I open my eyes. All of them. I rub the sleep out of them and see Dave floating in front of me. His arms are crossed. His head bowed with the solemn, serious look on his face that a man gets when everything bad he knew would happen has just played out again right in front of him. Behind him, gold, purple, red, and blue, the colors of the ether, still whirl like shades of paint before they completely mix. We’re still floating, hanging around in my mind.

  “Why’d you show me all that?” I ask.

  “You know why,” he says, still looking down like men do when a great weight has been placed not on their shoulders but their mind.

  “Yeah, I know why. But you could have warned me first.” I pull a cigarette out of thin air, imagining it already lit this time before I put it to my lips and take a drag. Hot smoke sears my eldritch throat.

  “I tried. You wouldn’t listen.”

  “A real flaw of mine.”

  “You needed a glimpse of things first hand. Well, as first-hand as I can provide right now.”

  “I’ll be straight, it doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Most things don’t.”

  “Not at first.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m the kind of guy who puts the pieces together. That’s my calling, isn’t it?”

  “Can’t say. Seems so, though.”

  “Well…”

  “What have you pieced together so far?”

  “There are these wolf-people. They have an empire. The Vulfreich. The Vulfreich has an acute case of Revolution. Seems to be caused by the Yog.” I take another drag and let it out. “What I don’t get is what you want me to do about it.”

  “You’ll understand what you need to do in time.”

  “Just tell me why you showed me that. Give me your own reason, not some spiel about the cosmos and destiny. I really couldn’t care less about that hill of beans.”

  “I needed you to care. If you don’t care, then you won’t know what to do when the time comes.”

  “Whatever… You didn’t have to show me that.” I can see the contempt in Sigrid’s eyes as she stares down Elisia. I hear the brave shouts of Konrad and Aurick. I can even feel the flames of Gustav’s sword. Perhaps worst of all are Madlina’s tears running down her face as the widow forces a smile, looking at her only son. I wipe my dry cheeks with a tendril, thinking they’re wet, too.

  I start shlooping through the ether again, the cigarette hanging from my mouth, leaving a trail of smoke. “There’s something over here I wanted to check out.”

  Dave follows behind me. I have the feeling he’s wanted me to take the lead all along. Seems like the spirit of the exercise.

  “How long ago did all that happen?” I ask.

  “Can’t say. A while, though.”

  “You think that kid’s grown up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s the point in asking you questions? ‘I don’t know.’ Me neither. Give a guy something to work with here.”

  “Jack,” he says. “I live on a rock in the middle of space.”

  “You haven’t heard? We all do. You can leave any time though, can’t you?”

  “No, actually. There’s a reason I’m here.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You’re not going to like the answer.”

  “There’s not much I do like.”

  What does he want me to do? What do I want to do? Better question: What’s the right thing to do? I need to change. I really need to change. Say I do get my body back: am I trying to go on by just getting by? Drink and smoke? What else to do, though? You need some direction, Jack.

  Our Father…

  “We’ve been flying for a while now, Jack. What was it you wanted to check out?”

  Oh yeah.

  “Those rocks in the distance. What are those?”

  “I know less than you do. It’s—”

  “It’s my head. Yeah, I remember. Rhetorical question.”

  I shloop closer and closer to the rocks until we can really get a look at them. A dilapidated, haunted-looking palace sits on a floating island surrounded by debris. Its broken spires still tower over the structure, making the walls look short.

  The place is clearly a palace and not a castle; castles are made for war, and palaces are made for beauty. That’s what I tell myself, at least. The manor has seen its fair share of battle, though: cannon balls have hammered its walls, bullets embedded themselves in the stone.

  To be beautiful is to engage in a war against entropy.

  “That’s my future,” I say. “That’s everything I was supposed to be and could have been, but I neglected what I should have done. Look at what’s become of it now.”

  “Pretty dilapidated, if I say so myself.”

  “Yeah. But I’m about to do something about that.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you planning?”

  “I don’t know.” I give Dave a proverbial shrug. “I have an idea, but I need to figure out how to get there. In the meantime, mind helping me clean this place up a bit?”

  “I think that’s a good enough idea.”

  “Let’s shloop on down inside.”

  “Oh, I can’t go with you, Jack.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “That’s your future. Not mine or anyone else’s.”

  “Yeah, well … You’re welcome there if you ever change your mind.”

  “Sure, Jack. I’ll see you there. Go on inside. I’ll be here, taking care of the outside.”

