CORRUPTS ABSOLUTELY? Virtual Panel: Meta-Might


corruptsThis week, Ragnarok Publishing released the definitve version of my 2012 superhero anthology, CORRUPTS ABSOLUTELY? This new edition features brand-new cover art and design, as well as two new stories not included in the original release.

To celebrate, I’m dusting off several virtual panels I conducted with the authors to promote the anthology. Today, I have Tim Marquitz, Ani Fox, Jeremy Hepler and Kris Ashton, four of the anthology’s contributors, here to discuss what it might be like to have too much power.

Lincoln Crisler: What do you think draws readers to stories about people with uncanny power?

Tim Marquitz: For me, it’s the idea of being able to do something so far-fetched, so far out there in comparison to the rest of the world. The idea allows for a unique case of individuality and freedom. We’re all human: we can each do what the others do, at least to some degree, but slipping into the idea of superhuman abilities, suddenly a person isn’t defined as everyone else.

A.S. Fox: There’s a certain amount of wish fulfillment in any story about magic, mutation or other incredible powers. Mythology and religion abound with miracle stories because people want to believe power beyond human limits. It explains the chaotic and dangerous nature of life, it allows for an outlet to our hope and fear and when it crosses into fiction it allows catharsis through cathexis, which is a pompous way of saying, it lets us release our inner conflicts via a little obsessive suspension of disbelief.

My story, Ozymandias Revisited, covers two of my favorite ideas – the Christian Apocalypse and the enduring notion of Hubris from Greek Tragedy. In a way, great power exaggerates and amplifies the story much like opera intensifies the theatrical nature of song. It allows the reader to explore an idea taken to an extreme and if done well is almost Socratic in its inquiry into life, nature and whatever ethical dilemma the author decides to tackle. Done wrong it’s guys in tights smashing the Nazis while babes in titanium bikinis reaffirm every sexist trope they can stuff under fan service. That’s a different kind of catharsis.

Jeremy Hepler: I believe a majority of people are drawn because these stories typically operate under the naive principle that the person with uncanny abilities has an altruistic nature and will always intervene in domestic and global disputes with a benevolent, selfless intent. After decades of repeated themes and stereotypical characters, readers have been led to believe that any character given (or chosen to have) powers will embody what we believe to be the best in ourselves, and that these characters are static, permanent, stable—something which feels comforting to anyone living in a reality where they are confronted by the same worries, pressures, and dangers on a daily basis with little or no hope of change. I believe other people are drawn simply because the possibility that there is a magical plane hidden within our science-governed world that certain chosen people are allowed (or have been forced to) tap into is exciting and hopeful.

The reasons above and their general good-heartedness is exactly why Corrupts Absolutely? appealed to me so much as a writer and reader. Lincoln said let’s strip away these hopeful stereotypes and be honest this time. Let’s give the readers something different. Let’s read about how people would probably really use uncanny powers. I think that any superhero, meta-human, supernatural, sci-fi, or supernatural fan will find this concept extremely entertaining and insightful. It encourages people to look not at what they hope they would do if given unique power, but deep down inside, if they’re honest with themself, what they would do.

Kris Ashton:I think it’s because we so often feel powerless in our own lives. When we’re small children, our parents control our destiny. In school, bullies make us feel weak. Then, when we join the workforce, it only takes one bad boss to make us feel powerless. To my mind, the best stories about people with uncanny powers provide some sort of catharsis for these deep-seated feelings, which are often closely related to rage and desire for revenge. Would your boss dare to question your intelligence in front of your colleagues if you could make his head explode ala Scanners? Beyond all that, I think the human race has always been fascinated with beings that transcend mortal limitations. As soon as people could communicate, they started sharing stories about those who were faster, stronger and smarter than any human ever could be. You see it again and again in every culture all over the world.

LC: Do you think power, super- or otherwise, comes with strings attached?

