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Mielikki

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Mielikki 2

Rescuing Holly

From the age of twelve, Holly had been confined to the three-story Tower House of her mother’s Southampton Estate on Olde Towne Lane—a veritable prison lined in gold, restricting her every move. Her mother Rose was in San Diego selling a historic Southern California mansion—the “Coronado Castle” on Coronado Island, the Old Hollywood haunt where Marilyn Monroe filmed Some Like it Hot —and she wouldn’t return until after Labor Day. This was Holly’s chance to escape and see the world. Although Holly, at the age of 22, was already finishing up her Ph.D. in Pure Mathematics from Princeton, she had never set foot in a classroom due to her condition. The pop of the tennis ball against Holly’s racket gave a satisfying twang as the dart rocketed through the dry sea-kissed air and plummeted just past the two-inch white band of the net, landing far left of her invisible opponent’s backhand. The SpinFire ball hopper served up a lob to her forehand and then another. She popped each one on the same precise angle with the same vicious slice, causing the balls to travel low and away. Then she scrambled with short quick steps before leaping to an attacking straddle at the net and volleyed the ball with a shallow, acute passing shot at a severe cross-court angle that cut a clean forty-five degrees from dead center. Holly was now warmed up for her lesson, and excited about meeting her new tennis instructor, a young local tour pro who was giving lessons on the island as he transitioned off the pro circuit. It was a cloudless day. The sun crouched like a cat on the horizon, its muzzle full of bared teeth inclined toward Holly and it increased the intensity of its rays with a low growl. She had never faced an opponent like this before. Rose had hand-picked a string of husky, wrinkled old-timers who spent their time alternating between drills and long-winded theoretical speeches but who could not keep up with Holly for a New York minute. Orli Mizrahi stepped out onto the Court to announce the tennis instructor. Orli was a stunningly efficient woman. She managed Rose’s estate and the small army of household staff, cooks, housekeepers, and security. She always wore crisp, stylish suits and carried herself with the military precision of an Israeli soldier—an older Gal Gadot in a pantsuit. “Holly—this is Mr. Jeff Nicoli—your new instructor.” Rose had met Jeff Nicoli after the 2009 Wimbledon Championships in England, where she had watched Jeff rise to fame when he came within a hair’s breadth of dethroning the Swiss Maestro , Roger Federer, after a record-setting marathon 77-game match. Holly had heard the story too many times to count, and now he was here. Jeff’s skin was tanned like fine leather, and his blonde hair was sun-bleached to the color and texture of golden straw. His bangs hung over his cobalt-blue eyes. He wore all white. He captured the aspect of the Greek God Apollo, as if Mount Olympus were just at the other end of the LIE and he had casually saddled down to the Hamptons for some light exercise. This was perhaps the first time that Holly had seen a boy her own age in the flesh, and she was struck dumb by his appearance. “Shall we get started with some easy rallies to get into the swing of things… get to know each other,” he said. Without waiting for a response, he had cleared the court and was standing in his backcourt. She served him up a moonball that drew a slow looping hyperbolic curve before falling at his baseline and bouncing high overhead. With a simple adjustment of his feet, he coiled like a cobra, jumped backward at a terrifying angle, and raised his bronzed right arm high and straight, causing his shirt to ripple above his slim musculature, as he caught the ball flush in a motion like an outfielder in baseball reaching for the fences. Pop. The ball sang forward ruthlessly at her feet, and the game was on. * * * “Did you keep your distance from the boy,” Rose asked over the FaceTime call. “Yes, mother,” Holly said. “And did you do the protocol after?” Rose asked. “Yes, mother. I washed my hands, did a full spray down, put all my clothes down the shoot, and sent my gym bag with my racket and balls to the decontamination room for Orli to disinfect, ran all the fans in the Tower, and ran HEPA-filtration. I took all the precautions,” Holly said. “Good. You know this is risky and it is only for your own safety. If you want to have privileges, you will have to be responsible. These go hand-in-hand,” Rose said. “Yes, mother. I know. I’ve come too far to backtrack now,” Holly said. “We’ve waited all these years for a cure, and it is only months now until you undergo the treatment. But if you get sick, you will not be able to. We are at the end of the line. In addition to the bone marrow transplant, you can finally do the gene therapy—it is finally approved and ready—and everything has to go perfectly,” Rose said. “Let’s talk about something else. How are you coming finding a buyer for the Coronado Castle? Did you take the prospective buyers out on the putting green like you planned?,” Holly asked. “Oh, darling. You’d love it! It has a Tower and everything. These new buyers have the most grotesque plans for the place. They want to paint it pink,” Rose said. “How awful!” * * * As Rose sat with the architect surveying the massive Toy Room and Theater with life-size replicas of Return of the Jedi figures stationed around the room—perhaps even the original costumes from the film, who knows—she imagined converting the grounds for these toy moguls into a chic dreamhouse—like the kind Barbie lived. The thought of a dreamhouse made Rose think back to Holly’s childhood, when she briefly cared about such things before the illness swallowed any excitement or joy of play and turned her into a devotee of pure, cold, hard mathematics. She was such a prodigy. When Rose had brought her by private jet to CalTech for a mathematical conference, they’d installed a hyperbaric oxygen chamber, and Holly had delivered her lecture from behind a blue hypoallergenic medical curtain. Severe Combined Immunodeficiency Disorder (SCID) is what it was called, and it was like a Biblical curse that had robbed Holly of her childhood and made Rose into a tyrannical overlord over her own daughter. But she was grateful for all of it. Rose remembered how it had been waiting for years with a barren womb, after losing a marriage over it, and finally wrestling the girl away from her birth family. She had gone through such red tape with the adoption agency and with the parents to confirm she had the means to properly support a girl in her condition. The same relentless drive for success and fortune that isolated Rose for years, sealed her womb, and lost her a husband, was ironically—the thing—that brought her Holly. All of the struggles had been worth it once the Tower was ready and once Rose had finally got Holly settled and set apart safely from the world and all its infecting forces. * * * Holly scuffed her left foot and bounced the ball two times in front of her forefoot before bending her front left knee and rocking into her service motion—something she had practiced a thousand times and perfected—but the weight of concentration was heavier this time, because Jeff was waiting across the court. Holly had been formulating a plan for days, ever since her first lesson with Jeff, and now she was ready to execute. Leaning forward and flexing her left knee into an explosive jump, she raises her left arm for the toss, simultaneously extending her hollowed right armpit and bent right arm far behind her arching coiled torso and bringing her breasts forward, a white shimmer of light glancing off her soft collarbone at the top of the stroke as she leans into gravity and hammers down into the shot, sending the ball sailing at a hard right angle directly into the opposing court. Jeff shook the hair from his eyes and made a fast lateral shuffle to his right before switching to a closed stance and swinging his hips, trailing the racket in a C-motion, and connecting, returning the ball with precision at an accelerating arc right back to her. “Thirty love,” he said. This time, Holly served the ball with a quick jabbing motion and approached the net for the volley. When Jeff smoothly launched another looping forehand shot, Holly pretended to botch her footing and faked a turned ankle. She fell to the green court surface and screamed out in pain. Jeff appeared by her side and lifted up her ankle, wrapping it in his shirt. Beads of sweat trailed down from his collarbone and dripped from his bangs, where the shirt had been. “I need some ice—there is an ice machine back in the Tower,” Holly said. He scooped her up in his arms and began carrying her back. “Why do you live in that Tower, anyway?” “That’s a long story” Holly said, feeling the warmth of his chest against her back and the firmness of his grip on her hip and shoulder. * * * Holly lay on the daybed by the panoramic windows of the Tower Suite with an ice pack wrapped around her left ankle, which was propped on some windows. Jeff sat by the nook of her hip, resting on his left arm which brushed against her bare left thigh. “You spend a lot of time up here?” Jeff said. “Ohh, yes. A lot of time,” Holly said. “It must be nice to be at home. I spend all of my time on the road, from one hotel room to another, or staying in rented apartments near a ball court. Different cities and countries. It is dizzying,” Jeff said. “But you are staying all summer here on the island, right?” Holly asked. “Yes, just up the street in an Air BnB. But I spend most of my days at the Future Stars Tennis Club, when I’m not giving lessons,” Jeff said. “It must be so exciting, traveling around the world, meeting so many different people,” Holly said. “More like being a soldier with marching orders, pitching your tent along the path of a war—only this war never ends until you call it quits—it is a war that has been waged forever and which goes on for eternity. And I think I’ve come to the end of my tour of duty,” Jeff said. “You make it sound so dreary. Come on, you must have some fun? There must be a special lady out there that meets you out on the road,” Holly said. “No. Not really. With my schedule and all my handlers, coaches, dieticians, managers, and assistants, I scarcely have a moment to breathe,” Jeff said. “Funny, sometimes when I’m up here in the Tower, I feel as if all I have is time and not one good thing to do with it,” Holly said. Jeff looks at Holly’s freckled cheeks, studious green eyes, and solicitously pursed burgundy lips and begins to caress her arm with an aloof detachment. “Do you think we can continue our lesson… later this afternoon?” He nods. “Will you stay with me?” He nods. Her heart stirs and she sits up. She gazes at his face and looks from his lips to his eyes. “We really shouldn’t.” He moves his face near to her far cheek and whispers in her ear, “We should.” Then, pulling his face a few inches back and inclining his eyes downward, she feels a pull and all at once puts her hand on the back of his head and begins kissing him. * * * Rose stormed into Holly’s room and said, “You can’t be serious.” “What mother?” Holly asked. “You had that boy in the house,” Rose said. “After everything we’ve been working toward—toward a normal life—a chance at a mathematics chair at Princeton?” “I was injured mother,” Holly said. “Injured my ass. You aren’t seeing that boy again, and you are going to New York tonight where you can start the treatment,” Rose said. “But mother! I have the whole summer before I’m set to start the treatment,” Holly said. “Not anymore you don’t,” Rose said.

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George and the Dragon

‘I don’t want to do it!’ George said as he flicked aside the tent flap to take in the camp, huddled in a valley, all mist and pine trees. ‘Why not?’ Layla asked as she rolled over on the bed and flicked back her long, glossy black hair. ‘It’s what you do, after all.’ It was all very well for her to say that. She’d get to stay in the camp, wrapped up in furs. She probably wouldn’t even get out of bed. ‘It’s the last one, Layla. When I kill this one, there will be none left. That’s it. No more dragon. Doesn’t that make you sad?’ George asked as he pulled his dragon scale armour on. Dragon scales because they were light, tough and, most importantly, fireproof. ‘Seriously, you’re sad? Those monsters destroy crops, kill livestock and burn down towns. Not to mention the virgins that have been offered to them. I’ll never forget the terror as that scaly beast crawled up to me, red drool dripping from its fangs.’ It was actually blood, but George thought better than to say so. He’d already dealt the coup de gras. The dragon would have been unable to devour Layla, and was merely crawling away to die. ‘I thought you were just worried you’d have no more work once you kill this last one,’ Layla said, examining her long nails with an expert eye. ‘I don’t want to keep living like a pauper.’ ‘There’s always work for knights.’ George needed it. Layla’s tastes ran to the luxury end of the spectrum. The king’s reward for destroying the dragon and rescuing the princess was her hand in marriage, a parcel of farmland George didn’t really know what to do with, and the title of baron. None of this sufficed to keep Princess Layla in the manner to which she was accustomed. George suspected there was a reason it had been Layla, not one of her sisters, that had been chosen as the sacrifice for the dragon. It was a win-win for the king. Either a dragon got her or a knight. Either way, she was no longer the king’s problem. ‘Where’s breakfast?’ Layla said with a pout. ‘I’ll find out,’ George said and stepped out into the camp. The rest of the tents were smaller and the men slept on the ground. Just as he used to do. But a princess wouldn’t tolerate that. Just as she wouldn’t put up with a simple breakfast. So there was a rabbit roasting for the princess with a vegetable heavy pottage for the rest of them. The men crowded around the fire holding a low voiced conversation while waiting for the bread baking amongst the hot rocks of the fire. Half the men had been with George from the beginning and were veteran dragon hunters. The other half were supplied by the local duke, who’d engaged George’s services to deal with the dragon. ‘What will we be doing next, Sir George?’ one of the newbie’s asked. He was young and swung between excitement that he was on a dragon hunt and moments of panic for the same reason. ‘The dragon’s over that hill, right?’ ‘That’s right,’ another of the local men said. ‘There’s a cliff above a bend in the river and a cave complex the dragon is using.’ ‘Alright,’ George said and hooked one of the now golden brown loaves of bread out of the fire with his dagger. ‘The moment you’ve eaten, get into position. I’m heading out. Sir James, you’re in charge, and make sure the princess is not discomforted while we’re away.’ James rolled his eyes at mention of the princess but made sure only George saw that. ‘Leave it with me, sir.’ George had seldom left his camp with such reluctance. He’d made a good living with this dragon lark and couldn’t believe this would be his last. Still, he was getting old and so was Mace. His battle horse was the best and had once trampled a dragon to death when George had been knocked flying by a wildly swinging dragon’s tail. He fell into contemplation as he and Mace wended their way through the dense pine forest. The season chosen for the hunt was deliberate. Autumn fog masked the scent of men and their horses, dampened sound and obscured the smoke from their fires. All necessary when trying to creep up on an apex predator. George wended his way south down a slope that led to the river. Mace’s hooves clicked loudly on the pebbles so George led him into the shallows and the two of them waded upstream. The sides of the mountains gradually grew higher and steeper till they were finally at the cliff and the bend the locals had described. Around this corner was the dragon’s lair. George dismounted and gave Mace the sign to stay. Then he drew his sword and, his back against the cliff wall, he edged along and peered around the corner. There it was, its red scales glistened as it wallowed in the river. It arched a long, graceful neck, tipping its head back as it swallowed water, and its wings fluttered, scattering droplets. It was the biggest dragon George had ever seen. Easily three to four times the size of Mace. Considering that female dragons tended to be bigger than the males, George decided it had to be a female, an ancient one at that. While she was distracted with her bath, George crept up the short slope that led to the cave mouth. He’d been assured by the locals that it was the only entrance. This had to be secured so that the dragon didn’t bolt into the cave. It was apparently a labyrinth in there, and much harder to wield a weapon in the enclosed space, let alone approach a fire-breathing dragon. George curled his tongue and whistled and Mace charged up the river. The dragon lurched upwards, wings outspread to make herself as big as possible, her scales shimmering copper in the watery autumn light. George leaped from the ledge onto Mace and hoisted his lance out of its holster. Now he had his sword in his left hand, lance in the right and he and Mace blocking the entrance. The dragon hissed and scuttled backwards, putting the river between them. Its great golden eyes with the black slit pupils glared at him. It kept its wings spread, but closer to its body now. Its muscles tensed, ready to take flight. Most dragons were used to winning and would try to secure their den and drive invaders off. But George couldn’t risk it. He gave another shrill whistle. Crossbow bolts rained down from above. His men were in position and ready to support. The dragon shrieked as the bolts tore her wings to shreds and bounced off her scales. Now she was grounded. At least until her wings regenerated, but that would take a while. ‘Back off,’ she hissed. Oh great, she could talk. George hated the ones who could talk. He preferred thinking of dragons as huge, dangerous beasts he was within his rights to slaughter. It felt different when he could hear their thoughts and worst when they pleaded for their lives. ‘You! You’re the dragon killer.’ Her voice rough like a sword being dragged across a stone. George could hardly deny it. His armour and Mace’s barding was a mottled collection of green, black, and gold dragon scales. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. Normally, George would just charge. There was no point in chatting with a creature he was going to kill. This time he couldn’t do it. ‘What do you think?’ ‘I made a deal with the duke.’ ‘Did you?’ ‘He offered me 50 cows, and I swore I wouldn’t touch anything else on his land.’ ‘Well, you’ve broken the promise, haven’t you? More livestock has gone missing and there have been several unexplained fires.’ ‘Lies!’ George shrugged. He had learned that fire was difficult for dragons to generate and was only used as a last resort. They would never randomly fly about setting fire to things. But people were expert at blaming anything that couldn’t defend itself. A dragon gave carte blanche to every feuding neighbour to settle things by burning down an enemy’s house or barn and every livestock thief to make the most of the situation. The duke himself had said he wasn’t that worried about the dragon, just the lawlessness its presence engendered. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I have a job to do,’ George said and raised his lance. The dragon hissed and danced sideways; her left wing dragging. She looked like she was trying to lead George away from the entrance to the cave, but he had to keep it covered and keep her out. He knew better than to charge her. Dragons, like lizards, could shed their tails. But unlike a lizard who would run away, leaving the predator transfixed by a wriggling tail, the dragon used their heavy, muscular tail as a swirling, sharp-edged weapon. Any fool who got too close would have to avoid both the tail and the dragon’s attacks. Instead, George scanned the dragon’s less well armoured belly. She was keeping low now, making use of her armour plating. George tightened his grip on his lance and faked a charge, but pulled back as the dragon’s long neck shot towards him, her mouth wide, displaying terrifyingly sharp teeth. Snap, she chomped fresh air and George pressed his advantage with a jab at her eye, which she narrowly avoided as she jerked back. ‘You’re slower than expected,’ the dragon hissed. ‘You’re getting too old for this.’ ‘Not too old to kill you,’ George said, but the words hurt. Thank God this would be the last. ‘Your heart’s not in it.’ The dragon’s eyes narrowed and her voice lowering till it was all sibilants. ‘Let’s make a deal.’ ‘You like deals, don’t you?’ George said and nudged Mace to turn him about, so that now his sword arm was nearer the dragon. ‘Maybe it isn’t me but you who’s getting too old for this.’ ‘I am the last of my kind, human, thanks to you.’ ‘If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, it won’t work,’ George said and charged. The dragon raised one tattered wing and the sword clashed against the long strut like bone and George backed off again. ‘I have gold,’ the dragon said. ‘A mountains of it.’ ‘I’ve heard that before but I’ve never seen it.’ George had only ever found a few sacks of coins, obviously offerings from the local people to placate dragons. But they seemed of little interest to the creatures. ‘You have just never found it. Gold is special to my kind and well hidden.’ ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’ ‘I’ll give you all the gold your horse can carry if you let me go. I give you my word.’ ‘Not good enough,’ George said and charged. She twisted away and his lance screeched along the scales of her side. ‘I’ll disappear too, for a hundred years. How about that?’ Now that wasn’t a bad deal. If she vanished, George could claim the duke’s payment without the associated guilt. ‘How can you guarantee that?’ George asked as he backed towards the cave, and the dragon held her position on the far riverbank. ‘I’ll give you the gold and then seal myself in the cave. Even if people search every path, they will never find me.’ ‘But you’ll die if you can’t leave your cave for so long,’ George said and let Mace sidle back and forth, while he kept both weapons aimed at the dragon, mainly so that his men above didn’t wonder what was going on. ‘I had an enormous meal recently. I won’t need to eat for a long time.’ Since dragons were reptiles, George knew that was true, although he suspected even a massive meal wouldn’t keep a dragon going for a century. Then again, he’d be luck to still be alive for the next fifty, so as long as she didn’t appear before then, he could go to his grave as the man who killed the last dragon. ‘That still doesn’t seem possible.’ ‘I’ll hibernate,’ the dragon said while she dashed forward and then back again, as if testing George’s defences. Was she also playing for the audience, or was she planning an attack? ‘Mmm.’ George had a win-win situation. Either the dragon just vanished and he’d get the duke’s reward without risk of injury. Or, better yet, the dragon kept her word, gave him some treasure and disappeared. ‘Alright, but we can’t let anyone else know. Mine and the duke’s men want to kill you. If we’re going to do this, we need to put on a show.’ ‘What kind of show?’ ‘You need to drop your tail and send a burst of fire towards me. I’ll pretend to fall back enough for you to slip past me into the cave. I’ll give chase and follow you to your lair. You give me the gold and then seal yourself inside the cave. Then I’ll come out with the gold and take your tail back to the duke as evidence that you’re dead.’ ‘Just the tail?’ ‘If you can spare a few scales, that would be helpful.’ ‘Do you know how much it hurts to shed my tail?’ the dragon asked, her muscles bunching in readiness for a charge. ‘Better than losing your life,’ George said, and allowed Mace to step back a bit. ‘Alright.’ With the sound of flesh ripping, the dragon’s tail fell into the river, thrashing about and sending water everywhere. The dragon roared and fire billowed towards George, who held his breath as the flames battered against his and Mace’s armour. A shadow flashed through the flames into the cave and George heard a shout from his men as he wheeled Mace about and gave chase. The dragon shot down a tunnel, turned left, then right, then left again, up, then left, then down. The clank and clutter of the dragon’s feet and the thud of Mace’s hooves filled George’s ears as he memorised every twist and turn. ‘Whoa!’ George bellowed as they rounded another bend and nearly crashed into an enormous pile of treasure glittering under the light of several torches on the walls of a circular cave. George’s first thought was, well I’ll be, there really is a treasure. His second was that it was uncomfortably warm. With a clink and jingle, the dragon crawled up onto the pile of gold and blinked down at George. ‘So what will you do now?’ She had the height advantage, and most likely a good couple of breaths of fire left in her. ‘I’ll keep my promise,’ George said, ‘as long as you keep yours.’ ‘Take however much you can carry,’ the dragon said, waving a claw. George dismounted, keeping his sword in his hand and an eye on the dragon. With his left hand, he scooped up gold coins, sparkling gems, jewellery and even a diamond encrusted crown. Mace’s saddlebags were large, because George usually took as many dragon scales as he could fit. They could, therefore, hold a lot of treasure. George wondered whether he should return to all the other places he’d fought dragons and scour their former lairs for more gold. Then again, he’d hardly be needing it, even after he gave his men a cut of the booty. He scooped his hand deep into the gold, marvelling at how it shimmered, when he felt something leathery and smooth against his fingertips. He wriggled towards the object and the treasure slipped down revealing a large cream-coloured, conical egg. ‘Shit,’ George muttered as his eyes shot to the dragon. She glared back. Her breath sounded loud and slow, Mace’s huffing was louder and George’s heartbeat nearly obscured it all. A mother defending her nest was a fearsome beast. George pushed the gold and gems back against the egg with his foot, then he scattered the coins in his hand over the top. He backed away, his eyes never wavering from the dragon’s as he reached for Mace’s reign. ‘You’d best keep to your side of the bargain,’ George said as he swung himself up into the saddle. He gave Mace a nudge, and the horse took off. A mighty roar followed them and flames billowed outwards. With a crack, the ceiling came down behind them, sending rocks tumbling. George and Mace hurtled through the debris, following the track he’d memorised. George was already working out what he’d say to his men who’d be waiting at the cave entrance. The dragon was dead, he’d say. He had the tail and the treasure and the dragon’s promise. He was fine. He could look forward to a quiet retirement. Him, Princess Layla and the treasure.