  “See you when I come out then. Whenever that may be.”

  “Whenever that may be.”

  I shloop down through the front gate, a stone archway with all the decor on it busted up like a prize fighter’s face after a big match. Something had ripped a hole through the iron lattice and knocked it off its track, something like a cannonball from bombardment.

  This place was meant to be a home. Instead, it went through the hellfire of war and barely came back. Not just physical war. A psychic war. Mental, emotional duress.

  Well, Jack, time to get over it. All of it. You’ve been a real louse long enough.

  Shlooping up to the front door, I have no idea what to expect. When I get there, I decide to try looking around first.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  This place is huge. Looks like a cross between Versailles and Neuschwanstein if Edgar Allen Poe got to decorate. Gray walls. Overgrown hedges. Weeds. Dust is everywhere. Those drapes in the windows are rotten. Threadbare. The shutters are all busted. The glass is broken in a lot of places.

  It’s going to take a lot of work to fix this, a lot more work than it would have taken to keep it maintained. Well, what are you going to do, Jack? Just keep getting by, or roll up your sleeves and get your tentacles dirty.

  I shloop up the steps to the front door. Out of habit, I knock. My squishy tentacle splat-splat-splats against the door.

  No one’s home.

  I try the knob.

  The door creaks open like a crazy old lady meowing at a cat.

  Inside, it’s as dark as the inside of a baby’s coffin. As dusty as a ghost town after a dust storm. Cobwebs hang in the corners and dangle from the ceiling. I shloop past the fallen trusses, broken chairs, and overturned tables, leaving a trail in the dust. The stuff sticks to my purple hide like gray chalk.

  “Daddy!” calls the voice of a child. “Where are you, Daddy?”

  What do I do? That kid sees me, he’ll go insane! I can’t leave, though. I have to be here. I’ll hide.

  “Daaaddy!” he calls again as I reach up into a gaping hole in the rotting ceiling. I grab a truss, tugging it to make sure it’s sturdy. Pulling myself up, I surprise myself with how light I am, rising into the ceiling like a balloon. Shrinking down, I hide myself in the ceiling as I hear the stomp and patter of a running child’s feet.

  The kid runs into the room and looks around. Wearing overalls and a striped shirt with short sleeves, the kid looks like a real menace, a perfect, little, loveable rascal. His eyes spot the trail of dust I’d made shlooping in. He looks up to the ceiling and—

  “Daddy! What are you doing up there?”

  Smart kid. Wait. Is he talking to me?

  “Uh, just, uh, trying to fix the ceiling … son.”

  “Oh. Do you need help, Daddy?”

  “Uh…”

  “Want me to get your toolbox?”

  “Uh… No. No, don’t worry about it, son.”

  “Okay. Mommy said supper is ready, and we need to go right now before it gets cold.”

  “Alright, son. We’d better hurry. Mommy worked hard on supper. We’d better let her know we appreciate it.” I lower myself from the ceiling.

  “Whoa!”

  “What?”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Get down from the ceiling like that. You’re so strong, Daddy!”

  “Oh, uh, yeah, well, eat your meat and veggies, kiddo. They’ll make you strong. And, uh, daddy will help you do some pull-ups after supper.”

  “Okay, Daddy. Let’s go, we’ve gotta hurry. Wanna see how fast I am? Let’s race!”

  “Race? Uh…”

  “1-2-3, go!”

  He takes off, sprinting to the dining room with me shlooping behind him.

  “Better hurry, son!” I yell as he giggles with glee. “My stomach’s growling! I might have to eat you!”

  “No!” he cries with laughter. “Don’t eat me!”

  “Are you running in the house, mister?” asks ‘Mommy’ as we rush into the dining room.

  They don’t notice me. I mean, they don’t notice I’m a monster. Am I the only one who sees me this way?

  The kid stops dead in his tracks, turning to me with a shocked look on his face.

  Maybe it’s not real. Maybe I’m not actually a monster. Is this all a dream within a dream?

  “Oh, Honey! That’s my fault. I forgot the rules and told him I’d chase him.”

  A man can dream, can’t he? So, why not me?

  “Well, no harm. Sit down, and we’ll eat. I roasted a chicken with tomatoes and rosemary, and I have creamy mashed potatoes and roasted brussels sprouts.”

  “Mommy, I don’t like brussels sprouts,” says the boy.

  An egg timer buzzes in the kitchen.

  “Reagan! Missy! We’re about to eat.”