TM: Most definitely. Each case of power, each person wielding it, comes with a different set of responsibilities. You can’t do something without there being a reaction. While a person might not care that someone else is killed or hurt in the use of their power, someone else will, and eventually something will circle back around. We’re all interconnected as people and the misuse and abuse of any will ultimately create waves that affect everything. With my character in Retribution, he’s given the power to revenge himself upon the people who killed his family. For him, there are definitely strings. He finds himself part and parcel of the government and has to undergo a number of changes in order to reach the point where he can exact his revenge. In doing so, he inherits a number of masters and controls he didn’t have before the power.

AF: I have a teenage daughter and we try to teach her that power, responsibility and accountability should be equal and interlocking. That’s my ethical view. Historically that’s also rare and the idealized fantasy of power. Power comes in a lot of forms and extreme power should be the rare and idealized fantasy but does exist in our here and now life. Genocide, fascism, suppression of women, all sorts of really nasty forms of man’s inhumanity to man require super-powers to act upon a society and with ugly consequences. I’m a pessimist when it comes to cultures and power: I believe that while a person may be inherently good, power with its brass knuckle effectiveness, allows even the best of us to cut corners. From there it’s tempting and human to make your annoying neighbor’s Chihuahua disappear or get some much deserved revenge on that jerk that got you fired.

Power without accountable consequences creates an addictive thirst and unless you’ve been born with a will iron and the strength of ten pure souls, you will go down the deeply satisfying road towards gritty, smelly human evil. Now cook into that something like Superman’s powers and you have a recipe for terror. Why do we admire heroes? Because they can hurt others and choose for a variety of reasons to take responsibility and become accountable even though they don’t have to and are often penalized for doing so. There are strings attached if you believe in the soul, karma or a hereafter. If you’re existentialist then frankly let’s hope you are not the one bitten by a radioactive spider.

JH: Of course. Every form of power, whether it’s the power over your children as a parent, or over your co-workers as a boss, or the power to override the laws of nature with some supernatural ability, has strings attached. And the stronger the power, the larger the number of strings, and the harder they tug. In The Real Church, my story appearing in Corrupts Absolutely?, my protagonist Owen’s inner conflict is based on this exact issue. He is forced to decide whether or not the strings attached to his power are too horrific and immoral for him to continue using the power for his desired purpose. Initially unsure, he sets up several tests to see if the consequences of his strings are going to be too tough to endure, tests that could be catastrophic for those involved. He, like anyone given unique powers or power, struggles to find a balance between the pull of the strings attached to him and the benefit of the power. This is what makes the power powerful—the magnitude of the rewards and consequences that come with it.

KA: Always, and it has been one of the great themes in literature. Whether you’re team leader at McDonald’s, CEO of a company, or president of the United States, you have the ability to affect other people’s lives, perhaps even change them irrevocably. That’s fertile ground for drama and tragedy. No one ever said it better than Stan Lee in Spider-Man: with great power comes great responsibility. Every story ever written about meta-humans has touched on this theme in some way. Even characters like Hellboy and the Punisher, who operate on the shady fringe between good and evil, are forced to confront the toll their actions have taken on others.

Actually, thinking about that theme helped me create my story ‘Threshold’. The concept of a pain-driven vigilante excited me, but for a long time I couldn’t figure out how to make it work in the context of a story. Trying to weave a surprising or suspenseful plotline around a largely fatalistic character is tough going, let me tell you. I’d just about given it up for dead when I was commissioned to edit a one-shot movie magazine called Celluloid Superheroes. It really got me into the headspace, and I started thinking, ‘What if the protagonist’s power somehow turned against him? How could it create drama?’ After that, the entire narrative fell into my head.

