hard as I could on Alexander’s split open head. The head lay split even wider than before, with a large piece dangling by a chunk of flesh holding half the boy's face from falling away. I breathed heavily as I looked at what I had done, holding my now torn bag in one hand, and my notebook now laying in Alexander’s lap. In that moment I remembered about Mr. Barkley. I reached over and grabbed my notebook, flipping to the page where Mr. Barkley had written his number, and dialed. This time it did go to voicemail, so I hung up and immediately called again. Finally I heard the familiar voice of Mr. Barkley. Before he even had a chance to say hello, I blurted out who I was and what was going on. It sounded like I had woken him up “Slow down, this is Marcus? Marcus, I thought I told you to use this number in an emergency, not just for a goodnight call.”. “This is an emergency, I’m in the pit, suicide drop. I am in the pit.”. Mr. Barkley held on the line while he digested what I had said. “So you… what, jumped?”. “Yeah but I had no choice, it was pulling me in.” “Son, there’s always a choice, you made yours and it’s something you’ll have to live with.” “Please Mr. Barkley, I need help!” The line went dead. Alexander’s corpse cackled with laughter from both sides of his split face, “I told you Marcus, you made your choice, nobody is coming to help you, nobody cares about you, and nobody cares if you live or if you-” “Marcus”. I heard someone call my name. I looked above but saw nobody. I looked back to Alexander, but the face no longer moved. I started to feel the pain from my legs and couldn’t handle it. I screamed out before blacking out. The next time I opened my eyes, I was in the backseat of a car, with a blinding light coming through the windows. I thought I saw my mom in the passenger seat. Her words were echoey but I could faintly hear her say “Sit still Marcus. We’re getting you to the hospital, just sit still”. “We?” I thought. I looked to the driver’s seat and through the blinding light, the man at the wheel looked like Mr. Barkley. They came, I thought. They both came! Alexander was wrong. I closed my eyes to block out the blinding light, trying to be content with the knowledge that everything would be alright. Yet, I still felt it, the grasp of the darkness wrapped around my throat. I couldn't ignore the fact that part of that shadowy demon had followed me. My mother was right, she always told me to never go to the end of the line, because once you go, you can never come back. A part of you stays forever lost in that pit, and a part of the pit stays with you. DA END

12. 

    4 Jan 2026

    Head to Head | Anthology Series Trailer

    Joe explains what Head to Head is all about, if you're curious.

Contact Head to Head

Guest appearances

Books guests

Based on episode analysis; this does not confirm that the show is currently accepting guests.