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Death #599

He could tell Death #216 wanted to break the news lightly. Her sallow cheekbones protruded with extra prominence under the unfriendly, corporate lights. After looking at the panel of eight Deaths, he realized a summon to the Committee's headquarters, if nothing else, tended to provide a physical esteem boost. He would certainly need it today. "Death #599, thank you for gathering to meet with us. We obviously understand how busy your daily schedule is." He nodded in acknowledgement. Silent. Elegant. Composed. Death #216's voice filled the hall with an echoing quality of boredom. "While we all appreciate the service you have provided during your tenure as Death, we must accept the changing of times." Her breath rattled as she continued, avoiding eye contact. "We, as a committee, for the betterment of our world as a whole and our image as the leading and respected office of Death Practices, have decided to replace your post with Death #600." Silence, elegance, composure. He had never struggled to maintain the merits of the Death Oath until now. The changing of times? Had he not performed his duties perfectly? The Industrial Revolution had provided greater lifetime expectancies, but surely they hadn't expected him to maintain the same quotas without an appropriate adjustment… Death #152 interrupted, eyes narrow as he examined the newly unemployed man with indifference. Serving a tenure during the Bubonic Plague never made anyone the most sympathetic. "Numbers are down. Expectancies are growing. We have quotas to fill, and you served alright, for a time of relative peace. But things are rumbling, and we need some youth." ”Fresh insight, you know? Death's these days are very attuned to the finer ways of mortality." Death #432 pitched in, the youngest of the committee. Even her colorful glasses reeked of youthful hope. "Times are changing. Heartbreak, it's just as deadly as influenza! Love, I mean, come on, what a weapon, right? It truly is an exciting time to be in business, and we need someone on the frontline who has a little more, well, flair." Flair? "Investors aren't interested in the same old pox anymore. We're looking for murder, mystery, war. Something bright, you know? We're rebranding, and we can't be held back by tradition." Death #432 seemed shocked that he wasn't as thrilled as her, celebrating as she flung out his career with a bubbly tone. "Death #600 has shown extreme promise. And, the committee has always found your timing immensely impressive. Not a single breath wasted. Impeccable. So, as a sort of symbol of change, you know, old ringing in the new, you've been given the honor of mentoring our new and brightest Death!” She delivered the shameful sentence as though he had just won a shiny Ford Model T. Disgusting. Death #322 pitched in, a smart looking man with a tailored gray suit. "You will, of course, receive a generous benefits package for the next 60 days to aid in your transition." If he could swing his scythe at other Death's… No . He allowed his breathing to normalize before looking up at the eight panel members. They all looked back at him with various expressions ranging from pity to indifference to excitement. Silence. Elegance. Composure. "It's been an honor." You Death damned pox filled idiots. He kept that thought bitten down. Death #432 clicked her fuchsia nails together, as if everything had gone exactly to plan. "Well, then. Bring her in, folks. Death #600, everybody!" Her voice reverberated off the floor to ceiling windows behind the committee table. He thought her gaudy words might be loud enough to squeeze through the pristine paneling and fall down to the Earth below. Death #599 turned to see the massive oak doors open to reveal the most pathetic looking Death the Academy could have possibly produced. She stood with arms crossed, a muddy and oversized trench coat trailing behind her. Glasses far too thick for her slender face perched on her nose, and she introduced herself with a wheezing cough. Apparently, his disapproval met no company. The eight panel members all stood, and came down to greet the little thing with congratulations. Seriously? When the introductions were finished, #600 looked up expectantly at the newly laid-off man before her. "Hello." Her voice was meek. She let out a sniffle. He provided no response, and instead pulled out a handkerchief and passed it with two delicate fingers to the girl, who accepted it with a loud blow of snot. With one last look of derision at the beaming committee, he turned to the door and escorted the young Death into sure failure. —-- By the time they reached their first client, #600 hadn't taken her eyes off of the quota handheld. He shook his head. Damn 600's. Rumors had flown through his dignified circle about this generation of Death's. Impatient. Number oriented. Sappy. Sensitive. He had combatted such wide sweeping accusations, offering his worldly opinion to such a consistently captive audience, suggesting the possibility of a brave new youth. But here it was, right in front of him. His mistaken narrative. Clear as blood. They watched as the gray haired human below them gasped for air, surrounded by crying family. Some Death's considered such sentiment a mere obstacle to their busy schedules, but he had always chosen to have patience in these moments, even at the cost of quotas. Dignity had no price. Death #600 was looking at the man below with a look of pained sympathy. Here was her first chance. The older human whispered his final breaths to his small human family. "I need you to know…." Another gasp of air. The two Death's started to walk along the hard wooden floor to the four post bed. He saw the young Death shiver as she stepped in pools of ice water, dripping from rags the dying man's wife plunged into a silver bucket and hurried across the floor to his forehead. A small fire crackled in the corner, where two young boys sat, tears catching the reflection of the flames. He ignored the odor of oil and onions wafting from somewhere in the room, reminding him of his skipped breakfast. He allowed the scent of decaying flesh to occupy his nostrils instead. It's a good smell, too. Same thing as the smell of a fresh notebook to a sharp lawyer. The smell of productivity. Different business, different odor. Death #599 turned to the girl. This is it. "Okay, timing is everything. Remember that. Connect with your clients, and don't be cruel. We're in the business of Death, not taxes." Death #600 nodded solemnly, "My dear family…." The man continues to wheeze. "I never told you, but…." Here it is. The moment. He lifted the golden scythe from his callused hands, lying it across the smooth hands of the expectant young Death before him. Bad decision. She immediately crippled under its weight and watched with disbelief as it slipped into the man's chest below, making contact with a radiating thud. Well, damn . As the family below cried with shock at the mystery of their father's unspoken words, the young Death looked absolutely stricken. Death #599 made no attempt to contain his disdain. "You dropped the scythe?" His voice grew as the handheld beeped with the first fulfilled quota. The name of the man scratched itself into the screen in blue text. Alexander George Jones. "What do they teach you at the Academy anymore? Did you not take scythe training?" Her eyes welled. "Well, sort of." He strained to hear her panicked whisper. "What do you mean, sort of?" "Well, we did, but I started vomiting during that class, and had to leave early-” "You are telling me that this was your first time wielding a scythe?" "Well, I, well…" her words trailed. He cut her off with silence, interrupted only by the wails below. "How did you get this position?" She looked up at him, a glimmer of pride in those watery blue eyes. "I got top marks in Death Theory, History, and Handheld Malfunction Repair." She smirked. "No one else could even guess at which disembowelment techniques were most popular in the 1300s." —- Despite her claims, Death #600 showcased nothing other than an impressive tendency for clumsiness. His lecture in accuracy was followed by a thunderous neigh as a horse was killed instead of its cholesterol laden rider. He demonstrated the art of a quick death, and watched with shame as his unskilled pupil hacked at a woman until he grabbed the scythe back and mercifully struck her heart. When he spoke of sympathy, Death #600 even had the gall to interrupt him. "Remember, we only take lives for physical ailments. There are no quotas for shame, guilt, anything, no matter how much a human might beg, it is-" "Oh, that is so 500's of you." Death #600 giggled. "Excuse me?" "Guilt does kill. Broken heart? It's now included in the criteria of acceptable maladies. The Regulations for Death and Behavior was just updated. Section AM, Heading 5. Version 1914.” Her eyes registered no recognition of her rudeness. She stared at him, dutiful as any student could be, almost as though expecting praise. A deep sigh worked its way out of his chest. "I think it's near time we returned." She balked. "But, the handheld, it's not even showing 60 percent quota completion!" Her shock was visible. He wanted to tell her that he didn't give a damn. That it was her problem now anyway, and that she exhausted him more in one day than Napoleon had in an entire decade. Instead, he merely shrugged. Ignoring her protests, he turned around and started the trudge back up the glimmering stairs to Death's headquarters, letting Death #600 pathetically drag the heavy scythe behind her, too weak to carry it. Her strained breath was ragged with exhaustion, playing a duet of disgrace with her stupid, trailing coat that thumped up the immaculate stairs. And then, the thud. It came out of nowhere, and stopped him mid step. The duet buzzed with silence. A sudden premonition rose in his chest as he turned, slowly, to face the wide eyed girl before him. Her hands were empty, and her eyes fluttered down to take in the scene she painted with her brush of stupidity. There was a moment of silence. There always was, before a mistake kill. And then chaos. Always, always chaos. His whisper bit as sharp as the scythe, as the handheld began to buzz with fervor. "Who was it?" Anger couldn't hide the amazement that she had dropped the scythe not once, but twice, in her first day. "Archduke Franz Ferdinand." She responded. "Heard of him?"  Admittedly he had not, but he looked through the thin cloud layer to the human world below, and saw the chaos he had so long placated begin to unfold. They finished their trek in silence. Worst case scenarios unfolded in his mind. Stupid mentorship . They're going to blame me for this. Not the teachers, not the parents, certainly not her. Goodbye Committee dreams. I might as well apply for organ janitor before my name is entirely defamed." They reached the tall oak doors, looming before them. They pulled out their timecards. A final punch for him, a first for her. Looking down at #600, he watched as she stared with determination and fear at the intimidating doorframe. He sighed. "Alright, kid. Here we go. Just, own up to it, alright? Honesty. Above anything.” She nodded with timid bravery, not taking her eyes off the door. He pushed it open. Balloons decorated the hallway. Streamers gathered at his feet. Little Death's ran around the cavernous space, blowing small flutes that let out a shriek of noise. He wiped confetti out of his eyes to read the banner above him. "Welcome World War One!" Huh? His confusion barely registered as he was pushed aside to see Death #432 hurry up to the young girl, shaking her hand with awe. "Genius! Such young promise. You've certainly set yourself up for a busy tenure, but quotas are already through the roof! Welcome to the team, New Death." He stood there, alone, one streamer hanging loosely from his top hat in front of his vision, like a pathetic schoolboy with no one left to play with. Before she was shuffled away, the young girl spared him one last shrug. "Timing is everything, right?" 