LC: What power would you have if you could choose one? Why? What would you do with it? TM: While my mentality has always been the “Hulk smash!” kind, and I would love to have the raw physicality of the classic brick, I think I would prefer a more subtle power. I would love to be able to manipulate people mentally and emotionally. As for what I would do with the power: I’d get in trouble. Lots and lots of it…or not, as no one would know. Then again, I’d probably only use the power to make my life less frustrating. I’ve always found interacting with people difficult (the general populace) as I’ve gone about my daily life, and it would be great to be able to circumvent that annoyance. I’d love to go to a bar and have a drink and enjoy the evening without getting into a fight. I’d love to drive down the road and not have some idiot try to kill me and my family because they need to shave two seconds off their trip. I would love to get my order correct at the drive-thru and not have to spend twenty minutes explaining basic math or the difference between BBQ sauce and sweet & sour.

AF: I’d like to grant wishes. Of course it’s a corny thing and a bit altruistic to say so, but I’m being terribly selfish. Any power I get for myself I am responsible for and what happens when I lose my temper and fry the aforementioned dog next door? Warping reality would be awesome and having some control over who gets what allows me a certain buffer between the dehumanizing temptations of power and the reality of wanting cool stuff, good luck and a healthy happy life. It would let me help friends and family without unduly screwing up the universe. They make the wish, I get to decide if and how it gets fulfilled. Of course I implicitly trust my wife to ask for awesome things and this would allow us to work together to make positive changes in our life and the world. I was raised by hippies, believe in giving peace a chance and really would like to see every person on the planet eat 3 square meals a day, go to school and have basic human freedoms. I’m also pretty sure that given the chance I could screw up a two horse parade and should not be trusted with unlimited power – I think people are mildly horrible which is why I like writing about them. So I’d go with a superpower that in theory lets me evade the obvious pitfalls of being human. I’m also convinced I’d be the life of the party at any genie themed event.

JH: If I’m honest, like Lincoln asked authors to be with their characters in this anthology, I wouldn’t choose a power that demands great responsibility. I wouldn’t want that many strings attached. I’m a pretty introverted guy. If given a choice, I would choose the ability to fly. I would use the ability first and foremost for my own pleasure. I have struggled with addictions to various physical pleasures since a teen and this would be something that I could get thrills out of with the fewest strings attached (as long as I put forth the effort to keep the ability secret, which I think would become harder and harder due to my addictive nature). After enjoying the sensation of free flight for a while, I would then soar around the world to see all the places and things I’d probably never be able to afford to see otherwise. I would take my wife and five year old son on the rollercoaster rides of their lives. I would also use the ability to do household chores that I would otherwise have to pay someone to do, like trim the giant elm tree in the backyard, or paint the awkward eaves above the garage. I would help people in need if I came across them just like I would now, but I don’t think I would fly around searching for hero situations and notoriety.

KA: Ever since I was three or four years old, when I first watched The Incredible Hulk on TV, I have wanted to be him. It’s not just the super-strength thing – being Superman doesn’t interest me – it’s also the idea that the power has to be triggered. There’s a pervading sense of karmic justice around the Hulk: do something bad to David (or Bruce in the comics) Banner and something bad is going to happen to you. I also think it would be intoxicating to be seven feet of pure, invincible, irradiated muscle. And at a basic level, the Hulk speaks to the enraged child inside me, the one who just wants to SMASH everything when life takes a bad turn. Hmm, revenge, intoxication and smashing stuff. Looks like I’d make a very selfish superhero.


New Zombie Short and Other News


Here’s a few quick notes to start off the scariest month of the year:

