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matched. The Scalzi favored his kitten-punctured shoulder. The wound was already red and swollen with infection.
    Wil’s mind whirred. He knew many ways to extricate himself from climactic battles—but they all relied on technobabble.
    “I will vanquish you,” Wil hissed, bolstering himself.
    “Big talk for a little boy,” countered the Scalzi.
    Their duel had driven them to the lip of the volcano. Behind them, the molten mouth gaped, its churning viscera casting a weird crimson glow.
    The Scalzi positioned himself downslope, driving the younger man onto an outcropping that projected over the maw. “Face it, Wil. You can’t beat me. My kind made you what you are. Writers choose your words and sculpt your scenes. We decide when you win and when you lose.”
    Wil swallowed anxiously. “Not this time.”
    The Scalzi sneered. “How’re you gonna stop it?”
    Wil scanned the rocks at his feet, searching for anything that would give him an advantage. “Identity is fraught,” he ventured. “Writers think they’re above it all, but they aren’t. Their subconsciouses betray them. Their identities blend and change. The writer becomes both himself and the character.”
    “You’re not my Gary Stu.”
    “I’m every geek’s Gary Stu.” Chunks of basalt steamed at his feet. Wil scooped up a red-hot handful, bracing against the pain. “But that’s not why I’ll win.”
    “No?”
    “I’ll win because I’m not a stupid kid anymore.”
    Wil hurled the scalding rocks into the orc’s face. The Scalzi howled. Blinded and enraged, he charged, axe swinging wildly as he blundered onto the outcropping. Wil took a deep breath, marshaled his courage, and leapt . 
    Down, down he fell, scrambling for purchase on the mountainside. Above, the orc continued to roar, struggling to clear his eyes. Wil struck out with the haft of his spear, prying loose a bolder perched near the outcropping’s narrow neck.
    Stone clanged on stone. Already weakened by the morning’s tremors, the basalt creaked. With a deafening crack, the outcropping broke free.
    The Scalzi screamed as he plummeted toward the lava. His axe slipped from his hand, vanishing into the molten tumult below. Wil pitched his spear after it, watching the polearm tumble end over end.
    “I grew up,” Wil whispered, expression stoic as he watched his enemy disappear.

The Scalzorc/Clown Wheaton/Kittytrice Auditions
A One Act Play
Stephen Toulouse
     
    CHARACTERS 
     
    HORN.PSD: An up and coming young Photoshop element.
     
    FACE.PSD: An established element who is widely recognized as being the most talented element of his generation. Unfortunately he is well aware of it.
     
    SWEATER.PSD: A former brilliant element, who’s nearing the end of his career and has been criticized of late for not taking his craft seriously anymore. 
     
    CROTCH.PSD: A handsome and chiseled element, about whom not much is known. 
     
    LAVA.PSD: Considered by many to be the finest character actor element of his generation, with a long and storied career. His professionalism and talent are only reinforced by his comfort at being typecast. 
     
    MOUSE CURSOR: In charge of representing the interests of MR. ZUGALE. 
     
    MR. ZUGALE [OFF STAGE]: The mysterious orchestrator of the events.
     
    [CURTAIN] 
     
    [Our setting is an open file folder on a computer desktop. Moderately furnished, if a bit drab, it is clearly a waiting room of some type. A small table with refreshments sits off to the side, and there are five chairs spaced throughout. FACE.PSD and SWEATER.PSD are absentmindedly flipping through magazines, LAVA.PSD and CROTCH.PSD are chatting quietly. 
     
    HORN.PSD drops into the folder on the side opposite the refreshments. He takes in the room, clearly recognizing it is filled with some well-known talent]
     
    HORN.PSD: Oh. My. God. Mr. Sweater.psd! Mr. Face.psd! It is such an honor to even be auditioning for a project with you. 
     
    SWEATER.PSD: [grunts] Thanks kid. Liked your work