w93ghu

Love Lost

Anya and Ethan met in high school. They were both in the same English class, and they quickly bonded over their shared love of books and writing. Anya was shy and introverted, while Ethan was outgoing and confident.  But despite their differences, they were drawn to each other like magnets. They started dating their junior year, and they were inseparable.  They would spend hours talking about their dreams and aspirations, and they supported each other through thick and thin.  Anya helped Ethan with his math homework, and Ethan helped Anya with her English essays.  They were each other's best friends, and they were deeply in love. After high school, Anya and Ethan went to different colleges.  But they made an effort to stay in touch, and they visited each other as often as they could.  Their relationship only grew stronger with distance. After college, Anya and Ethan moved to the same city and got jobs.  They were finally able to be together full-time, and they were happier than they had ever been. They started talking about getting married and having children. One day, Ethan's company offered him a job promotion in another city.  It was a great opportunity for him, but it meant that he would have to move away from Anya. She was heartbroken, but she knew that it was a good opportunity for him, and she supported his decision. Anya and Ethan tried to make a long-distance relationship work, but it was difficult.  They missed each other terribly, and they both knew that it wasn't a long-term solution. After a year of trying to make long-distance work, Anya and Ethan decided to break up.  It was the hardest decision they had ever had to make, but they knew that it was the right thing to do. Anya and Ethan were both devastated by the breakup.  But they knew that it was for the best.  They remained friends, but it was difficult to see each other and know that they couldn't be together. A few years after the breakup, Anya and Ethan both met new people and started new relationships.  Anya met a man named David, and Ethan met a woman named Sarah.  They were both happy in their new relationships, but they still thought about each other often. One day, Anya and Ethan ran into each other at a coffee shop.  They were both surprised and happy to see each other. They caught up on their lives, and they realized that they still had a lot in common. They started spending more time together, and they eventually fell back in love.  They knew that it was a risky move, but they couldn't deny their feelings for each other. Anya and Ethan were determined to make their relationship work this time.  They were both more mature and experienced than they had been when they were younger.  They knew what they wanted in a partner, and they knew that they were perfect for each other. They started talking about getting married again, and they were both excited about the future.  But fate had other plans. One day, Ethan was in a car accident. He was seriously injured, and he didn't survive. Anya was devastated. She couldn't believe that Ethan was gone. She had lost the love of her life, and she didn't know how she was going to move on. Anya took a long time to grieve Ethan's death.  She went to therapy, and she spent a lot of time with her friends and family.  She knew that Ethan would want her to be happy, so she slowly started to rebuild her life. She eventually started dating again, but she never forgot Ethan.  He was the love of her life, and she would always cherish the memories they shared. Anya never got a happily-ever-after with Ethan, but their love story was still special.  It was a story of two people who found each other, lost each other, and then found each other again. It was a story of true love, even if it didn't end the way they had hoped. One day, Anya received a letter in the mail.  It was from a young woman named Sarah. Sarah wrote that she had read Anya's book, and that it had helped her to cope with the loss of her husband. Sarah also wrote that she had recently met a man named David, and that she was falling in love with him.  She was worried about starting a new relationship, but Anya's book had given her hope. Anya was touched by Sarah's letter.  She wrote back to Sarah and told her that she was happy for her.  She also told her that it was okay to be scared, but that she shouldn't let her fear stop her from finding love again. A few months later, Anya received another letter from Sarah.  Sarah told her that she and David were getting married. She also thanked Anya for her support. Anya was so happy for Sarah.  She knew that Ethan would be happy too. A few years later, Anya was invited to Sarah's wedding. She was honored to be there, and she sat in the front row next to David's parents. As Sarah walked down the aisle, Anya couldn't help but think about Ethan.  She wished that he could be there to see her getting married.  But she knew that he was there in spirit. After the wedding, Anya had a chance to talk to Sarah and David.  She told them how happy she was for them, and she wished them a lifetime of happiness. "Thank you for everything, Anya," Sarah said.  "Your book helped me to find the strength to move on after my husband died.  And now I'm here, getting married to the man of my dreams." Anya smiled. "I'm so happy for you, Sarah," she said.  "And I know that Ethan would be happy too." Anya left the wedding feeling hopeful.  She knew that Ethan's death had been a tragedy, but she also knew that his love had given her the strength to live a full and happy life.  She was grateful for the time they had spent together, and she would always cherish the memories they shared. Anya continued to write and speak about grief and loss.  She also continued to work with her foundation, helping others who had lost loved ones.  She knew that she could never truly replace Ethan in her heart, but she was determined to make a difference in the world because of him. One day, Anya was invited to speak at a grief conference. She was nervous, but she knew that it was important to share her story.  She wanted to let others know that they were not alone, and that there was hope for healing. Anya's speech was well-received.  She spoke about her love story with Ethan, his death, and her journey to healing.  She also talked about the importance of finding support after a loss. After the speech, Anya was approached by a woman named Emily.  Emily told Anya that her speech had inspired her.  She had recently lost her husband, and she was struggling to cope. Anya gave Emily her contact information and invited her to reach out if she ever needed anything.  Emily thanked Anya and walked away. A few weeks later, Anya received an email from Emily.  Emily told Anya that she had been attending her foundation's support group, and that it was helping her to heal.  She also said that she was starting to feel hopeful again. Anya was so happy to hear from Emily.  She knew that Ethan would be proud of her for helping others. Anya continued to work with Emily and the other members of her support group.  She knew that grief was a journey, and that there would be ups and downs along the way.  But she also knew that there was hope for healing. One day, Anya received a letter from Emily.  Emily told Anya that she was pregnant.  She was so excited, and she wanted to thank Anya for her support. Anya was overjoyed.  She knew that Ethan would be so happy for Emily.  She also knew that he would want her to be a godmother to her child. Anya accepted Emily's offer to be a godmother, and she became close to Emily and her family.  She watched as Emily's son grew up, and she was there for him every step of the way. Anya never forgot Ethan, but she knew that he would want her to move on and be happy.  She was grateful for the time they had spent together, and she knew that their love would always be with her. One day, Anya was sitting in her rocking chair, holding Emily's son in her arms.  She was looking at a framed photo of Ethan, and she smiled. "I miss you, Ethan," she said.  "But I know that you're proud of me. I'm living a happy life, and I'm making a difference in the world. And that's all because of you." Anya knew that she would never get a happily-ever-after with Ethan, but she was content. She had a loving family and friends, and she was making a difference in the world. She was grateful for the love she had shared with Ethan, and she knew that he would always be with her in her heart. Anya's life continued to be full and meaningful in the years that followed.  She continued to write and speak about grief and loss, and she worked tirelessly with her foundation to help others.  She was also a loving godmother to Emily's son, and she cherished the time she spent with him. One day, Anya was invited to speak at a high school about her experiences with grief and loss.  She was nervous, but she knew that it was important to share her story with the students. She wanted to let them know that they were not alone, and that there was hope for healing. Anya's speech was well-received.  She spoke about her love story with Ethan, his death, and her journey to healing. She also talked about the importance of finding support after a loss. After the speech, Anya was approached by a young man named Michael.  Michael told Anya that her speech had inspired him.  He had recently lost his father, and he was struggling to cope. Anya gave Michael her contact information and invited him to reach out if he ever needed anything.  Michael thanked Anya and walked away. A few weeks later, Anya received an email from Michael.  Michael told Anya that he had been attending her foundation's support group, and that it was helping him to heal.  He also said that he was starting to feel hopeful again. Anya was so happy to hear from Michael.  She knew that Ethan would be proud of her for helping others. Anya continued to work with Michael and the other members of her support group.  She knew that grief was a journey, and that there would be ups and downs along the way.  But she also knew that there was hope for healing. One day, Anya received a letter from Michael.  Michael told Anya that he was going to college to study social work.  He said that he wanted to help others who had lost loved ones, just like Anya had helped him. Anya was so touched by Michael's letter.  She knew that Ethan would be so proud of him too.  She wrote back to Michael and told him that she believed in him. Anya continued to live a full and meaningful life.  She was grateful for the love she had shared with Ethan, and she knew that he would always be with her in her heart. She was also grateful for the opportunity to help others who had lost loved ones. She knew that she was making a difference in the world, and that was all because of Ethan. Epilogue Anya grew up to be a successful writer.  She wrote a novel about her love story with Ethan, and it became a bestseller. She gave talks and interviews about her book, and she helped other people who had lost loved ones. Anya never forgot Ethan, but she knew that he would want her to be happy. She lived a full and meaningful life, and she always kept Ethan's memory close to her heart. Ten years after Ethan's death, Anya was sitting in her office, looking at a framed photo of the two of them together. She smiled as she remembered all the good times they had shared. She was a loving godmother, a successful author, and a respected speaker on grief and loss.  She was also the founder of a thriving foundation that helped others who had lost loved ones. Anya closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  She was content.  She had lived a good life, and she was making a difference in the world. That was all that mattered.

t58yey

The Viper

Standing near the crest of the hill, Janelle basked in the day's warmth as sunlight flushed her cheeks. She could hear seabirds wheeling overhead, screaming as they looked for food. A raven, her favorite bird, called in the distance. A breeze, fresh from the sea, cold and acrid, brisk and salted, swept the hair from her shoulders and stung her cheeks. The tendrils whipped in the air like a hundred black vipers striking at their prey. She reveled in it, knowing she looked like a Medusa. Her leather jerkin creaked as Janelle turned toward her father. Sitting on his throne, he looked grave, but then, he always did. The gray of his beard did little to hide the sorrow of a man who had lost everything he loved. Now, there was only Janelle and this barren landscape. The wind stung her face with grains of sand. Like walking through a fire, she felt cleansed. It was unusual that Daddy would want to meet her here. Why not in his chambers? But no, he'd demanded she present herself here, in the outdoors, in this receiving area. There were no fawning courtiers, no simpering ladies in waiting. They were surrounded by a dozen knights in ceremonial finery. They were as still as statues. They could have been chiseled from the hillside. The throne's stone frame held a man with a stony countenance. Rocks and the sea, these were his world. He was stern and unhappy. Inwardly, Janelle sneered. She listened to her father rumble. She didn’t catch the words. They didn’t really matter. They were like the bass drone of a bagpipe, long-winded and meaningless. A constant hum underlying her life. Janelle’s mind wandered. She was pleased with herself. Her muscles ached from the sparring practice this morning, but it was a good ache. She shrugged her shoulder to ease the tension of her sword arm. The captain of her guard would be off-duty until his wounds healed from their practice. The morning had been full. A ride on the dusty Esker, overlooking the sea, her guards racing to keep pace with her. Paperwork with her seneschal to arrange for the tithe of grain from her estate serfs. And sparring practice. It was even better than the archery targets. Bales of hay don’t cry out when struck. She had beaten three of her guardsmen during the sparring practice. She knew she could beat most of the men in her guard. And she knew she could kill a beast with her own hands. Or a man. And she had. Daddy was still talking. Janelle half-smiled as she recalled her latest exploit. Her heart beat faster as she replayed last week’s conquest on the sands of the arena. He was doomed from the start. She had hired him from the market. Her pet. Her slave. His name was Erik. Janelle had spiked his water, poisoned it and weakened his body. How else could she be sure to survive the encounter? Her nostrils flared as she remembered the acrid scent of his sweat as he fought her so valiantly. She remembered the scent of his death. Scent is the most powerful memory, longest held, and most closely tied to strong emotion. Her mind caressed the memories like most women caress their lovers. She recalled the powerful, metallic scent of his blood as she held his still-beating heart in her hand; the septic scent of his bowels as they oozed from his body and seeped into the sands of the arena. His eyes were surprised as she disemboweled him, then intelligence faded and he collapsed at her feet like a good slave, apparently kissing her boot even in death. Daddy didn’t like it. The lad had been a warrior, he said. One minor infraction had booted him from the cadre of soldiers. To make a living, he sold his body as a guard, where she had found him and then bought him. He thought to amuse himself with her. How could he, a simple, straightforward warrior, compete with the evil that was Janelle? She laughed aloud at the memory. Hearing the sound echo against the distant walls of her father’s audience chamber. She recalled where she was; three steps below her father’s throne. The laughter died, leaving only a hint of amusement in her eyes. What did Daddy want from her this time? She was his only daughter, his only child. Yes, he had spoiled her. She had everything she had ever wanted. Coin was minted with her visage. Men threw themselves at her feet. Women feared her. Perhaps the men feared her, too. The smart ones did. She half-listened to her father’s incessant droning. Words fell on her like raindrops. Excesses … complaints … gone too far . With the same amount of sincerity she has always had, she responded to his lecture. “Yes, Daddy. I’m so sorry, Daddy. I will cut my spending. I will be good.” She waved a hand of dismissal to the collective troops. “Shoo, I need some quality time with Daddy,” she crooned. But for the first time, the men stood their ground. Janelle realized something was amiss. She paused, evaluating the scene. Her head canted slightly as she replayed in her head what her father had said. “Janelle, I’ve had it. Your constant excesses have put my position in the city in jeopardy. You have put the entire city in jeopardy! There are constant complaints. The lower classes are rioting. Janelle, they want your head. If I don’t give you to them, they could well have mine. You’ve gone too far this time. That contest with Erik? No one believed it was a fair fight. He was well-liked, and you killed him. You’ve gone too far. You set out to kill a man, and you did. I should have you hung for this. Or killed as a traitor. I hate what you have become, oh daughter of mine. I don’t want to kill my own flesh and blood, so I am sending you into exile.” Janelle drew herself to her full height, looking at her father with all the deadly poison of a nest of cobras. Exile? How DARE he? But then she calmed her look with a cold calculation. “But Daddy, you can’t send me away, I looooove you. Who will be your sweet pea, your adorable little girl?” She tried her best to ingratiate herself back into his good graces. “You’ve done this before, Janelle, and I’m not having it. You are going. Today. You have the rest of the day to pack your things. When the sun touches the horizon, you will be outside the city gates. I am sending you to the North. For good. And don’t come back Janelle, or I will have you killed, child of mine or not.” Janelle was speechless. She drew herself up, prepared to pull out her daggers, but the warriors were ready for her. Suddenly, two were behind her, pulling her elbows together behind her back. Two more started removing her daggers from her boot, pulling up her skirts to remove the set she kept at her thigh, and pulling down her bodice to roughly remove the one in her cleavage. They even found the stiletto snaked into her leather belt and the poison pins in her hair. They knew them all. Her private maids must have told them! She growled, struggling, but they laughed roughly, knowing that for once, she had no power over them. Arms tied roughly behind her back, she was forced from the room. She looked one more time over her shoulder, but her father’s face was turned from her. Janelle spat on the floor as she was dragged away. I’ll be back , she thought.

93fqku

Bird Strike

Swinging slower and slower overhead, all four blades were nearly stopped. "Time to find out how bad it is." Jose pulled off his headset slipping it on his shoulder and opened the sliding door. Awkwardly he climbed the side of the helicopter to the hydraulic deck, climbing past Chewy who gave him the thumbs up from the pilot's chair. He slung his tool pouch over his shoulder. Terrance climbed up deftly behind him, "That bird came out of nowhere!" Following the blood streak to the engine, Jose hopped onto the cowling and popped the two tabs, using his leg to slowly open the compartment out. A few birds cawed from the tree line a few hundred feet south. Blood was everywhere and there was a hole in the IPS blower the size of his fist. "I said that bird came out of nowhere!" "Yeah, I heard you! Take a look at the crossbleed line, I heard it screaming after the bird strike. Maybe the sleeve clamp came loose." "Is the engine hard broke?" "Better hope not. That bird went straight through and out there." Jose gestured to the IPS blower. "Do you know why?" "IPS clears any large objects that might get into the engine. I'm not playing these stump the chump games!" "Yeah? Why don't you just focus on that line that you put in a few weeks ago then?" Grumbling Terrance popped open the main hatches by the oil cooler, just behind the main rotor. "What are you trying to say? I didn't install it right?" He reached into the compartment and felt the lines. "Hot!" He ripped his hand out from behind the compartment housing the oil cooler. Jose grunted and slid across the top of the UH-60 to look at the tube they needed to reconnect, a long screwdriver in hand from his pouch. "Of course it's hot! It's been blowing exhaust air for a few hours, did you think it'd be nicely chilled? Give me the flashlight!" "Why didn't you tell me?" "I'm paid to show you the ropes kid, not coddle you. How long have you worked this airframe?" Jose saw the tube that had come loose. Nothing else looked damaged, the clamp was hanging on the tube loosely. Terrance didn't answer, just looked into the compartment and muttered to himself. "I'm going to look over the engine, get that sleeve reinstalled, we can't stay here long." Jose glanced at the jungle around the clearing they'd put down in. He was pretty sure he saw a farm in the distance, but couldn't quite tell. "Why don't you take care of this? It's hot, how am I supposed to get it reinstalled right now?" "Get off! I've had it with your whining. Get off and send Chewy up here!" Staring blankly at him, Terrance didn't move. "I said get off this helicopter!" Jose shouted. Terrance made a rude gesture and slid to the side, climbing down quickly. Jose looked over the engine, nothing looked damaged externally. Hopefully the vanes hadn't been damaged and they could swap out the blower when they got back. "Eh! You firing people, grandpa?" Chewy popped her head over the edge of the bird, climbing up slowly. Jose grunted and motioned her over. "It looks ok from the outside. The crossbleed system got jostled and that blower will need to be replaced." "What about the engine drive shaft?" "Won't know till we get it started back up!" Chewy nodded and moved over to the crossbleed system. "It's still pretty hot." Jose looked up at the cloudy sky and sighed, "Yeah, we've got gloves!" "I'm just messing with you! Geez, relax old timer." She pulled out her gloves and rolled her eyes. After a few minutes she moved over so he could try to work it back into place. "Going to give him another go? Or leave him to bother Ricky?" Chewy had sat in the engine cowling unwrapping an RX bar. She jabbed a thumb at Terrance who was sitting on a log a few meters away next to the co-pilot. "Those bars are disgusting." "Are they?" She took another bite, "You just never had anything like this in your day." There was a breeze developing and it blew a piece of her wrapper up and into the air. She made a grab at it and then shrugged. "Feel bad to litter out here, it's beautiful." Jose rolled his eyes. "Yeah and locals aren't super friendly." He tried to jam the tubing sleeve back over the exhaust line. "You're done soon, right? Getting out of the company I mean?" Chewy chewed methodically. "Isn't your pay package tied to getting him trained up?" "Yeah." "He doesn't look trained to me." "Cause he's an idiot!" Jose grunted and the sleeve popped off. "COME ON!" "That's because YOU haven't trained him." "He's supposed to have his license and a few years under his belt from the military." Jose sat back a minute and stared down the compartment, his chubby hands lacerated from the sharp edges. "But he can't troubleshoot his way out of a cardboard box." Chewy snorted, her hair catching the breeze that was blowing south. "Yeah, but YOU haven't trained him. Besides you're full of it, the company wouldn't have brought him on..." "Have you worked with him?" She shrugged, "Once, he's a real gem. Asks too many questions." Holding up a hand she pointed at Jose, "But! But, hear me out, that's a tight spot and he hasn't put on as much weight as you have!" Jose barked out a laugh, his gut shaking, "What are you saying?!" "Nothing, I just think you should let the young buck do the work and you start relaxing for your retirement." A raised eye and a half smile. "I hate you." Jose leaned against the engine firewall and sighed. He shot a glare at her, "Fine." He shouted down to the two of them, waving his hand. Terrance walked back slowly to the bird, the long stick he had been playing with still in hand. Climbing carefully up the side, he pulled himself into the engine cowling. "You going to wack it into place?" Jose pointed to the stick. "Maybe." Terrance sourly grabbed the stick and slid it into place behind the tube. *Idiot* "It'll just break." Jose gave Chewy a look. "Maybe" With a bit of pressure he pushed against the tube and slipped his hand down into the compartment and gripped the sleeve, slowly wrenching it back and forth. His face dripped sweat as he slowly worked it until he finally grunted and stepped back. "It's on, I need the socket wrench to tighten down the clamp." Chewy laughed and Jose frowned, pulling himself to the compartment. "Lucky." Terrance muttered and then opened his mouth, "Why do they use this only sleeve style, I think there..." "Shut up!" Jose handed him the wrench with an extension, "Don't ruin a good thing." "Ok, old man, I'm going back down to start this puppy back up. Let me know when you're clear." Chewy descended quickly. Terrance made sure the sleeve was tight and then they popped the panels closed. Sliding across the top of the bird, they climbed back into the cabin, slipping on their comms, "Looks good! Let's go before any locals show up!" Chewy gave a thumbs up, "Let's start it up!. "It's clear!" Terrance said over the speakers. The small turbine spun up, a plume of smoke bursting out then clearing as it roared loader. "Engine Two?" "Clear." Jose clicked said into his mic. She pushed the throttle up and Jose stuck his head out the window, watching another plume of exhaust, then the familiar hum. "It seems good!" "I've got power, let's get airborne!" Chewy ran through the startup with Ricky fast and blades started to turn, spinning up quickly. "Droops out!" Terrance keyed the mic, "Ground is on board." The shocks lifting as the helicopter reached full power, finally pulling itself back into the air. "You did alright kid." Jose gave him a thumbs up as they settled into the seats. Terrance turned and glanced at him, surprised. "You know, we should probably make an SOP modification for another..." "Shut up!" Chewy's mic clicked before Jose had a chance. He smiled.