  1. I’ve unleashed a fourth .99 short story on the world. TRADITION is the story of a widow and four of her late husband’s friends enjoying a wee post-apocalyptic winter hunting trip. It is a zombie story, but there’s hardly a walker in sight–I feel the best apocalyptic fiction is about the living, rather than the dead, and modelled my piece accordingly. Let me know if I got it right.
  2. My good pal Tim Marquitz unleashed some madness of his own a couple days ago–a pair of novellas, PREY and ANATHEMA, published together by Genius Publishing and listed on Amazon under the name PREY. While I’ve yet to read the titular novella, ANATHEMA was originally destined for inclusion in FOUR IN THE MORNING. I had initially drawn the old-age story for the collection, and Tim, the middle-aged. When he asked me if he could pull it and pair it with PREY as a submission to Genius, he inadvertently saved my ass. I was stuck like chuck on a good speculative story about an old dude. So we swapped. Tim wrote another novella in what was probably record time (CENOTAPH) and I churned out QUEEN. So, definitely pick up PREY. You won’t be sorry.
  3. Genre fans may have heard the news about Tom Piccirilli’s brain cancer surgery. The operation was last night; the medical bills will take a bit longer to work on. Crossroads Press, which publishes much of Tom’s work in digital format, is giving their share of any sales of Tom’s books to Tom, at least until the end of the year. That’s 100% of your money going to an entertaining author who’s really gonna need the dough.
  4. HWA Halloween Haunts is a month of bloggery and book giveaways from Horror Writers’ Association member authors. There’ll be new content every day for the entire month–more than one posting, some days. Here’s a copy of the complete schedule–I’ll be making my appearance on October 16th, and giving away a digital copy of FOUR IN THE MORNING in the bargain.
  5. Finally, the paperback version of CORRUPTS? is on sale at Amazon for under ten bucks. Since it comes with a twenty dollar cover price, this is a hell of a bargain that’ll go away soon once people start snapping them up–Amazon will notice the increased demand and act accordingly, ya dig?

Lincoln Crisler on Tim Marquitz’ CENOTAPH


Author’s Note: This is the fourth and last in a series of essays Tim Marquitz, Ed Erdelac, Malon Edwards and I wrote to promote FOUR IN THE MORNING. You can read Malon’s,  Tim’s and Ed’s using their respective links. Of course, if you still haven’t picked up your copy of FOUR, you can do that here.


Each of the stories in FOUR IN THE MORNING are unique—that’s sort of the point. Each piece is a different speculative genre than the others. Each piece deals with an issue particular to a different stage of life.

Tim‘s story, CENOTAPH stands apart in another way, as well.

I chose QUEEN’s middle-aged, female protagonist in part because she was a challenge to write. I’m not female, middle-aged or self-absorbed (much). Malon never was and never could be a pre-adolescent, mechanically-enhanced girl from an alternate New Orleans. One look at Ed Erdelac, or a minute of conversation with him, will tell you that certain parts (if not all) of the gun-toting, gangsta, urban youth experience were most likely denied him.

Tim had a large body of experience to draw upon when writing CENOTAPH, however. He’s several decades behind his aged, Kris Kristofferson-esque MC, but the primary setting of the story—a cemetery—and the main issue dealt with by James—outliving at least ten family members, to include a wife and children—are things Tim is very familiar with. As a former gravedigger, he’s put more bodies in the dirt than any serial killer could hope to claim and has no doubt observed enough grieving relatives to make the most grounded grief counselor drag a rusty razor across his wrists.

That depth of experience, coupled with the folky sort of voice Tim brings to James, gives CENOTAPH an intimacy the other stories in the book, though worthy for other reasons entirely, can’t hold a candle to.


No liner, no coffin, and no body; Joseph wasn’t here.

I fell back against the wall of the grave, my legs weak. My boy was gone, his grave empty. The vomit I’d held in check since I awoke found its moment to break free. I dropped to my knees as a warm stream spewed from my mouth. The sour stink of liquor filled my nose and burned my eyes as I emptied my stomach into the cold dirt of the vacant grave. Coughing and spitting up the foul-tasting bile, I pulled myself to my feet to be away from the stench. I leaned against the shovel for support as I stared at the night sky that hovered star-filled above me.

“Why?” I asked, my voice drifting into the darkness. God deigned not to answer.

Joseph was gone, taken from me not once, but twice. How was it possible? My heart pounding against my ribs, my eyes drifted to the dirt wall across from where I stood. My stomach sunk. Clare lay but a foot on the other side.

