To whom it may concern

"Hi boys," said Marilyn, backing out of the kitchen with a tray piled high with the sort of sugary treats all children need when tackling math problems set by a probable sadist and, if the little red horns peaking out from beneath his rapidly receding hairline were any indication, possible literal demon. "I made you a snack."

She set the food down on the little end table beside the mantel, the only space not currently covered by textbooks and graph paper, and smiled at her guests.

"Michael," she greeted one of them. "You're looking very smart today."

The Michael who wore black-rimmed window-pane glasses that had nothing to do with his eyesight smiled politely.

"Thank you, Mrs. Teller."

"Michael," she greeted another. "You're shooting up like corn during a sighting of the Eerie Wolf. I bet the basketball team feels lucky to have you on board!"

The Michael who was once the smallest, but now the tallest, grinned down at her.

"Thank you, Mrs. Teller."

The final Michael, whose edges blurred and ran together like watercolours in the rain, jumped a little as Marilyn addressed him.

"And Michael," she said, reaching out to grasp one translucent hand, squeezing it with her own warm and solid fingers. "I'm so glad you came over today. I heard you were thinking about an exchange trip to Paris, and I have so many old phrase books and bits and pieces that need a new home. I've left them in a box by the stairs - help yourself to whatever looks useful."

The final Michael's lips moved soundlessly for a moment, but eventually he managed to scratch out, "Thank you, Mrs. Teller."

"I'll leave you boys in peace now," she said, pausing to press a kiss into Marshall's hair. "Let me know if you need anything."


Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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It's not his fault, not really, Marshall thinks, as Things Incorporated's latest foray into artificial intelligence spits out a seemingly endless scroll of ones and zeroes that resembles nothing so much as tears pouring down a square and backlit face.

The Michaels glance at each other, then turn as one to stare at him.

"Mars," says the Michael-who-once-was-small, "Did we just give your dad's program a nervous breakdown?"

Marshall swallows. Their ubiquity aside, he has nothing against the Michaels, but they aren't exactly trusted associates.

"Probably just a short," he says, knowing that's what his dad will say. "Don't worry."

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Sara Sue reached for the handle of a door that had not been there a moment before, twisted it, and walked through.

The halls of BF Skinner Junior High were deserted, smelling of beeswax polish and the hot dust of a long, silent summer. The lights were off, but that didn't matter. The sticky golden sunlight of late afternoon streamed through high recessed windows and pooled on the gleaming floor.

Anyway, she could have found the art department with her eyes closed.

The drawing was still there, the blue rosette faded with the passage of time. She reached for it.

Ongoing Verse: Pay Attention

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Sara Sue knew instantly that he was one of hers. There was no mistaking the silver-grey undertone to his skin, the fuzziness at the edge of his face, or the way his voice sounded like paper rustling.

She stepped out from behind a row of parked cars, and he saw her. His mouth dropped open and his eyes were full of the terror and adoration of someone meeting a God face-to-face. The tiny, squirming, Technicolor part of him that was still a person screamed, as the parts of him that were just a portrait dropped to it's knees and wept.

Ongoing Verse: Pay Attention

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This was me trying to write an Eerie Indiana/Magnus Archives crossover and managing to bring absolutely nothing from TMA but canon-typical too many Michaels.

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: WereMarsicorn

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Ongoing Verse: Weather

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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