c3ngfy

Peace

Peace Written by Danielle Marie Hall Young Gladwin was a curious boy. He preferred the company of creatures to people any day. Luckily, he was raised a shepherd and trained well by his parents. He loved his sheep and his dog who helped him in the work. He loved watching the sun rise and set from the grassy hill his sheep lived in. He loved the fresh bread and cheese his mom and sister prepared. He loved the sound of the wind passing by. He was happy from the moment he was born. He saw nothing in his future that would change that, for he thought he would be a shepherd all his life. But life rarely lets anyone be. Not long after Gladwin’s 16th birthday, across the Pennine Mountains, a terrible Dragon set a fiery path from the south and headed toward Barnard Castle. In fear, King Durmad called his advisors together. They devised a plan to divert the Dragon away from the castle and towards the sea. They worked tirelessly to accumulate enough treasure and livestock to distract the beast. It would have worked on any other Dragon, but this was a Petre Dragon. A race of Dragon more rare and dangerous than all others. The King did not know this, if he had he would have known that there was nothing he could have done to prevent the terror of Bernard Castle. With an empty treasury and depleted farms, the Dragon descended. The people fled. It was only after the dragon retreated that the King brought his top advisor, Ronald, to his side. The next morning messengers were sent out across the mountains to proclaim “ALL ABLE MEN ARE TO JOIN THE KINGS ARMY IN DEFENSE OF BERNARD CASTLE!” Gladwin could not refuse. After a sweet goodbye to his family, Gladwin joined the recruiter's caravan back to the castle. He packed very little knowing that things were useless in war. There were already 2 or 3 hundred recruits. From the first day on the road, they started training them all. They divided up into regiments, The Eels, The hornets, The Bears, and The foxes. The regiments were divided into companies numbered from one to fifty. The companies were divided into squads that were named after their squad leader. Gladwin found himself in the 27th Bear regiment in Cenewig Squad. His squad leader, Cenewig of Stratforth was ruthless and proud. Cenewig made sure the recruits knew their low rank from day one. Gladwin’s squad members were named Vin of Stainton, Shadd of Dufton, Avian of Dufton, and Eberto of Newbiggin. But to Gladwin, their names were Snob, Bully, friend, and Spy, respectively. Each new day of training only further proved his nicknames accurate. Cenewig ranked them from best to worst, Vinn, Shadd, Aberto, Avian, and Gladwin. The training itself was brutal. Snob was constantly rewarded for doing the smallest thing (probably because he was from Stainton, a new and wealthy town), Bully kept trying to make Friend look even worse than he naturally was (probably because they grew up in the same town), and Spy kept getting them all in trouble by sneaking off when they were supposed to be running drills. It was on just such a day when Gladwin was running drills with Friend that Bully approached them and hooked his foot around Friend’s ankle causing him to fall. Gladwell had had enough. “Why! Why do you always do that? If you don’t focus on your own training more you are going to die!” Gladwell shoved Bully’s shoulders with his hands. “How dare you touch me, lazy sheep boy!” Bully lunged at Gladwell pulling him to the ground. They wrestled and punched. In the end, Cenewig found them and broke it up. Not without adding a few hits of his own. That night Gladwin was cataloging his injuries while walking back to his tent when a noise from the trees distracted him. The darkness of the forest stared back at him as he stopped to inspect the sound. After a minute of staring Gladwin shrugged and continued on his way. “Hold!” A disembodied voice whispered firmly. Gladwin stopped and turned around, hand on his sword. “Who goes there?” he pronounced boldly. “Shhhhhh- Don’t draw attention! I can’t be seen.” The voice whispered eagerly. Gladwell looked around suspiciously. “Sir, show yourself. I don’t talk with shadows.” Gladwin stated, taking care to lower his volume. There was a long silence before the bushes rustled and a figure stepped out with his hands up and a smile on his face. “I am Wyatt. I have been watching you and I need your help.” Wyatt held Gladwin’s suspicious eyes in absolute certainty. “Why?” “Because not only are you good at fighting but you are kind. That is the type of person I need.” “Need for what?” “For my plan to work.” “What’s your plan?” “Later, for now just be ready.” The sound of footfall neared them. Pulling Gladwin’s focus towards the sound. When he returned his attention back, Wyatt was gone. Deeper into the night after everyone had finished the night chores and turned to bed Gladwin stayed outside to contemplate his strange encounter with Wyatt. Wyatt who? Why was he hiding? He looked like a deranged wanderer… what was that about a plan? I don’t want to get caught up in something possibly more dangerous than defeating a dragon. He sat under the stars with his thoughts until a light rain set in pulling him inside the tent, and into his bed where his thoughts swirled into dreams of a lost child in a dark forest, scared and running. Running from something. The next morning the rain-soaked camp packed up. A rumour spread through the camp of arriving at Bernard Castle by the end of the day. One that proved to be true as they marched over a hill and caught sight of it. It was not as large as Gladwin was expecting but the surrounding land was certainly a prize for any king. Once inside the Castle grounds, the recruit's training continued with the addition of the seasoned warriors assisting in training. For Cenewig Squad, they were assisted by a set of brothers that had won many honours in the name of the king. They insisted that names were for weaklings and therefore we were to call them Master. Tall Master was agile and quick and Muscle Master was strong and unmoveable. They trained the squad to be the same. Over the next month they trained, ate, and slept all while feeling the impending return of the dragon. After two months of training, the ranking ran from Gladwin, Vinn, Aberto, Shadd, and Avian. The day the Brother Masters announced their rankings was the day that everything changed for Gladwin. He was no longer invisible, not only did he get the notice of his superiors, but also the challenge of other squads. No one jumps rank from last to first. After a long day of training and challenges, Gladwin searched for a quiet place to rest. Away from the crowds of people trying to duel him. He left the training yard for the forest. Finding a sturdy tree, he sat against it. Closing his eyes he thought about his past week of fame. He didn’t understand how he had gotten to this point. Big sigh. “Well, it can’t be all that bad. Look at your ranking! I knew I had chosen the right person for the job.” A familiar voice floated down from above. Surprised that he wasn’t alone, Gladwin’s eyes scanned the tree branches overhead until he caught sight of the dishevelled Wyatt smiling back. “I thought you were hiding from the king, why are you on castle grounds? “It’s not the king I am hiding from it is his cursed advisor, Ronald of Barnard Castle and I am here for you. I need to show you something.” Wyatt jumped down from the tree with a thud, whispering “Follow me.” as he passed Gladwin. Gladwin got to his feet and stared after Wyatt. Should he follow? He should just go back to his bunk. Only after Wyatt had disappeared into the dark of the forest did Gladwin make his decision. Follow. Once Gladwin caught up, Wyatt glanced at him. “Good, now, the reason I need you is because no one will believe me. But if I show you, then you must help me free the creature.” Wyatt returned his attention to the path. “I don’t trust you, but I believe it is worth investigating. Explain yourself.” Gladwin placed all the confidence and authority he could muster on his face and in his voice. Wyatt chuckled. “You are well trained but your bravado will not help you tonight.” The smile left his voice as he continued. “I told you that I am avoiding Ronald. This is because I happened upon his treachery while travelling down the same road as Ronald of Bernard Castle and saw that he was carting a creature to the Castle. It was very dark that night, even the moon was avoiding the creton's treachery. I got off the road and moved through the forest to get a closer look. When I saw the creature I was so shocked I could not move. I watched them disappear behind the castle gates.” “What was it? The creature?” Gladwin pushed, frustrated by Wyatt’s cryptic style of storytelling. “It was an infant Dragon. No being has ever been mad enough to take a Dragon’s child.” Gladwin stopped in his tracks at the revelation, seeing that Wyatt did not wait Gladwin pressed on. “But how? I would think it impossible. And why? To what end? Is that-” “Yes, That is why our kingdom is being attacked by the Petre Dragon.” “I don’t believe you. This is just some tactic to get me alone. You heard how strong I have gotten and want to challenge me. And I fell for it.” “If that’s the case, why are you still following me? Nevertheless, we are here.” Gladwin was left confused as he came to a stop behind Wyatt who was picking the lock on a large wooden door at the side of the castle that was obscured by a curated garden. The lock popped open and they snuck inside. Wyatt placed a finger to his lips and moved in. Gladwin followed him to what appeared to be a dungeon of some sort. The air was ripe with sinister smells. A loud sound that was halfway between a snore and a cough ripped through the air causing Gladwin's hair to stand on end. Wyatt retrieved a candle from his picket and lit it. The light fell on the cage in front of them revealing a miniature Dragon curled up and sleeping. The memory of the child running in his dream flashed in his mind. It was all that Gladwin needed. Wyatt had been telling the truth! Wyatt blew out the candle and they left the way they had come. Only once halfway back to camp did either of them speak. “You were telling the truth!” Gladwin whispered the shock still evident on his face. “Go back to your tent for tonight. I will find you again to plan.” With that, Wyatt disappeared back into the forest leaving Gladwin to stumble back to the barracks. The next day, Gladwin trained and duelled like any other day, but unlike any other day, Gladwin planned out how he would free the infant. He couldn’t do it alone. He would need help. Who better to help than his own squad which had seen his transformation and had grown to respect him over their months of training? Could he trust them with this? Certainly Friend and Spy, but Snob and Bully he was not so sure. That night he gathered Friend and Spy together. “I need you both to have an open mind.” Gladwin started. They nodded and Gladwin continued with the whole story and his plan. As Gladwin finished, Snob and Bully jumped out from behind a tree. “We can help.” Snob said. Gladwin stared at them in surprise. “Wha--” “Before you say anything! We heard it all. If you don’t want us to tell Cenewig then let us join you.” Bully stepped forward pointing his finger at Gladwin. Gladwin raised his eyebrows in consideration. “Well, I guess that’s that then. The extra muscle will help.” Gladwin conceded. “Looks like you lot have been busy.” Wyatt chimed in as he joined their circle. All except Gladwin started at his entrance. “Warriors, this is Wyatt of -, Wyatt, where are you from?” All looked to Wyatt. “I am Wyatt of Middlesbrough.” Everyone gasped except for Gladwin. “What?” Gladwin looked around confused. “Don’t you know the stories? Wyatt of Middlesbrough!” Spy started. “Defender of the whole world!” Bully chimed in. “Where he goes evil flees” Snob ended with a suspicious stare at Wyatt. “How do we know that is who you really are? You could just be pulling one over on us.” “That is for you to decide, but Gladwin, I accept your plan. I will join you tomorrow.” Once again Wyatt disappeared before he even finished his last syllable. “OK, If you are all still willing, meet up here tomorrow night at sunset. Be silent and no talking about this at all. Dismissed.” Gladwin stood up and walked back to the barracks followed by his righteous fellows. The next day the air was filled with a rumor that the Dragon was returning. Orders were barked down the ranks in preparation. Cenewig and the brothers were extra brutal in their training but no one proposed a dual. Fear and false pride encircled the warriors as they prepared for what would surely be their deaths in the name of the king. At the last meal of the day, Cenewig approached Gladwin as he ate. “Glanwin of Ousby. You have been assigned to Company Commander. You will lead the 27th Bear Company to victory against the dragon. Report to the Army Commander’s tent after you have finished your meal.” He marched away, leaving his squad to finish their meals. “What does this mean?” Friend voiced the question that everyone was thinking. “Nothing. This changes nothing. I will not report and we will continue with the plan as if nothing has changed.” Gladwin declared. The squad nodded and returned to their food trusting that this act of rebellion would save lives.  The day had nearly passed when the explosive drum of the Petre Dragon’s wing beats invaded the castle grounds. The army rushed into position in front of the south gate. Cenewig searched for his squad but could not find them. Anger and fear pulsed through him as he interpreted their absence as cowardice and counted them deserters. At that very moment, Gladwin and his men were making their way through the forest to the west garden wall. Wyatt met them at the dungeon door, ushering them all in. They aptly carried the sleeping Dragon in his cage onto a cart and wheeled it out. Once in the open air the Petre Dragon was able to sense exactly where her child was. The men had to work fast, running the cart through the forest trail and out the castle's west gate. The Petre dragon followed leaving a fiery trail in its wake. At the sound of its mother's call, the infant awoke spewing molten drool around it. Gladwin’s men had to stop and readjust to avoid getting burned. They kept running until the mother had left the castle grounds. They kept running until they made it to an uninhabited clearing. They released the baby and hid in a nearby cave. It wasn’t long before the mother had found her baby. The Petre Dragon breathed a pillar of fire, bathing her baby in its warmth. The baby added his own small measure to the inferno. Accepted, the mother snatched up her baby in her large claws and flew back south. Flew home. Gladwin and his men waited some time before making their way back to Bernard Castle where they were reprimanded for deserting and then rewarded once Wyatt of Middlesbrough shared their story with King Durmad. The King promptly imprisoned his advisor Roland and caused the Castle to rejoice for a whole week. Honours and positions of power were given to Gladwin and his men. All accepted except for Gladwin. Strong Gladwin was a curious boy. He preferred the company of creatures to people any day. Luckily he was raised a shepherd and trained well by his parents, now infinitely more capable of protecting his flock with the addition of his army training. He returned to the world he loved. Every day he saw the sheep that he loved and his dog who helped him in the work. He watched the sun rise and set from the grassy hill his sheep lived in. He ate the fresh bread and cheese his mom and sister prepared. He listened to the sound of the wind passing by. He continued in that happiness for he saw nothing in his future that would change, for he knew he would be a shepherd for the rest of his life.