I dug at the wall with frantic insistence, hoping with every scrape of my shovel that I struck the concrete wall of her liner. There was nothing but more dirt and the spider web of grass roots. The wall crumbled and fell about my feet in moist chunks as I tore into it. Close to two feet through, I gave up with a sob as the dark dirt turned to light-colored sand that spilled through the hole I’d made like an hourglass. My tears were cold on my cheeks as I realized that Clare too was missing. Someone had stolen my grandchildren.


Tim Marquitz on Malon Edwards’ HALF DARK


Here’s Tim’s essay on Malon’s contribution to FOUR IN THE MORNING, a kickass steampunk fairy novella called HALF-DARK. It’s part of a series–each of us contributors wrote an essay about another of our stories, and selected an excerpt that we felt best exemlified the work. A third-party site was supposed to host these months ago, and dropped the ball after posting this one. You’ll probably see Malon’s essay on Ed Erdelac’s GULLY GODS next week over on Malon’s site.

If you still haven’t picked up your copy of FOUR, you can do that here.

My first introduction to Malon Edwards’ writing was through his story G-child in the Corrupts Absolutely anthology edited by Lincoln Crisler. However, that was after he’d been invited to submit to Four in the Morning. I took it on faith that Malon could match not only Lincoln and Ed Erdelac’s submission, but my own as well. I wasn’t disappointed.




The following is the first seven pages or so of my novella, QUEEN, included in the collection FOUR IN THE MORNING along with work by Malon Edwards, Ed Erdelac and Tim Marquitz. It is, of course, available in print and digital formats.


The ground beneath Rita’s feet is blacker than the night around her. The moon is high and full in the tarry sky, but aside from a hazy halo around the orb itself, nothing is illuminated. Everything is thick and black, and she can see nothing but the moon and herself. She’s running without thought of what she might trip over or slam into. She’s scared to death.

Rita doesn’t remember what she’s scared of, not in the slightest. She’s aware of nothing but the pounding of her heart and the slick sweat on her brow and palms. She can’t hear anything, any more than she can see. Maybe she’s left whatever-it-is behind. Maybe it can’t see her, either.

She doesn’t trip or bump into anything, but slides after a moment, heels skidding in what feels like mud. Rita pinwheels her arms, thrusts backward against her gaining momentum and succeeds in doing nothing more than slamming onto her back in the tarry, slimy stuff instead of doing a faceplant. The wind blows out of her like someone opening an airlock.

Then she smells it; almost like the wet compost she spreads in the garden. It makes her think of a freshly-dug grave, though damned if she’s ever smelled one. She feels it; rough fabric against her collarbone and a dry, textured grit against her cheek. Whatever-it-is breathes—at least that’s what it sounds like—and the blackness before her disperses with the rich, meat-tinged air blown in her face.

A hooded figure hunches over her, stroking her skin with bony fingers. She scrambles back, knocking the creature away. The hood falls, revealing a rough, seamed, gleaming skull—Death. The Grim Reaper lunges forward, pinning Rita to the wet, sticky earth beneath her, and cups her chin in one hand. She could look it in the eye, if it had eyes. Instead, she gazes deep into the black, inky pools inside the skull’s sockets.

She sees herself, haggard, drawn, worn out. Her skin sags from her face, her are eyes yellowed and bloodshot, her hair is wild and brittle-looking. No wonder the Reaper is ready to bring her across. She looks like she’s already escaped Death once—but she’s only lived half her life! It isn’t fair! She thrusts her hips, trying to throw the skeleton off, but it’s heavier than she imagined. It braces with its free hand, and takes the other from her chin and plunges it into—


Rita lurched from the pillow as her alarm clock shrieked. She flung her dripping hair out of her face and steadied herself. She was sweating, like in the dream, but cold and damp instead of warm and slick. Slivers of morning sun streaked her rumpled sheets and nightshirt. She watched her hands shake in her lap as she breathed deeply, trying to slow her pounding heart.