  “Who told you that, son?” I ask. “Who told you you don’t like brussel sprouts?” I don’t even know my own son’s name. Imagine that. Some dad I’ve turned out to be.

  “Coming, Momma!” calls a young lady from the kitchen.

  “No one,” says my son. “I just don’t like them.”

  “Teddy,” says my wife. My stunning, caring wife with her red-gold roller curls, pearls around her neck, and a polka dot dress. I don’t recognize her. “Go ahead and sit. Reagan and Missy will be here in a moment.”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “I like them, Teddy,” I say. “You know why?” Teddy. Must have named him after the good Roosevelt. Not a bad choice, but I’m a little surprised. Must have been her idea.

  “Why?” asks Teddy.

  “Because Mommy made them special for us.”

  “She did?”

  “Oh, yeah. Real special. She made them so we’d all be strong and healthy.”

  “I don’t want to be strong and healthy.”

  “You wanna run faster?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to climb better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Better eat the sprouts, kiddo.”

  “Okay…” he says with a sigh.

  “Tell you what: you eat two first thing, and we won’t worry about the rest. That’s the best way to learn to eat something you don’t like yet. One day though, you’ll miss them.”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  The girls walk into the dining room, the younger sister following close behind the older one. Reagan’s about twelve, and Missy’s about nine. Precious, golden curls like their mother’s are tied in ponytails. Reagan’s is low. Missy’s is high.

  “We put the pie back in the oven, Mommy!” says Missy with all the excitement in the world resounding in her little voice.

  “Perfect. Did you set a timer, Reagan?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “For how long?”

  “Sixty minutes this time, Momma. Just like you said. We turned the temperature down too.”

  Daughters. Two daughters! Two adorable, brilliant daughters! I can’t believe it. A handsome, rambunctious son! And most of all, a wife who wants to be a wife and a mother!

  With a heart pounding like the drums of a trireme racing out of a storm at sea, I reach to pull my wife’s chair out for her. I see my tentacle. I remember what I am.

  None of this is real.

  My wife sits down.

  But, maybe…

  I take my seat at the head of the table.

  …Maybe I can just enjoy the dream for a while.

  The windows are open to the cool breeze of mid spring and the yellow sunbeams. The white curtains dance with faint grace. Photos, printed memories of the children growing up, hang on the blue-gray walls. My wife sits to my left like a queen looking across the table at her little princesses. The boy sits next to her, staring at the brussels sprouts with dread.

  The girls fold their hands together and look at me.

  Are they waiting for something? Oh yeah!

  “Let’s say grace,” I tell them as I give them a tentacle in place of a hand. “We’ll hold hands this time.” I’m never going to get to do this again. I’m never going to sit down with my family. I’m never going to feel their little fingers wrapped in my rough, callused hands.

  They grab my tendrils like they're holding the hands of a man. We all bow our heads.

  How does that one prayer go again?

  “God is great, God is good,” I begin.

  “Let us thank Him for our food,” we all say together. “By His hands, we all are fed. Give us, Lord, our daily bread.”

  “Amen,” I finish. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Momma Wolfgang serves Teddy juicy pieces of shredded chicken, making sure to add some roasted tomatoes to his plate. The girls spoon out modest servings of potatoes and brussels sprouts. Reagan is sure to pour milk for the both of them from a clear, glass pitcher.

  None of this is real, Jack.

  They pass the potatoes over to Momma, and I pass the chicken to them. I take the brussels sprouts and begin putting some on Momma’s plate. Teddy eyes them carefully. When the girls are done taking what they want of the chicken, I serve some to Momma.

  How much do you think she wants? No, how much does she deserve for feeding our children?

  I heap chicken and tomatoes onto her plate.

  “Honey… I can’t eat all that.”

  “You just eat as much as you want. The perfect wife gets all she needs.”

  She takes her fork to the chicken and holds a piece up to my mouth.

  “I’m only the perfect wife because I have a perfect husband.”

  In that moment, I am as she sees me. A man. I can feel my fingers and toes. My rear rests in the hard seat; a chair has never felt so good. I lean forward and take a bite—

  Nothing. Empty chairs. An empty table. The room is dark and gray. The pale tablecloth is as worn as a beggar’s rags. The air is musty and cold. Something like dim moonlight reaches in from the shattered windows with their tattered, threadbare curtains. Everything is silent. I look down. I see the tendrils once again.

  It is what it is, Jack. Just keep shlooping along.

  I light a cigarette and imagine up a lowball of whiskey. That’s how I get by.