mafdtr

A Veil of Amethyst

Dalton had a lifelong fascination with the varying uses of fire. It could bestow warmth and life, or its light could shine the way through certain darkness; but the smoldering embers before Dalton told a different story: one of an end. The putrid, steaky odor fumigating Dalton’s sinuses was one that could only be created through the scorching of the human body. Dalton gave an involuntary snarl at its stench. This was the second victim discovered this year. Only two months had passed since they lost Bremmer. Clivedale dismounted Josie after following the rising plume of smoke to Dalton. The echo of her last hoof fall was still bouncing off the surrounding treeline as he rushed to Dalton’s side. Clivedale did all he could to maintain his composure at the scene. “Is it as we feared?” Clivedale asked as the fleshy reek embraced his senses. Dalton’s eyes remained fixed on the charred collection of bones. Whatever signs that it once belonged to a human had evaporated into the fog. “Aye.” Clivedale looked away, shielding his eyes and nose. “What are we to do?” Dalton looked up to Clivedale. “We find it, and we kill it.” The citizens of Ashenfell and the rest of the High Nine were all too familiar with this level of destruction. Only one thing was capable of this level of thoughtless carnage: a dragon. “Are you mad?” “No more mad than you for thinking we can continue doing nothing.” “We can’t best a dragon! What experience do you have with such beasts? Even Bremmer-” “Don’t speak of Bremmer,” Dalton spat. Bremmer was the armorer of Ashenfell. He was twice the man of any who entered his shop, but that was not enough to save him. His molten breastplate infused with the bones of his scorched rib cage was discovered by Dalton just two moons prior. “And we won’t be alone. Sir Johan Ragnar will join us.” Sir Johan built the soundest reputation as a Huntsman. He’d slay any beast for the right price, but it had been ages since his last dragon. With seven dragons slain, Johan’s name carried a weight of prestige across the High Nine. He was knighted by King Magnus after he felled the Jade during his first conquest. “Johan hasn’t answered a call for a Dragon hunt in five years.” “He’ll answer this one,” Dalton held out his hand in response to the unasked question he anticipated from Clivedale: Why? In it lay a pendant, heavily misshapen after enduring the dragon’s hellfire. But despite its disfiguration, the etching was unmistakable: a howling wolf in flames- the Ragnar Crest. * * * Johan wasn’t hard to find. His retirement from the Hunt made for a life of predictability. He frequented the same hilltop to dwell and the same forest to forage. He could be found at Ashenfell’s market at the same time each day to purchase what he could not secure on his own. Although he’d occasionally leave Ashenfell for days at a time, anyone who knew where to look could easily find him drinking to his wit’s end each night in the dimly lit corner of the Blackened Mare . All to awake the next day and repeat, feeling the effects of the night before. The Mare was where Clivedale and Dalton decided to make their play. “I’ll follow your lead,” Dalton said as he nudged Clivedale toward Johan’s table. He was easy to pick out in a crowd. The two had seen him many times at a distance, in and out the northern gate of Ashenfell. While most tables were occupied by groups of three or four and full of banter, Johan sat alone. These days, he wasn’t known for keeping close company. “Why my lead?” “You have more tact.” The Blackened Mare lacked its usual excitement- which was not to Clivedale and Dalton’s advantage. Where the chatter was typically so loud that one would have to lean in to hear the words of their neighbor, the air was uncharacteristically somber. The faintly lit tavern experienced momentary blasts of illumination from lightning outside, only to be quickly replaced by the humble fires of its interior lanterns. Clivedale approached Johan with the same caution he would a wild horse. “Sir Johan?” “No.” His eyes darted from Clivedale to Dalton, who stood close behind. The interior lighting of the Blackened Mare revealed a violet hue in the man’s eyes. Few have been close enough to notice their color, but the tales surrounding their origin were plenty. Some say they held latent magick absorbed from the last dragon he slew. The boundless imaginations of the children of Ashenfell claim Sir Johan stole the eyes of the Amethyst straight from their sockets during his last Hunt. Skeptics of his credibility stand by the assertion that the color was always there, but went unnoticed. “No?” Clivedale repeated. “I am not Johan.” Confused, Clivedale was at a loss as to how to proceed. “Well,” he began, “ Not-Johan , we need your help.” “‘ Help ?’” “Yes, sir. We discovered another body- erm, what was left of it. It’s the second victim of a dragon in the span of a few months. You’re the only one in the High Nine to have slain such beasts.” “That sounds like a request better made to this ‘Sir Johan’ you’re looking for,” the man smirked. “And even so, I doubt you’d have much luck persuading him. I hear he doesn’t hunt dragons anymore.” “We found Cassia,” Dalton interjected, tossing the Ragnar pendant dead-center of the table. The relic of Johan’s daughter stared at him, and he stared back. A silence of consideration ensued. “Where?” Johan didn’t look up. “Why do you care, Not-Johan?” Dalton leaned in. “ Where? ” Johan raised his head, the violet fires of his eyes burning holes into Dalton. Clivedale jumped in. “The edge of the Forest of Black. Ten leagues west of Ashenfell. We needn’t go more than a thousand feet in to find her. ” Johan took a sustained drink before slumping back in his chair and let out a slight chuckle. “Stupid girl.” “Have you no heart?” Clivedale said, bewildered. “More than she had a head,” Johan retorted. “Did you ever think to ask what she was doing ten leagues from Ashenfell at the Forest of Black?” Clivedale’s thoughts stumbled on their way to his mouth. Johan continued, “She went looking for trouble and she found it.” Johan paused before finally looking back up to Dalton and Clivedale. “I’ll help find you your dragon, but I have three conditions. The first: leave your weapons. Small arms only. Nothing bigger than a dagger. The second: one of you must land the killing blow.” Clivedale’s eyes widened. “But that’s why we need you. You’re the only one to have ever returned alive, more than once. I can’t.” “Then get your friend to do it,” Johan gestured to Dalton. “I’ll tell you all you need to know. Five years ago, I swore to never slay another dragon, and I don’t intend to go back on my word now. Understand?” Dalton nodded. “What’s the third condition?” “We leave tonight.” * * * Clivedale and Dalton were surprised to learn the trek would require less than a day of travel. After securing horses from the stable outside the northern gate of Ashenfell, the trio headed westward into the blackness of night, specked only by the flames of their torches. “Our dragon has already revealed its nest,” Johan shouted over the galloping hooves of their mounts. “Once at the edge of the Forest of Black, we rest until sunrise and continue on foot.” “Black is massive.” Dalton called out. “How will we find its nest?” “You need only know where to look.” They arrived at the forest’s edge in three hours’ time. The depths of Black remained shrouded by the mystery of night. ‘The Forest of Black’ was more than a clever name. Its canopy was too dense for most sunlight to permeate. High noon could feel like dusk when traversing its depths; but the band would need all the sunlight they could get to navigate through. Dalton and Clivedale sat by their makeshift fire pit, unable to steady their nerves enough to catch a moment’s rest. Meanwhile, Johan laid his cloak down on the dirt and stared at the night sky above, watching moonlit clouds escape over the Black canopy. Clivedale broke the silence. “Small arms only? We’re to slay a dragon with daggers?” “Do you know how dragons kill their prey?” Johan asked. Dalton was the one who answered. “Reducing everything to ash,” he said. “Like Cassia,” Dalton added, observing Johan’s face for an adverse reaction, which was not offered. Johan’s eyes returned upward, the amethyst of his irises shining with the crackling fire. “Dragons hunt as much with their minds as they do their talons, maw, or breath.” Interpreting the silence that followed as confusion, Johan continued, “Once a dragon conquers your mind, the body soon follows. Under their grip, you’re no longer Dalton, or Clivedale. You’re the Jade or the Ruby . They snuff you out of your own body, like sand over a fire, and do with you as they please.” Johan chose then to finally give Dalton a glance. “The truth is, Cassia was dead long before she entered the Forest of Black.” A heavy stillness sat itself between the three. Johan continued, “So Clivedale- ‘why small arms’? If our dragon takes hold of one of you, I’d rather you be brandishing a dagger rather than an axe or sword.” * * * The sun peered over the hills to the east, shining its early morning rays on the band of men as they readied themselves to enter the Forest of Black, leaving their horses at its edge, as Johan instructed. “Take me to where you found Cassia,” Johan said. “That’s where we’ll start.” Even though Clivedale and Dalton had been at the site less than twenty-four hours prior, they struggled to return to it. The adrenaline of chasing the towering plume of smoke stacking itself above the forest canopy shrouded their memory of where exactly they entered Black to get to Cassia. Even so, they knew it couldn’t have been far. The putrid stench from the day before lingered, yet subtly. The trees within Black were sparse- a curious mismatch to the dense canopy overhead. On each trunk rested a heavy crown spanning out and upward, interlacing with its neighbors. From a distance, Dalton was able to identify the site where they found Cassia. Scattered beams of light shone through to the areas ahead where dragon’s breath had burned through the canopy the day before. Johan sauntered over to Cassia’s remnants and took a deep breath. “Sir Johan,” Dalton started. “You never told us- why did you vow to never kill another?” “And you never told me, why is it so important for you to kill this one? Who was Cassia to you?” Dalton shook his head. “It’s not about Cassia. It’s about the constant fear in which we live. We lost many before Cassia, and I suspect we’ll lose many more if we continue to do nothing. Slaying that which haunts us sends the message to our brothers in Ashenfell, and the rest of the High Nine, that we’re not helpless. It gives us hope that we can fight back.” Dalton looked to Clivedale before continuing, “and it seemed as though we achieved that hope. For a time- because of you, Sir Johan. You felled the Jade, and things felt safe. And then the Ruby , and things felt safer still.” Clivedale looked down, shuffling the mixture of soot and dirt at his feet. “After you slayed the Onyx , we celebrated at the Blackened Mare until the sun rose. We’d lost many brothers and sisters to the Onyx . Dalton and I had never seen so many people so happy.” “But over the last five years,” Dalton started, “that happiness has begun to fade. Ashenfell is losing hope again. And I want to reclaim it.” “So Sir Johan,” Dalton emptied his lungs in a deep exhale. “I implore you: why did you vow to never hunt another dragon?” Johan looked up, and began taking small, calculated steps, closing the distance separating himself and Clivedale. “I’m sorry, boy. I’ll repeat to you exactly what I said just yesterday when you approached me at the Blackened Mare: ‘I am not Johan’ .” Faster than the human eye could register, he plunged his dagger deep into Clivedale’s throat until only the hilt remained exposed. The man’s dispassioned violet eyes only observed as Clivedale fell to the ground, sputtering and drowning in his own blood. “ I am not Johan,” he repeated. “ Though his body has served us well these last five years. ” Dalton stood paralyzed, hopelessly bearing witness to the life slowly leaving Clivedale’s writhing body. His feet were planted to the ground, and his arms were glued to his sides. Dalton willed himself to unclench his jaw just enough to utter a single word. “How?” A deep and mighty growl emanated from behind, sending tremors through the earth and up Dalton’s legs, but he could not turn his head to look. His eyes remained locked on his fallen companion. A sliver of serrated amethyst slithered along Dalton’s periphery- a sliver he had not noticed before.  “ After many years, we began losing hope. He felled the Jade, and we grew frightened. He felled the Ruby, and we grew frightened still. But five years ago, the Amethyst grabbed hold of him, and we felt hope once again.” Dalton did the last thing his body would allow: he closed his eyes. Whether the next blow came from the Amethyst behind him, or from its vessel before him, whatever followed made no difference. Just like Cassia the day before, Dalton was dead long before he entered the Forest of Black.

hgadzn

The all-knowing Armon

Dillam has removed the charring with vinegar and polished his armour to a blinding shine. It’s not the easiest thing to do when it’s a hand me down from his Uncle Pillam, to his father, Hillam, to his elder brother Millam, then his second eldest brother Willam and lastly his cousin Nigel. Dillam makes the sign of the cross one, two…. He loses count . Some of the dents could be beaten out. Some of them make it difficult to breathe. Armon is watching. Dillam is fortunate to have a friend like Armon. Armon’s family have been squires to the Dolts for generations, their assistance invaluable. Dillam is polishing so diligently because Armon said the shine temporarily blinds a dragon. Dillam is not so sure. Armon also told him Princess Erina liked men with facial hair and that didn’t go down well. It gave her a terrible rash. She didn’t speak to him for weeks. Come to think of it, Armon was the one who told him the castle was under attack by mountain trolls. It is Dillam’s job to ring the warning bell because his quarters are the closest to the bell tower and also because of his prowess. There is a very distinctive ring for mountain trolls. You have to ring the bell repeatedly whilst shouting, ‘You are all going to die’ at a volume that can be heard for a two-mile radius. That also didn’t end well. Dragon sighting. No volunteers… If Dillam comes back from his noble quest… No Dillam. Believe and you will achieve. Manifest destiny or something or other. He really wasn’t listening at the last Chivalric Spiritual Retreat. When he comes back, he will be able to afford to pay someone to shine his armour for him… and ring the bell and clean the lavatory and tidy Armon’s room. Yes. These were the tasks of a squire, but Armon said this was all part of his three-year knightly apprenticeship. A hazing of sorts. Dillam has been a night for five years and is still waiting for the official certificate. Armon said it must have gotten lost in the post. There has been one positive. Apparently, Princess Erina has a thing for men who slay dragons. No. Armon didn’t tell him that. It was direct from the source. Princess Erina finally unlocked the door to her secret passage and when they last came up for air, she told him herself. Take that Armon. Apparently, they want Dillam to leave immediately. Armon said the king’s advisor told him, ‘The villager consumption has reached a statistical threshold’. They could have just said they were running out of people to grow their food. Dillam has written to the king about the need for self-sufficiency countless times. Vertical gardens. The castle has plenty of walls. He is still working out where to put the cows. Armon delivered the appeals because Dillam is not in the King's favour. Not just because of the mountain troll incident, but apparently, the King wants Princess Erina to marry some northern king and there is now some sort of who-ha about purity this and in her condition that. Armon said he didn’t mean to let slip about Dillam accessing the Princess’s secret passage. It just came up in conversation. He said that was another reason Dillam should leave immediately. Dillam agrees. Dillam doesn’t think he needs to pack a lot. Armon said grateful villagers along the way would shower him with gifts. He would be turning them away. Armon says questing knights are very popular among the ladies. Dillam has no interest in any woman but Princess Erina. Perhaps Dillam would stop for a night or two anyway because Armon also said the ones Dillam would pass have the best ale in the realm. Dillam has travelled that way before. Perhaps the villagers chasing him away crying ‘Begone you stupid Dolt,’ was some sort of misunderstanding. Apparently, his elder brother did something when he passed through. Armon said it had something to do with divining rods and a chicken. He was short on details. Armon said it would be a completely different story when Dillam wore his shiny armour. He also said it would be best to keep the helm on, just in case. The Dolts have always been known for their distinctive looks. Armon says their fair features are balanced out by some other deficiency but failed to provide those details either. Armon had everything ready, a few provisions, the new Dolt banner, but at the last minute he said he couldn’t come. Apparently, there is a Squire Personal Development Day tomorrow and it’s compulsory. It’s a shame. Dillam was looking forward to the company. Armon said it was mere coincidence that his father, uncle and brothers were all struck with the same misfortune when it came time to accompany Dillam’s family on quests. They are an unlucky lot. Illness. Injury. Ill-timed religious holidays. Armon said that when Dillam returned triumphant, their long-standing friendship would see Armon receive his share of the glory anyway. Dillam managed to haggle Armon down from a 20-80 split to 50-50. Dillam doesn’t think the horse should be making this noise. Armon said all horses occasionally bray. He also doesn’t think his feet should be brushing the ground, but Armon… Dillam turns the vertically challenged valiant steed back towards the stables and starts again. There is a parade… There are several people… Armon leans on the wall by the portcullis laughing uncontrollably. Princess Erina is waving from her window. No. Being dragged back from the window by… Her father. Ride faster Dillam. Dillam doesn’t have far to travel. It’s the only craggy hill for 50 miles. He looks around. Yes. The rest are all undeniably smooth and occupied by cows... A cow. He is sure there were more. Apparently, dragons like eating those raw. No charring to be seen. The roofs. They could put the cows… cow on the roofs... roof. Dillam is a little disappointed. No one comes to cheer him on. There are no gifts. There are no maidens. No beer. Not even cursing. Apparently, the dragon was aware of the village’s bounties and recently came to partake. The smell is making Dillam hungry. The villages nearby may be charred, but the castle is dragon-free because of the Dragon Defence System. Armon said dragons are literate and if you paint, ‘Eat your fill elsewhere, but do not exceed the statistical threshold,’ on the roof of the castle, the dragon pays attention. Dillam thought that was a bit of an exaggeration, but if you climb up the tower it is true. Almost true. What it actually says is, ‘Leave us alone and we will provide room service.’ Dillam thinks dragons must be extremely gullible. Dillam has it all worked out. When he comes back with the dragon’s head to mount in the king’s hall, he will be wealthy enough to buy whatever he wants. No. He would not take the coin. He would ask for the hand of Princess Erin. How could the king refuse? Generations of his family have recently fought valiantly for the sake of the kingdom. Armon said the King would also be happy to solve some sort of issue with illegitimacy and humiliation. Dillam sees the hill in question. The cragginess extends all the way to the base. The protruding stone is both a blessing and a disadvantage. Armon said the reason it was so easy for his own cousin to retrieve Dillam’s cousin’s armour was because of those very crags. Apparently, there was some kind of trajectory related something or other that led to Nigel bouncing all the way down here. The disadvantage is that the narrow path winds back and forward so much that Dillam is feeling ill. The higher Dillam gets, the more he must choke back the nausea. The higher Dillam gets he also becomes certain that the belching and bellowing is the dragon. Well, less bellowing and more belching. Perhaps it’s indigestion? Dillam stops about halfway up to recover and lays some flowers on the four marked graves. Armon said questing is a family tradition and he should be proud of the Dolt’s achievements. All the other knightly families had shirked their responsibilities. Dillam wondered why their shirking hadn’t caused them to fall out of favour. Armon said the Dolts would be celebrated in heaven. Dillam would prefer a more immediate form of recognition, but as Armon said, the afterlife did last for an awful lot longer. Dillam winds his way to the summit, throws up, and then stands proud. Unfortunately, his horse is far fonder of the windy path than the belching dragon and takes the opportunity Dillam’s motion sickness provides to head back down in haste. Dillam isn’t concerned. He will sever the dragon’s head and then push it off the cliff. Once again, the trajectory related something will be to his benefit. A cave. Dillam wasn’t expecting that. Armon said nest. He said acquiring a dragon egg would be almost as valuable as the dragon itself and if he had the opportunity Dillam should just grab that and run. He said that not only would it be worth a fortune, but it would mean Armon wouldn’t have to perform the post-questing ritual. He said if Dillam wanted to know what that was he should go ask Armon’s cousin. Dillam peeps around the corner. Despite its rather unseemly digestive issues, the dragon is beautiful. She reminds Dillam of Princess Erina. Not the shimmering gold scales, or the magnificent iridescent membrane of her wings, or the long jewel-incrusted tail, that is a bonus… OK. Not the best analogy. But just like Princess Erina, the dragon looks in deep, the gaze mesmerising, like she is reading his soul… or is aroused. He really hopes that in this case, it is the first. Oh. She is looking directly at Dillam. Armon said the most important thing about fighting a dragon is to make sure you never make eye contact and even worse, speak. Dillam thinks about past circumstances and steps out. “My apologies, but you’ve been causing a bit of trouble. You might not realise it, but the villagers really aren’t fond of being eaten. If you will just stand still.” Dillam draws his sword… His dull sword. Armon said he… The dragon smiles and Dillam is dazzled. What a magnificent beast. Even in the face of certain death, she stands proud. Dillam thinks it will be a shame to hack and chop at this beautiful creature. He looks at his blade and then back at the scales. Dillam also thinks the task might be more difficult than he imagined. Armon said a single stab through one of her eyes and then a sawing motion would get the job done. Dillam really should have brought a stepladder. Oh, thank goodness. She has obligingly lowered her head. Best get this over with. Dillam raises the blade and prepares to run… The dragon draws in a rather human sigh, as if resigning herself to her fate, and Dillam hesitates. That look. A dragon in flight is terrifying, and though she is large enough to fill the king’s hall, she looks so very vulnerable. Those pleading eyes. Those surprisingly short limbs. He can’t do it. She is glorious. Yes, she was a bother, but had she wronged him personally? Well now that he thinks about it, yes, but he will end this terrible cycle of violence right here and now. Dillam drops to a knee because Armon said that if he couldn’t take an egg and decided not to kill the dragon… Well, he actually said that if Dillam grew a brain, he should kneel. Something about providing a smaller area for direct contact and vinegar and polishing. Dillam wasn’t really paying attention. He kneels. “Magnificent beast. I, Hallam Dolt, will allow you to leave this place, head intact. I… In his last moments, Dillam has only one thought. He really should have paid the other squires to help him force Armon into Dillam’s shiny dented armour and then push him down the well. The dragon looks hard. This one is familiar, something about the nose and the shape of the eyes. Bruce peers in deeper. Yes. Another. Bred for purpose. What was he up to this year? Five. They never learn. Blah. Blah. Blah. That’s enough. Things to do. Places to be. In preparation, Bruce lowers his head. Target acquired. He draws in a long slow breath and then lets it out slowly. Flame requires one to reach a state of mind that transcends… Well not really. The flame charrs steel, flesh and bone. Bruce snorts. They always flail. It never gets old. One is enough or else his nostrils will feel raw for days. He really should have left him lightly toasted, but Bruce had already eaten. That, and the shell is hard to crack open. He prefers them already peeled. He broke a nail on that last one. Bruce lets out a rather large belch and tastes chicken. He kind of overdid it this morning. The small ones give him indigestion. He really should chew, but they just slide down. Bruce stretches his neck, left and then right. He splays his shimmering wings wide and flaps them slowly several times. He judges the distance, then scans the runway. No. This won’t do. Bruce waddles forward, a dragon on land is not a pretty site, and then sweeps the corpse from his path and off the cliff. He leans over and watches. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Abrupt stop. Bruce should have pushed him a little to the left and he would have kept bouncing at least four more times. That would have equalled his record. Lesson learned. He backs up five steps, and then runs and launches skyward. Bruce hopes no one is watching. Nothing dispels awe, fear and magnificence like a dragon running. It’s far worse than walking. Why are their arms and legs so short? A quandary for another time. A conversation starter at the next gathering. When was that? One... Two hundred years? Bruce banks right then dips down over a nearby village he has left untouched for pure amusement. They scatter so quickly. Ants of sorts, only far less intelligent. As if hiding inside those little houses will do anything. Two long beats and the buildings become specs in his peripheral. The castle. Yes. They deserve a visit. Room service indeed. He drops onto the tiles and burns away the white lettering. He extends a single claw and writes. Just for fun he leans over and sets a few things alight. Bruce will pay for it tomorrow, his nostrils really are a little raw, but it is worth it for entertainment value alone. More flailing and running. He takes advantage of the lack of an audience, gets a run-off, and launches into the air in a spray of tiles. North. Bruce would head north. A cooler climate means a meatier snack. The skinny peeled ones get stuck in his teeth. A castle. He would scare them stupid so they congregate in a building of his choosing. From what he had observed, these fatter ones self-peel in their natural habitat. Armon isn’t in the best of moods. First, he has to extinguish the fire. Then, in the absence of Dillam, he has been asked to climb up the tower and assess the damage. It’s a disaster, missing tiles… A trail of missing tiles as if something the size of a house was dragged off the end. A message. ‘Next… Rime? Time. Next time I am dining in’. Armon thinks it is time for him to head off on his own quest. He would do the post-questing ritual, hopefully the bounce trajectory was in his favour, and then retrieve Dillam’s horse and assume his identity. North. Yes. A princess of his own.