“Jesus, Rita,” James said. She watched him step out of the bathroom, throw his damp bath towel onto the bedroom, then cross over to rummage in his dresser for socks and clean underwear. “I really wanted to let you sleep in on your special day, too.”

Ugh. What about what I want? she thought. Hold me? Tell me everything will be okay? Shit. Care enough to pretend I matter.

“It’s over now,” she said. She slipped out of bed, worked her way around her still-foraging husband and dragged her bathrobe from the hook on the back of the bedroom door. “You didn’t think it’d skip a day just because I turned forty-two, did you?” She stalked out of the room and downstairs before he could answer. Not that he would have anyhow. Self-absorbed wasn’t quite the right description for what James had become during the last couple years of their marriage, but not Rita-absorbed in the slightest wasn’t too far off the mark. If she didn’t have enough to deal with already, she’d probably wonder if he was screwing around. If he still loved her, still found her attractive. Hell, she didn’t find herself attractive, so as things stood, she wasn’t quite prepared to pass judgment.

“Hi, Terry,” she said as she stepped into the kitchen. Their teenage son, tousle-haired, eyes half-lidded, was hunched over the counter beside the sink, half-heartedly digging into a bowl of cereal. Rita maneuvered her way to the coffee pot, added fresh grounds and water, and started the brew cycle. “You make sure you don’t take more than half that pot, you hear?” It wasn’t that great for a growing body, but at seventeen, Terry was already the tallest of his friends by a good margin. Besides, with all teachers asked of kids these days, Rita figured he needed the caffeine. As long as they saved two cups for her, he and James could duke it out over the rest of the pot.

“Happy birthday, Mom. Home late tonight. Barry’s going to show me how to do a tune-up.”

Ever since she and James got him that car for his birthday, he spent all of his spare time tinkering with it, or reading about things he could do with it, or working to save up money for the things he could do with it, or hanging out with other guys while they did things with their cars. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt until his next report card, though. They’d rewarded him with a car for a reason, and he did stay up late most nights, pounding away at his homework with heavy metal music turned up as loud as she would allow. Whatever else she and James argued about on a daily basis, they both agreed their son was more efficient and studious than they’d ever been.

Terry gulped down the rest of his cereal, dumped the bowl in the sink, and plucked the half-filled pot from its heating pad. After fixing a large cup, he staggered off to get dressed. Rita prepared her own steaming mug before stepping into the guest bathroom to freshen up. The mirror wasn’t much kinder than Death’s eyes in her dream. Her hair was stringy, and the lines around her eyes and mouth were deeper than they’d been last week. Forty-two. Downhill. She sat on the toilet and guzzled the steaming coffee as she voided her bladder. The coffee burned her throat on the way down, but she didn’t care. It almost felt good, like she was punishing her body for letting her down. By the time she was done, she’d already heard Terry pull out of the driveway and James stomp downstairs and into the kitchen.

“Honey,” she asked him, slipping her arms around his waist as he rooted in the freezer, “Do you still find me attractive?” She had to know, after all.

“You still have to tell me ‘no’ every week, don’t you?” James retorted. He pulled away from her, breakfast sandwich in hand, and popped it into the microwave.

“Not this shit again.” Rita padded off to the living room, hurled herself onto the couch, and turned on the news.


After James left for work, she went to the small office they’d set up at one end of the dining room table and fired up her laptop. She’d bought it for herself on her fortieth birthday, and passed the desktop model she’d shared with James on to Terry. She didn’t envy her son much during the course of his upbringing. She remembered how awkward growing up was, and how happy she’d been to put it behind her. The sole aspect of his growing up that she was truly jealous of was how completely technology had pervaded his life. She’d needed to take basic courses at the local business institute before feeling competent enough to apply for entry-level clerical positions that Terry could probably have waltzed into when he was fourteen. He could change his plans for the evening at the drop of a hat, because all he had to do was pull his phone from his pocket to call and ask permission. Rita definitely saw the benefit in these things, as she saw bright, attractive young women breeze into positions of responsibility over many of her peers, borne on the wings of seemingly-innate technological symbiosis.

