F-18 From a distance, Tam watched in silence. Like him, the monster had remained in the same place all night, dormant; poised. His eyes hurt from too many fags, the odd tear, and staring ahead into the night shadows of his past. Aches clung to him where his body moulded into the chair. It had been a long night. An hour earlier dawn had crept by, nudging the darkness to another place; another time. The quiet of night fled bringing a slow thread of familiar sounds to his ear. He knew it wouldn't be long.

Far to the North of where most consider livable lies the land of Eldermoon, a vast frozen wasteland in which only the insane or the very brave would chose to live. The near lack of human settlement has left the vast forests in the region intact, and well populated with Balverines, the wolf-people of the forests. Though most clans are peaceful toward humans, the Luna and Tropa Balverine clans that populate the Eldermoon woods have a reputation for being incredibly barbaric and bloodthirsty.

The QWE is the most secretive agency in the world. As one of their top agents, even I am not allowed to know my own code name. So efficient are the methods of QWE’s agents that we are able to prevent anything bad from ever happening, except for when we mess up and bad things happen. We protect the world like a stressed out parent who has had a long day and just wants to unwind in front of the television with a cold beer.

I had been fired from the simplest job in the world-shoveling balls out of the pit at Chuck-E-Cheese and cleaning, then putting them back. I was told that I had done an “unsatisfactory job” and that “demanding $80 an hour is unreasonable” and that I was a “boisterous idiot”. Outraged, I only worked there for another week without pay before the police forcibly removed me from the building.

My grandfather died when I was only 5 years old, and I remember little of him. My only vivid memory is of the day he died. He sat me down at the kitchen table that morning and produced a brown paper bag. "I have a surprise" he said and opened the bag and pulled out a doughnut. "That's it, a doughnut?" I inquired, unimpressed "Shut up! These are no ordinary doughnuts, they're the greatest doughnuts in the world!" he shouted, handing the doughnut to me and removing one for himself.

One warm, sunny day in the middle of December somewhere in Northern Canada (it was a leap year) Faustus the fox was wandering through the woods. Because of the ordinary cold Maine weather, there had been little food. The mice were hibernating, the voles were hibernating, the worms were hibernating, the ravenous grizzly bears were hibernating, the vending machines were unplugged, and the local merchants had fled south to Venezuela.

Why can’t I write for him? He’s the sparkle in my eye, the tingle in my guts, and the tickle in my nuts. He’s the icing on my cake, good for goodness sake, the smile I just can’t fake. He makes my blue sky, my pink rosy, and my yellow sunshine. Yet I can’t write for him, like I can write for others. He is the pickle in my pants, the twinkle in my toes, the glowy glow that shows. He’s the ultimate expression, an essential digression, a valuable lesson. He’s the one, yet I can’t write for him. The stiletto on my shoe penetrates the lawn and sinks me,