k6ei5o

Demon of The Chasm

Demon of The Chasm  Spirit drained from the journey, the weary villager barged into the tremendous estate. He can’t even bring himself to be lost in the grandeur the noble warrior indulges in. The common area was aglow with life; a troupe of bards played and sang such sweet music of the warrior’s stories of conquest from the great war. The noble warrior, mighty and cunning Apevti himself had glistening goblets studded with jewels overflowing with the finest wines he’d been gifted and acquired in war tours all across the continent in every fist in the room. White eyes, imposing as a blizzard fell upon the ragged traveler. Amusement and joy ebbed to concern. He raised a fist sternly, and the festivities came to an immediate halt. “Speak, neighbor!” Apevti beckoned joyously. His voice as imposing as a crack of thunder, made all the more powerful in the open, echoing hall. “But first!” The ever-so-charitable warrior beckons the chambermaid to his left. “Penelope, fetch our guest some refreshments, for his journey must not have been easy.” At their lord’s command, Penelope and her companion scuttled to attend to their new guest’s needs. He was handed an overflowing goblet accompanied by a thick cut of prize lamb. “Oh, noble Apevti.” The villager raved. “I cherish the gifts you bestowed upon me on this visit. Yet, my imposing upon your abode is not for my own pleasure, but rather, the needs of the many, the needs of your neighbors.” The warrior’s lips grew thin as a bow’s string at the villager’s words. “The ferocious dragon on the other side of the valley, the demon of the south, he continues to pillage our people and raze our lands!” The villager wailed. His pathetic theatrics tested the charitable Apevti’s fraying patience. “And to what end will the dragon’s demise serve me?” He inquired. “No demon is foolish enough to come for me nor mine.” Apevti explained with a broad, sweeping gesture of his mighty sword arm. “And should one be, it would meet a most merciless end!” The villager collapsed to his knees, weary and heartbroken by his people’s would-be savior’s disdain towards them. “Aye, Oh mighty hero! You’re shortsighted to believe I’m but only one neighbor! More and more of us will be coming, begging and pleading for your help! We may not have anything as extravagant nor lustrous to offer as what you’ve surrounded yourself with now, but, surely, you didn’t cross the mountains, brave mighty oceans, and slaughter for your countrymen merely for riches, no? Surely, beneath your muscle and armor resides the soul and heart of an honest, noble, courageous man!” “Enough!” His patience finally fully tested, Apevti stood from his glistening throne, studded with rubies and emeralds. He towered above the villager, blotting him out like an eclipse. “I had conquered rival nations for our people for decades, only to return home here for your lot, for, ‘my neighbors’.” He’d mock the villager. “It seems every day at dawn’s break, as the cocks raise to wake us ‘til the moon takes her shift accompanied by the stars, I’m implored by one of you or another to save you from this threat or that. I’ve grown tired of it. I tire of constantly being perpetually pestered by your lot.” The warrior snarled. His blood boiled like the fires of the underworld below. You all cannot even dream to adequately pay me back for all the blood I’ve shed, all the brothers I’ve buried, for all the women I’ve widowed, for all the sons I’ve slain, that’s correct farmboy.” Recalling the horrors of his long conquest, his blizzard-like gaze froze the villager in place at Apevti’s feet. “However, I cannot even find the time to truly grieve those men, men far, far better than your countrymen, nor remember them properly. Yet, I would be remiss not to oblige you all in one last effort. A noble, tremendous undertaking such as slaughtering the demon of the valley.” The villager’s face was a glow with a newfound hope. All the while the warrior’s lips tugged to a Cheshire smirk. “Oh! This is such wonderful news! Blessed be you, mighty, noble Apeveti!” The fool actually bought this ruse! “Return to our neighbors, and tell them of their good fortune.” He nods to Penelope once more. “Supply our guest one of my mares and more rations at once!” Then to the next his gaze fell to the other. “I shall embark immediately.” Apevti decided. “Prepare ample rations of meat and wines for myself as well as I adorn myself for the journey before me.” He’d begin, spinning on his heels to go to the armory. Then, he’d stop half a pace. “And prepare Hermes for our voyage.” He’d add the final command with a smirk, before continuing away to the weapons he’d collected during his tours. Apeveti’s utter disdain for the insistent villagers was replaced with pride in himself, for his tremendous cunning. While yes, he will venture on his mighty steed Hermes to the chasm to find the demon, they shall never come to blows. No, Apeveti has a much, much more sinister plan brewing. Finally, the shrewd warrior reached his personal armory. Weapons and armors forged by the hottest fires of Hell’s hottest flames from the bones of various demons and dragons awaited him. He would adorn himself with golden armor, head to toe. Apeveti was like a mobile sun. Should you gaze upon him too long you risk going blind! The warrior only grabbed a single great sword, the blade that belonged to the former king of the fallen kingdom he’d assisted in overthrowing. The blade had tasted centuries of blood, and her last feasting on the nectar of life was from her former user. She’d starve a while longer, should his plan come to fruition. Finally, he marched out to the stables, where his housemaids had begun to prepare his mighty steed, Hermes, the single swiftest mount on the continent. “Hermes is ready for your next flight, my liege.” She’d report with a voice musical enough to rival any of the bards they’d entertain any given day. She looked towards him, knowing better than to look at him directly. She’d learned better during her days of polishing the armor. “And so he is!” Apeveti bellowed heartily, hopping up onto the mount’s back. “I have but one more request. However, this is the most importance, and must be carried out with great haste!” He instructed, commanding Penelope’s full attention. “It’s been far too long since I’ve visited the heroes of the west, my brothers in arms from the great war. I believe we ought to change that post-haste! Prepare a carriage or two, load them to the brim with our goods, and be brisk in your journey to the palace of my brother-in-arms, Caveyrus! I’ll meet you there when the business with the demon of the canyon is dealt with.” The mighty Apeveti proclaimed upon horseback. The maiden scurried back to the estate as the warrior and his mighty steed dased away. A half day’s trip thanks to Hermes’ unrivaled speed and they found themself at the jagged chasm. The gaping canyon rivaled a mouth, rugged and rigid and wide. The warrior hopped off his steed, gently petting Hermes’ mane. “Rest now, noble Hermes. We’ll have a long voyage ahead of us upon return.” Hermes whinnied in agreement, understanding his master. Apeveti began his share of the journey by foot, descending the steep rugged chasm. The farther down he goes the farther it seems the sun and her warmth stray as well. Finally,  Apeveti reached the bottom of the cavern. The chasm’s base is littered with wide cave mouths all over. Deep within them, glistening treasures could be seen. Their luster seemed to be the only source of light. A terrible rumbling echoed through the caverns, and out one of the uppermost mouths slithered a night black snake of the sky. Its body seemed never-ending, pairs of clawed arms and legs adorning the torso here and there. The mighty warrior knew not what to expect. Some have compared the chasm’s demon to the length of dozens of warships. Now, seeing the beast with his own eyes, it was clear no meek comparisons did justice to the sheer size of the dragon. The unholy demon was akin to an endless stream of smoke. The mighty beast arched its serpentine boy forward, its snout inches from the warrior. Despite the glisten of Apeveti's armor, the dragon was simply unphased. “Oh, foolish warrior.” Mocked the dragon. His voice booming and bellowing in the wide chasm. “Your kin who perished here before you bestowed the name Mephistopheles upon me. You shall not find whatever glory it is you wish to seek here, challenging me. You shall perish, as have many an army before you.” The demon chuckled to himself. From his nostrils puffed putrid green smoke. The warrior took a few paces back, shaking his head. “Worry not, might beast! I have no intention to slaughter you!” He proclaimed, much to the dragon’s surprise. “For I am Apeveti! Noble and mighty hero of the great war. I come to you with a proposition.” The dragon sighed once more, smoke spewing from his massive nostrils. Mephistopheles raised his wide, flat head to look down on his guest. “And what would that be, mortal? Why should I, the mighty Mephistopheles, serve a worthless sack of flesh and bone?” The dragon inquired. The warrior’s gaze followed his host’s. Apeveti observed as the dragon glided past him, like a convoy of vicious storm clouds. The upper half of the mighty demon’s body disappeared into one of the cave mouths behind him. “There are those who wish to see you meet an end, oh mighty Mephistopheles!” Began the warrior. “To see you suffer a tragic end at the end of my blade!” The dragon snarled. His snarl came from seemingly every direction. Despite a tremendous portion of his massive body still visible, Apeveti, dazed as an owl in the day, hadn’t a clue where the demon’s other half resided! “But I have no interest in seeing your destruction. Rather, I’d like to see the weaklings you so torment finally perish.” Mephistopheles cackled a moment. The cackling bellowed from the mouths of the cave. It seemed like there were millions of him! “You come to me not to slaughter me, but to ask me to do the slaughtering?” Mephistopheles questioned in doubt. The dragon reappeared emerging from a cavern entrance to the mighty hero’s left. He’d step aside in shock. The caverns are all intertwined, like a maze! “And why, pray tell, mortal, should I assist...or better yet, believe you? Perhaps you’re laying a trap for me, and you have an army of millions of able-bodied men waiting eager to slaughter me?” Apeveti threw his head back, letting loose a bellowing cackle from the soles of his feet. “Oh, foolish Mephistopheles! The villagers who sent me after you can hardly fell a mighty oak to supply for their hearth!” Mephistopheles sneered, brandishing angular fangs. “And what of you, conniving warrior?” Mephistopheles raised his head, bearing down his fierce gaze upon the unflinching Apeveti. The demon’s green eyes slanted like a cat’s. “What of you, once our business is finished? Where will you lay your head come the ruination of your village?” The knight grinned, brandishing his own teeth. “Why, Mephistopheles, I get away scot-free!” He replied. “Those fools will believe me to be slain by you, and for you, oh great Mephistopheles, to have sought them out in vengeance! All the while, I shall leave these lands to others far, far away, where I can finally, truly retire and mourn brothers in arms long lost from this world.” He brandished his blade, delicately setting it on the ground between them. “For you, oh noble Mephistopheles, I offer you the blade of the fallen kingdom. I pass it on from one conquer to the next, in exchange for your services.” Mephistopheles smirked a final time, eying up the glistening blade at their feet. “Very well, oh conniving Apeveti! I shall gorge myself on your townsfolk. They’ll proclaim you to be among their ranks of the deceased, all the while you shall be long gone. A brilliant plan! For a mortal, that is.” Mephistopheles slithered away, shooting up into the skies. And with that, the knight’s job was done. He scaled the steep chasm a final time, mounted noble Hermes, and off he was to his new life.