She’d always worked hard to stay abreast, and as the supervisor of her firm’s clerical pool, she was in charge of many of these brilliant young ladies herself, right up until the day her company downsized, letting her go in favor of her boss’ best and brightest. In the course of doing this, she’d challenged herself constantly. Online communities, like Craigslist, were one of her newest challenges. The brief glimpses she’d been able to sneak over the past couple of days, while working, showed her an endless supply of opportunities to explore; like-minded hobbyists, people looking for employees, even romance. As she opened the browser and typed in the site’s address, she contemplated that last bit.

James hadn’t exaggerated when he blew her off in the kitchen. At least once a week, he rolled over in bed, stroked her back, kissed her neck, rubbed her breast, only to be brushed aside. She knew what she was doing to him, but she couldn’t help it. She knew she wasn’t sexy anymore. She was loose where she used to be firm and tight, and who knew what sort of grotesque face she’d make in the throes of orgasm with those new lines and wrinkles popping up? At least if she kept him wanting her, he still wanted her. The few times she’d let him take her in the past year, she’d insisted he do it from behind, with the lights off. Even still, she was certain it took him longer to climax these days than it ever had. Maybe she should see what she could do with a stranger; maybe a younger man, with less experience to base his opinion of her on?

Much of the site’s personals section was filled with ads that smacked of scam even to her, with photos of barely-legal men attached to posts advertising middle-aged men, and simple one-line ads like, “I love to make you cum while wearing your stockings.” Even as she sent off a couple of half-hearted emails to men who seemed both real and possibly interesting, she knew she wouldn’t cheat on James. She loved him. She denied his advances because she loved him, because she didn’t want to lose him forever when he finally realized what the years were doing to her. She damn well wasn’t going to give what she had left to some kid who hadn’t given the best years of his life to working alongside her and raising a child, no matter what sort of asshole James was turning into; no matter what she was turning him into.

She set the computer aside long enough to fix her second cup of coffee, then settled back in. Craigslist had much more to offer than just one-night stands with boys wearing her stockings. Maybe she just needed something to do. She didn’t go to church or volunteer anywhere. The computer was her only hobby, and that was only a fairly recent development. She socialized with the mothers of a couple of Terry’s friends, and had a close friendship with one of her former co-workers. Aside from that and some mutual friends of her and James that they saw sparingly, she was insulated. It was possible she could get involved in something new and gain a fresh perspective on life without seeking approval from a throbbing, twenty-year old cock.

The Volunteer section was promising. She could plant trees with a local nature society, or bathe rescue animals. There were a couple of charitable organizations looking for help feeding the needy. Most of her options offered a way to stay busy and find potential companionship with new people. She did like animals, though she and James agreed a pet wouldn’t be a good fit with their lifestyle. She sent a query to the animal-bathers and then went back to browsing. Several items down, a headline caught her attention:

Local Clinic Seeking Volunteers for Age-reversing Treatment.

We’re seeking candidates for the testing of an experimental anti-aging therapy for women. Candidates must pass a brief exam and screening. The study will be conducted afternoons and evenings for the next six months. Candidates must be willing to commit to two sessions a month during this period. The treatment is non-surgical, and will consist of injections, counseling, time-lapse video and photography, and routine blood testing. Watch the wrinkles and sagging melt away!

It was an almost-guaranteed letdown, but Rita sent an email to the listed contact, anyhow. If they weren’t doing anything harmful, it was worth the attempt. She’d be certain to meet other like-minded women. Even if she didn’t make the cut, or decided to walk away from the study, she might make some new friends, ones who’d be certain to understand what she was going through.

She finished her coffee, shut down the computer, and went upstairs to shower. Today was going to be a good day, after all, birthday or no.