tkdfcq

To catch a catbird

"It's poop," Serene thought to herself as she smelled her palm. Wonderful. The black smear of what she had thought was dirt, gave off the familiar ammonia mixed with earthy, rotten and sweet stench known universally as poop. It hadn't smelled at all before she had put her hand down on that spot and smashed into her skin. The aroma now was quite strong and the black and brown substance covered her palm and even went between her fingers. She resisted the urge to wipe it on her pants and looked around helplessly for a place to get it off. "Why am I such an idiot?" she whispered to the forest around her. Getting no answer, she wiped her hands on the ground on some leaves and continued crawling toward the animal she was spying. The planet Idyll had an incredible array of animals, bizarre and beautiful, but this one was her favorite. People were calling them "catbirds" and she didn't love the name, but she had failed to come up with a better one. It's body was almost a meter long and it had a long furry tail. It had a pointed face that ended in a pink nose and long whiskers and indeed, it looked like a house cat. Except that its long, thin forelegs had thin skin underneath attaching to its body, allowing to glide between trees. No one from the small colony at the far edge of explored space where she lived had seen one for hundreds of years until her brother had come across one a few months earlier in a trek he had made to help save the colony. Her twin had returned with vital equipment from an abandoned station and had become something of a celebrity. His journey, an epic in itself, had stretched the tenuous boundaries of their society and given the stranded colony some hope for the future. To Serene, however, he was just her silly brother, an over-shy dummy who got lucky. She smiled thinking of him. He was a dummy, but he was also her favorite person. The catbird turned its head toward her. Perhaps it smelled the poop. Maybe it belonged to him or her? It's liquid brown eyes took her in. It wasn't scared. She didn't move, fearing that she would startle the animal. It chirped and cooed and Serene wanted to believe it was trying to communicate with her, before scaling the massive mushroom it was sitting near. "Do you recognize me?" She asked. It was the third visit in three days she had made to this spot to find the animal, five kilometers from the outpost where she was living. The catbird stopped briefly when she spoke to look at her and then continued to climb the four-meter-tall mushroom. Serene sighed. "We will be friends," she said as it disappeared to top of the mushroom cap. Serene looked down at her hand, smeared in poop. Beyond the revolting smell, every colonist knew that foreign substances like this could be poisonous to humans. Even after hundreds of years, the planet used its natural defenses to expel its unwanted guests. With the catbird gone, Serene moved away through the fungus forest towards a stream she knew was nearby. The terrain here was flat and marshy as she got closer to the large lake where the colonists had set up over 500 years ago. She washed her hand as well as she could in the slow-moving water that would soon merge with the lake. Serene was wary of the small sucker fish that could attach themselves to your skin in these boggy areas and inject a toxin that would cause you to fall asleep. She started to head back to the encampment when she heard a sound behind her, a shuffling mixed with chittering and subtle scraping sounds. She froze and looked for a tree to climb. That sound was quite distinct. Serene saw a large tree ahead with branch low enough that she could reach it with a leap and she began sprinting towards it, weaving between undergrowth and smaller trees as the sound behind went from scraping to crashing. She chanced a look behind her, though she already knew what she would see. Two gray nightmarish forms pursued her. They had six arachnid legs, but the front two were bigger and ended in clamp-like pincers that carried spears. Their backs were covered in hard carapaces, but the head and belly were a lighter colored gray and free of the shell. Four eyes, two forward and two to the side, peered out of the head and their mouths were full of pointed teeth. People called them centaurs because when they reared up to throw spears, they vaguely looked like the Greek legendary half-man, half-horse. Like the centaurs of mythology, these wild beasts were destructive and deadly, but unlike the myths, these were real, and the bane of the tiny collection of humans stranded on the planet 125 light years from Earth. Serene leapt for the low branch and caught it with one hand, quickly grabbing the other and pulling herself up to the branch. She rapidly climbed the limbs until she was 10 meters above the ground. The centaurs surrounded the tree, one of them flinging a spear up toward her into the branches. It got caught in the tangle of branches before it got to Serene, though, she thought it came closer than she would have thought possible. Mercifully, the giant insectoids could not climb trees. Unlike their tiny bug cousins that seemed to crawl over every surface on this planet, the centaurs were simply too heavy to pull themselves up the tree on their spindly legs. They could move quickly, however, at least twice as fast as any man. "Pffftttllllpppppp," Serene splurted, sticking her thumbs in her ears and waggling her fingers as she stuck out her tongue. "Go away or I will rub my poopy hand on you!" Serene smiled to herself. She was very likely a dead woman, but there was no need to lose her sense of humor. She was five kilometers from home - more than an hour away - and it was unlikely anyone would be coming to look for her for a day. Still, if her brother could escape situations like this one, then so could she. The centaurs tried several times to climb the tree, even dragging a log to the trunk to try to create a ramp. Thankfully, it didn't work. Still, the concept could work if they kept trying, and Serene got the feeling that the centaurs understood that as well. As horrifying as they were in their monstrous Serene carried a sling with her and had a dozen good stones, but from the tree it would be almost impossible to use it. She was stuck. One of the centaurs scuttled away while the other remained below, dragging more small logs to the base of the tree, attempting to build a bridge that could be used to scale the trunk. Once it was in the first set of branches, it might be able to either spear her, or climb high enough to get her. She assumed its partner was going to get more centaurs. She needed to get out of there somehow. Maybe if she let it climb up, she could get down fast and start running. It would almost certainly catch her, but if she stayed, it was certain. The pile of logs was getting bigger below and she knew she didn't have much more time to think about it. She had an idea of what she was going to do, but the idea filled her with dread. She scrambled down toward the centaur, it was now making its way up the pile of logs and while it climbed, it couldn't use its spear. It jerked its head up as she got closer. She threw a broken branch at its head, which it wacked away easily. As it was temporarily distracted, she climbed out on branch was getting small fast. It was going to break, but that was part of the plan. She was five or six meters above the mushy ground and the fall was going to hurt, but oh well. The branch actually bent significantly and she hung off the edge of it before letting go. She banged off a tangle of branches and splatted on the earth, all the breath wooshed out of her and pain lanced up her back, but she knew she was ok. A glance to the tree showed the confused centaur trying to decide how best to get down. "Just jump, dummy," she said, glad for its confusion and stupidity and took off back towards the fungus forest. She heard the crash of the centaur racing behind her and knew she only had a short head start. The giant mushrooms came into view and saw a small one she could climb. After leaping on it, she jumped to another taller one and finally up to one of the biggest, tall enough to prevent her pursuer from getting to her. Now what was she going to do? She looked around and thought she might be able to leap to another mushroom, but eventually she would be where she started, only with a better view of the ground below. She pulled out her sling and started swinging it. The centaur came into view, but it's head and upper torso were slunk near the ground, making it impossible for her to get a shot into the soft parts of its body. Then a black shaped appeared from one of the mushrooms and glided toward the centaur. It was the catbird, its arms wide in a glide and rear legs hunched to attack with long claws. It landed on the centaur and took two heavy swipes at its soft underbelly. The centaur reared and chittered, trying to dislodge the catbird from its back. Serene fired her sling and a bullet of smooth stone struck the centaur in the chest, sinking in and smashing whatever alien organs lay beneath. It wasn't dead, but the injury was significant. The catbird used its long finger talons to slash across the centaur's abdomen and black ichor came pouring out. It seemed to be a killing strike. The centaur slumped to the ground. Relief flooded Serene and she thought she might pass out as the tension left her body. She climbed down and approached the centaur, grabbed its spear and stuck it through its head, ending the drama of whether it would pop back up and get her. The catbird didn't move. It just looked at her with its big dark eyes. "I think I will call you Shadow," Serene said, reaching a hand out like she would to a dog to sniff. The catbird smelled her hand and jerked back a bit. "Dammit, the poop," Serene thought. Still the animal didn't leave right away. Then its head jerked up and it scrambled up a mushroom. Serene took that as a hint. The other centaur would be coming. She grabbed the spear and pelted toward home as fast as she could. The adrenaline carried her away and she soon reached territory where the centaurs were unlikely to bother her. She stared down at her poop-smeared hand, the familiar but disgusting aroma still present. "Maybe it's good luck."

9vsoge

Non-Intrusive, Ethical Approaches

An oppressive boom in the mountains above, shook the ground, and reverberated through the bodies of the farm hands, who worked the crops in the valley below. Needing no further prompts, the farmers ditched their scythes onto the ground, and ran full sprint whilst screaming at the top of their lungs," it's COMING," looking back over their shoulders to check as they did so. The watchtower guard began vigorously swinging the rope attached to the large bell, nestled in the tower above him, rhythmically tugging it to further alert others of the incoming horror that swiftly came for them. Secondary booms and cracks made hearts pulsate quicker, and urged the retreating farmhands to move their already exhausted limbs, quicker. Vozomir watched on nervously from the safety of his tower, encouraging the scurrying folks with screams of, “come onnnn,” from all directions as they ran like ants fleeing to the safety of their nest. He tried to keep an eye on as many people as possible to ensure nobody would be left behind, and each time he saw someone trip and fall in sheer panic, he’d gasp and point, but was immediately relieved when he saw others running by grab and pull them back to their feet, and get them going again. The ensuing terror approached still, giving relentless reminders of its force and terror. It was gathering momentum and as each second passed, rumbling faster and emitting steady booms as if some great giant was running towards them. The speed at which it moved uplifted dust from the rocks and ground, and now a great, dark blanket of dust had gathered, like a menacing cloud concealing terrors within. When all were assumed to have returned to safety, the portcullis was clanked shut. Although, on his final scan of the landscape Vozomir spotted a young girl who was stood statue like, out in the fields, and seemingly unafraid, staring out towards the incoming beast with her two hands stretched out, as if she was willing it to stop. When the dust cloud finally reached her, she did not flinch even up to the point of being engulfed and consumed by the cloud, which made Vozomir wince and exclaim an agonising weep of, “noooo,” before ducking for cover below the battlements just in the nick of time, as he felt the cloud of dust woosh over his head and darken the whole sky. When the dust finally settled and filtered away with the day’s light breeze, Vozomir began edging his head over the battlements to catch a glimpse of the cause of the chaos, and the resulting damage. As he cautiously peeked over the wall, he saw a peppering of boulders in varying sizes, some as small as cabbages, others the size of houses, nested into craters they’d created. The terror that came for them this day, was not what they thought, but instead some kind of rocky eruption, that had flung, fractured mountain pieces upwards, sending them rolling down the mountainsides, towards the settlement at high speeds. Feeling safe to do so, Vozomir stood up and began scanning the position he remembered the girl being in, expecting to see a pool of guts and blood, he was quite astonished at what he saw, whispering to himself, “she passed the trial.” The girl was completely blackened by the dust cloud that swept over her, but all in all, she was intact and still had her hands stretched outwards in the same position. What was most unbelievable of all was her hands. Both of her hands were touching against a twenty-foot-tall boulder that she appeared to have stopped. She looked like a scorched, wood-carved miniature in comparison to the gigantic boulder shadowing over her. Vozomir shouted over, “Girl, are you okay?” The girl looked at him and gave a nod, then immediately collapsed to the floor. Dinya couldn’t remember much after seeing her hands touching the roughness of the large boulder towering over her and looking at some man shouting at her, before suddenly passing out, but she now appeared to have awoken in a bed and was covered in blankets. She could hear voices in eager discussion in a room nearby, and just about made out the conversation being had, “I sore it wit mi own eyes, sirs. It wer' like she wer' in sum sorta trance, she din’t waiver or nothin’, she stood fast, n’ I sore ‘er stop thi boulder with ‘er two 'ands.” Nobody spoke for sometime until a voice interjected the absence of noise,”the trial of the Giant's Discontent was passed, the giants believe she is worthy enough, she is the chosen one,” the voice said excitedly. There was a moment of contemplation before a different voice counterpointed, "or she was just lucky," he paused then carried on,” mathematically speaking, the chances of her surviving seems pretty reasona..." he was cut off by the first voice, "maths, smaths, Prothos, the prophecy engraved in the mountain side says it clearly - the one who can survive the trial of the Giant's Discontent, is the chosen one,” there was a laugh of derision from the first voice, and a snarky reply followed, “Mayor, with all due respect - prophecy, smophecy,” followed by a short snigger, “You can’t be serious? The prophecy is nonsense, we all know the stone mason’s son took some questionable mushrooms, and his imagination engraved nonsense onto the rocks…we can’t live our lives based on the carved graffiti of every drunk or hallucinating dimwit.” The mayor who stood with his arms folded, was noticeably shaking his head in disagreement, and retorted, "your logical reasoning has no place here, Prothos. We live in a land of dragons, for goodness sake. Mathematically speaking, they shouldn't bloody exist, but here they are, mythical and all -flapping about above us each autumn, and shall soon be here to torment us," he sat down to light his pipe and take a few puffs, “ further so, you are not looking at the bigger picture here. You may not believe the prophecy, but everybody, including the King, does. Word will spread and whether you like it or not, Dinya, your sweet protégé, must fight the dragons for us, and free the scorched lands of their curse,” he reached a hand out to comfort Prothos, “I’m sorry Prothos,” and left the room. The mayor’s foot steps got quieter as he gained distance and Dinya heard a shout of instructions which echoed in the courtyard,“Jopri, send word to the king of the Scorched Lands, we have the chosen one.” They say that the mountains move because the great giants that slumber there are having nightmares about the end of times, and twitch and fidget in anxiety, causing great boulders to fling up and crash down like meteorites onto nearby settlements. The kingdom of Canttabria, was unfortunate in this sense, being situated in the centre of a vast mountain range that circled them, and being isolated from all other humanity. The wise man, Prothos, called Canttabria a poisoned apple. On the outside, it looked picturesque with plentiful green planes for crops, and sparkling rivers and lakes abundant with fishes. Though, what he referred to as the ‘poisonous centre’, was the annual influx of dragons to the surrounding mountain range, each Autumn. Every year, the dragons felt a biological urge to migrate from some wretched place they haunted in the Spring and Summer, known as the Scorched Lands, for obvious reasons. The scorched lands is a place, plentiful of food for the dragons, and is where they fattened up before they came to the Canttabrian mountains to winter. What they fattened up, was the issue. The dragons didn't maintain a varied diet or give too much thought about balancing out their diet with nuts or leafy, garnishes. No. They knew what they liked and they ate just that, but 'just that' happened to be mankind, and mankind didn't like that, being sentient beings with feelings and emotions, and all. When they arrived to Canttabira, they engaged in very serious mating rituals which consisted of males competing in battles to the death in the mountains above, whilst the females perched and spectated, taking note of who fought impressively. It was quite the show for the settlers, who would stretch their necks up high to watch the action above in awe; the dragons would beat the air with their beastly, yet gracious wings, searching for a competitor, and once zoned in an a target, they would thrust forwards and begin a high-speed pursuit, emitting bursts of flames upon their opponent, who would try to dodge the flames. This was even more impressive in the night's sky and would illuminate the whole valley in bursts of light. Once the pursing dragon got in range of its victim, it would grapple and constrain its wings sending it sinking to the ground at high speed, then just before the impact on some harsh, jagged rock, the attacker would release its victim, flap vigorously upwards to save itself from impact, and its opponent would smash into the rocks to an immediate, blunt, mushy death. Prothos checked on Dinya and offered her some consoling words, cooled her brow with fresh, damp linen and got her to sip some water mixed with honey mead and herbs, before leaving her. He told her they’d talk later and that he needed to consult the archives before making a plan to help her defeat the dragons. He gave her some light reading to study for the moment, handing her some books that he believed any warrior facing dragons would probably like to read - Dragon Fire, does it really hurt?, The Naturalists Guide to Dragon Kind: An in depth study of the Fire-Breathing Beasts, and Slaying Dragons for Beginners. Prothos, remarked as he walked out of the room, "Every great battle, requires solid research, know your enemy, Dinya." Dinya lay in bed with her burden of destiny, surrounded by the books and began studying. For as long as she could recall, the dragons were pests that cursed mankind and nobody knew what to do with them. Sure, knights and warriors were sent to deal with them, with promises of land and riches on their return, but non ever returned, which led to the fixation on prophecies. It wasn't long before people believed these prophecies, and before anybody knew it, the King of the whole land sent out proclamations of reward to each settlement, promising infinite riches to anyone who could solve the issue. A door slamming downstairs, quickly snapped her out of her daydreaming state. Prothos was back from the archives. She had a plan which she knew Prothos would guffaw at, but she felt comfortable that the powers of prophetic destiny were guiding her towards the right choices. Prothos struggled into the room heaving a large, wooden chest, which had a pyramid of scrolls atop of it, that he'd carefully held in place with his chin. He dropped the chest thudding onto the wooden floor in fatigue, causing the scrolls to spread and scatter across the room. Then started picking each one up whilst instructing Dinya to," open the chest and put on the armour, and give them weapons a whirl too," while he sat at the table and organised the scrolls. Dinya pulled out the chest items and grabbed the armour first, which consisted of layers of intricate, shiny emerald scales. She gasped at the sight of it, looked over at Prothos and inquisitively asked,"is this dragon skin armour? Where did you get it?," Prothos smiled and looked back at her, replying, "It was fashioned from a dead dragon that fell from a battle by the smithy.” Excitedly, she put on the armour and headpiece which covered every part of her body, and grabbed the sword and shield to get a feel for them. Prothos stood up, looked her up and down, and informed her," the weapons come from the ancient ones’ crypts, and are thought to have special powers,” he said smiling at her. His face took a serious turn now, and she sensed instructions coming, “Time is short, Dinya! The dragons arrive by dusk and you must leave immediately, I’ve read the scrolls and they hold no solutions, we have to,” he gulped , “we have to assume the prophecy is true, and it will guide you,” he lovingly embraced her, kissed her head, and whispered, “good luck my sweet child, I will be willing for your success, now off you go.” Dinya looked him in his tear-filled eyes and promised she’d return. She walked out of the house, to see streets lined with folks, who wept for her. She exited the gates, took one last look back at the Mayor stood atop of the wall, and walked on. “Mayor, sire?,” said Vozomir from above. “Yes, Vozomir, he responded, “D’yer think she’er will er kill ‘em?” he asked. “No, Vozomir, I think she’s toast,” he responded ,”toast.” Dinya walked up the mountain paths with the plan of getting as high as possible before dusk. She didn’t have time to tell Prothos of her approach to dealing with dragons, but she was going to tell him that her method would be to take an ‘ethical, non-invasive approach, that would not distress the dragons in anyway," and imagined Prothos looking at her in utter disbelief, telling her,” these are fire breathing 20ft ,tall lizards. They’d roast you into charcoal before you could say 'good to meet you, I am your local non-invasive pest control, could you stop eating us?' She laughed at the though of it, ditching her weapons and armour to the ground. She could not confront the dragons wearing the skin of their kind -too disrespectful. She decided that she had to approach this peacefully and had to look unthreatening. She camped for the night under an overhanging rock with no fire and ate some bread and cold meats from her satchel before slumbering for the night. She awoke at dawn and stretched out her limbs. Her neck ached from sleeping on the rocks. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and felt her whole body completely freeze as she processed the scene in front of her eyes - a gathering of ten to twelve dragons, each perched upon some boulder, just watching her. ‘Why am I not dead already?,’ She thought. They looked as if they were waiting for her to make the first move, yet she dare not move, having never been so close to the gigantic, fearsome creatures before - fear overwhelmed her. She had to overcome it, she was here for a reason. She stood up slowly and brushed dirt from her clothing, then began to speak, assuming they could understand, “Dear honourable Dragon kind,” she stuttered with nerves but rallied on, “the Giant’s Discontent places me in front of you today, I am the chosen one.” There was a silence apart from the gusts of wind that whistled between the rocks. She continued, “You kill our kind without provocation, our people suffer each year, and I ask you to please stop the murder of our people.” With those words, the dragons growled and spat flames skywards, causing Dinya to stumble and fall back. She heard a rough, voice speak to her within her mind, “The Giant’s trial permits you to speak to us without harm, youngling, but we will not be instructed by mortal kind. Say your solution and we will consider your words.” She stood up again and gathered courage, “I propose this honourable dragon kind; humans and dragons can live together in peace, I bring you a selection of meat alternatives, which we can offer you in abundance, as long as you stop the senseless murdering of our kind.” Dinya, having read about dragon diets in the book - The Naturalists Guide to Dragon Kind - mentioned how dragons used to eat livestock that man now farms but keeps to themselves. She assumed that sharing the cows, goats, sheep, and chickens, would appease them, and the dragons only killed and ate mankind in retaliation, for man being too selfish to share these resources. She pulled out a platter of meats for the dragons to buffet on, made promises to share these with the dragons from hereon, bowed politely, and left them to their feast to consider her terms. Vozomir and Prothos stood on the battlements scanning the horizon, watching for any activity from the dragons atop the mountains, and hoping not to see a feasting frenzy on poor Dinya’s body. They saw none but were shocked to see the girl walking down the mountain side. Vozomir excitedly rang the bell to indicate Dinya’s return and people gathered and came to see her and listen to her words. She stopped in front of the gates and told them of her meeting with the assembly of dragons, what they spoke of, and how she offered them peace for the price of livestock, “We must share with them, “ she said, “and they will give us peace, I believe it.” They mayor laughed at her and spoke down from the wall,” They have tricked you, you foolish girl, we are all dead, dead, you have killed us all.” Dinya looked him dead in the eyes and replied to him in the most serious tone, “Mayor, I am the chosen one, and this is the way. I believe the dragons will agree to the terms, as a gesture, please put ten cows roped to the fence in the field yonder, you will see, they will come, and they will give us peace.” The gathering crowd erupted with claps and cheers, and the farmhands escorted ten cows to the fields, roped them to fences, came back and the whole settlement watched in awe as a flight of dragons swooped down from the mountains to take their offerings. Dinya smiled, and quietly said to herself, “Non-intrusive, ethical approaches.” The End

vymabw

The Not-So-Happy Romp in the Woods

     The acrid odor of burning wood made it impossible for John to inhale the freshly sprouting greenery in the spring pasture.       His dried out taste buds made his tongue stick like glue to the roof of his mouth.       Thus began another chapter in a dreamed-about fairytale that eventually turned into a nightmare.      John and his friends had looked forward to the camping trip at Emerson’s Lake for their entire final semester at Franklin High School. The boys at first believed the months of begging and pleading to their parents and slaving away at extra chores would prove well worth the 10 times their usual effort put into it.      Sam Johnson, John’s father, had dropped the trio boys at the entrance to the state park on Saturday morning. In return for the transportation they had to endure days of lectures and demonstrations in John’s backyard and in the local city park from the former Boy Scout on safe camping and fire-making techniques.          Of course, the teenagers, true to form, absorbed only about half of what they heard and about a quarter of what they saw.       On the morning of their great adventure they arrived at the starting point and unpacked the overstuffed SUV and loaded themselves up like pack mules. They felt fully equipped for the 25-mile forced march through the woods to the fireside site at the summit of Mount Fortenblau.        The crunch of breaking twigs gave way under their feet as branches scratched at their faces and the rising sun began to turn their virgin arms a bright crimson.      Despite parental warnings, the members of the youth adventure party had deemed the high SPF lotion and extra helpings of insect repellent too greasy and too much of a bother to slather on.      Nature paid them back during the week as the explorers began to feel like patients in the local hospital emergency ward after mosquitoes dive-bombed them and their knapsacks continued to cut into their scorched flesh.      “We knew this trip would be a challenge,” John told his buddies in an effort to keep their spirits up, “but the adventure will be well worth it. We don’t know what cool new surprises will spring on us around every bend.”        They soon discovered a very angry bear that chased them into a dark cave and held them prisoner for an hour as they feared for their lives.       Luckily, the loud racket they made with their aluminum camping utensils and their desperate cries for help in the deserted forest caused their attacker to abandon the fight and flee back into the far end of the woods.       As the black curtain of nighttime began to overtake the forest they emerged from the cave and continued to look for a safe place to make a campfire and settle in for dinner.      Another hour of twisting and turning through overgrown trails brought them to a clearing where they began to set up their outdoor homesite for the night. They planned to cook a feast of burgers and franks to be topped off with toasted marshmallows.      Something on the menu had not come included with dad’s pre-hike safety instructions. John’s pal Fred soon produced three six packs of beer from the local brewery he had carefully hidden in his supplies.      While John and Tom, the third Musketeer, hesitated Fred persuaded them a little alcohol would add to the thrill of their little expedition.      The combination of the beer, the humidity and the dark tranquility of the forest soon worked their melatonin effect as the campers found themselves slipping heavily into the dreamstate.      About two hours into their snoozefest John smelled the acrid odor of burning wood and awakened to a blazing inferno enveloping the campsite. Luckily, the other campers joined him in time to extinguish the flames by dousing them with water from their canteens and beating them back with their sleeping blankets.      They found a new clearing and settled down to a second round of slumber where their dreams shortly began to walk them through a much more pleasant alternative reality.      The three boys woke up three hours later with violent throbbing in their brains resulting from delayed hangovers from their previous night of drinking. Although glad for their camping experience, they now hungered for a return to the civilization of their hometown.      Their little adventure had not yet come to a close by a longshot. As they hiked down the mountain they took a wrong turn and wound up in a heavily-wooded section of the park with few cleared trails.       Another black, furry figure charged at them from behind a group of trees. They ran for their lives into another darkened cave partially hidden by the trees.     Luckily, a few coyotes had just killed a wounded wild turkey near the entrance to the cave and did not like having their feast interrupted. After a roaring and clawing standoff the coyotes managed to send the bear back into the woods.       As soon as their animal rescuers left to find other prey the three musketeers left the cave and continued on their way.       After a half hour of hacking their way through the dense brush they found a trail that seemed to lead down the mountain.        Halfway along the road to the park entrance they found their nostrils assaulted by a familiar acrid odor.       They looked ahead to see three men running at full speed from a stand of blazing trees.      One of the men shouted, “Please help our friend Sam. We left our campfire burning overnight and the flames leaped into the forest. We just escaped with our lives. We couldn’t get Sam to wake up. He’s still there.”      John and his friends rushed in and beat back the flames with their camping blankets. They dragged Sam out just before the propane camping stove belonging to the men exploded.       They then called the local fire department on their cellphones and the volunteers brought the blaze under control before delivering the mountaineers into the anxious arms of their families and girlfriends. 

rnowcb

The Meeting of Shyena and Beryl

    Shyena’s day began at dawn like any other day with farm chores. She pulled on her overalls over her sleep shirt, stuck her feet into her barn boots, slipped from the stone and beam farm house into the pale morning and headed for the barn rebuilt after the same dragon raid that had robbed her of her mother when she was six. She had been involved with morning feedings ever since. Pa and she did it together until at eleven, and already quite tall, he declared her ready to do it alone. She loved these mornings before Pa woke when it was just her and the animals. They had comforted her and made her strong. Pa often said these days that she was as strong as any sixteen-year-old boy he had ever known. That was a source of pride for them both. She checked on and fed the ewe who was due to give birth soon. She moved on to the horses and the cow. She curried the horses and checked their hooves to see if they needed trimming while they munched on their sweet grass hay. Not quite yet time for trimming, she thought, and turned her attention to milking the cow. Pa did love fresh creamy milk and their brown Bess was known for her sweet, creamy milk. After the barn chores, she stopped by the chicken coop for eggs before returning to the house as the sun rose higher in the sky. She could smell coffee brewing as she pushed open the unlatched door. “Pa,” she called out. “Are ye hungry?” “Yes, Daughter,” he answered. This exchange was usual for them every morning. She cooked the eggs expertly on the wood burning stove and sang as she cooked their customary breakfast of toast, eggs, and coffee. They ate together in companionable silence. Shyena cleared up and washed and dried their wooden bowls and spoons. Pa had gone to sit on the porch and have his morning pipe. She joined him bearing cups of coffee for them both. The porch time was their time to talk and speculate about what the day might bring---rain or sunshine in order to prioritize their farm work. Shyena now did most of the heavier work but Pa was “the boss.” Today, however, was different. Pa had something pressing on him. He accepted the coffee with a nod, took a sip and spoke. “Daughter, do ye remember the stories I’ve told ye?” “Yes, Pa.” “About the dragons that once lived amongst us and then turned against us.” “Yes, I do.” “Do you remember why they turned against us?” “Yes, they said we had betrayed their trust and so they destroyed our village and took Mother away from us.” Pa nodded. “I never asked, Pa, but had we betrayed their trust?” “Yes, I believe so, but others do not remember it that way. They blamed the dragons.” Shyena nodded and thought before she spoke, “And thus, we became isolated in many ways from the other village folk?” “Yes, those differences of opinion have grown over the years, but they may now change. Perhaps what has happened will allow the full story of Truth to become known by villagers and dragons.” Pa paused and puffed on her pipe giving her time to mull over what he had just said. “How, Pa?” “Ye know I went to the village yesterday?” “Yes, Pa and ye came back late. I was already asleep.” "Ye work so hard. I thought this could wait til morning. There was a village meeting. The villagers were all abuzz about a sighting and what to do.” Shyena gulped and stared at him wide-eyed. “A sighting! A dragon sighting?” She quivered with excitement. “It has been ten harvests.” Pa continued matter-of-factly, “Not exactly a dragon itself, but a scattering of scales and two large footprints pressed deep in the ground signaling take off by one of the winged ones.” “And?” Shyena tugged for more. “And, Daughter, they sought young and strong villagers to hunt for dragons and kill any they found.” He paused for another pipe puff watching her face. “And?” “None volunteered.” “None.” She repeated and continued, “Why are ye telling me about this now, Pa” “I knew ye would never forgive me if I didn’t.” Shyena nodded. She clenched and unclenched her hands. Sucking in her deepest breath, she said quietly but firmly, “Ye know I must go. If there’s any chance of finding Mother, I must go.” “I know,” Pa replied. “I will help ye prepare.” Meanwhile beyond the Cho River Valley high in the Arat Mountains wherein lay the birthplace of dragons, yearling dragons were being trained in advanced winged flight and fire-fighting techniques. These included maneuvers for swerving, diving, careening, sensing distant targets, producing flame, landing precisely on targets, and much more. Beryl loved these training exercises. He dreamed of being a Guardian whose job it was to keep the birthing place safe and free from hostiles, which included humans, especially those of the broken treaty. His schooling had provided him with images and stories of humans. He knew of the Treaty Battle that had taken place in the past, although many details of that battle had not been revealed to trainees like himself. But what was common knowledge was that humans were the worst kind of hostiles because they had betrayed the treaty. They were not to be seen as potential friends. That was the Truth from the dragon clan’s point of view. The dragon’s belief system was fraught with complexities and connections, so Beryl tended to accept what he was told hoping to be told more as he matured. If Beryl had understood his ability to time travel, he could’ve used that mechanism to glean information from any time period in the past to inform his present choices with full knowledge of ways those choices might impact the future. But, he did not possess such mature understanding so he did not make choices from a stance supported by such data. Thus, later the consequences of his choices caused many ripples across both the worlds of dragons and humans. Meanwhile far away in the Cho River Valley, Shyena and Pa planned her journey. He revealed to Shyena that long ago before the Treaty he had been trained to be one of the territorial guardians of the Cho River Valley and as such he had learned to fight and kill dragons, if need be. One day he appeared before her lugging an old trunk. He motioned to her to open it. When she did, she found a Great Sword, so called because its construction made it a weapon that could penetrate dragon scales and make a kill. Shyena touched it and shuddered. There were also preserved healing herbs, traveling clothes, padded armor, ropes, an ancient compass, and other things that Pa thought might be useful, including a book she hadn’t known existed called Knowing Dragons. In this book were lessons on the language of dragons and how to communicate with them. “Pa, she asked, why have I never seen these things before?” “I packed them away when the Treaty was signed between humans of the Cho Valley and the Clan of Dragons from the Arat Mountains. I hoped these things would never be needed again. I met and married your mother and we settled down on this farm. We had lovely years together, including you coming into our lives, before the Treaty was broken and the dragons revenged themselves upon us,” he explained. After a pause, he continued, “I will train you in the use of all these things.” And so he did. They worked ardently together training. They packed her saddle bags with trail food for her and grain for her horse. She would take Sylvarino, a strong and healthy stallion who was her favorite of their two horses.During training sessions, they rehearsed possible scenarios she might encounter. As they made these preparations, Pa repeatedly told her stories from his life as a dragon warrior before the Treaty. He showed her scars from wounds he had received and identified the herbs now in her possession that could cure wounds and keep them from becoming infected. She never tired of hearing these stories and knew he was giving her priceless information for her quest to hopefully find her mother alive. Perhaps a captive, but alive. If a captive, she would make every effort to free her and return to the Cho Valley and reunite them. She continued to do her farm chores. She spent her nights learning dragon language for communication She suggested that Pa find a young man from the village to fill in for her after she left, so he wouldn’t have to do everything himself. He said he probably would do so, but discreetly, which Shyena knew meant maybe, maybe not. One morning she felt ready to leave and announced her readiness as they sat on the porch after breakfast. Pa puffed on his pipe and then took a sip of his coffee before responding. “I’ve been feeling this day was comin’ soon.” he finally said in response He asked again the key question that had peppered their preparations, “What will ye seek?” “Mother, Dragons, and Truth,” she answered. Pa smiled saying, “May your choices flow in harmony with the Invisible Forces and bring forth fruitfully positive consequences for others, as well as for yourself.” “Thank you, Pa,” Shyena left the next day choosing to spend one more day-night cycle with her Pa. He waved to her from the porch until she and her steed Sylvarino were out of sight. Meanwhile in the Arat Mountains, Beryl had come to a life crossroads. He had finished his training and reached the time when he was to roam the outer perimeter of the birthing place to become familiar with every rock and rill. On this solitary mission, he filled himself with the vibrational energies he needed from the lands and waters to be a true Dragon Warrior and Guardian. He welcomed this time. He flew to the outer reaches. He ensconced himself in one of the large cave habitats high in the Arats. This would be his base for several months. Here he would encounter his destiny. Meanwhile Shyena traveled beyond the Cho River Valley and began the ascent of the Arat Mountains. The dragon tracks had disappeared, but the thrill of her quest had taken deep root in her. One day after she had conquered a particularly challenging trek, she found herself atop a bluff with a splendid view of the unknown mountainous terrain stretching before her. She paused to rest, and she fell asleep. She awoke under the intense brightness of a large full moon which throbbed with energy and mysteriously transformed the landscape before her. As she stared transfixed by the moonlight’s intensity, there appeared the silhouette of a winged creature showing against the lower part of the moon. Was that a dragon she wondered. She blinked. It was gone. She knew this sighting was a sign. Out there, dragons lived. Meanwhile Beryl loved the full moon nights. the moonlight energy was an elixir to him. So, it was on such a moonlight flight that he happened to sense the human presence on the edge of his patrol territory. He flew a little closer and saw a female sitting still as a stone on the edge of a bluff. Upon sighting her, he chose to fly across the lower part of the moon and reveal himself as a silhouette. He knew he was breaking the cardinal rule to never show himself to an outsider, especially a human, but an overwhelming vibrational urge to do so made him risk it. Thus, Shyena received her enticing sighting. Shyena sought rock cover for her and Sylvarino for the rest of the night and slept peacefully dreaming of dragons until sunrise awakened her. She fed Sylvarino some grain and ate a bit of her crumbled energy food Pa had packed washing it down with sweet water from a nearby brook. She shouldered her pack and started making her way leading sure-footed Sylvarino down a wide rock stairway beside the brook which she hadn’t noticed the night before. She was about halfway down when a great rushing wind and a distinct dragon smell assaulted her nostrils. Shocked, she dropped the reins and Sylvarino immediately turned around and fled back up the stairway whinnying all the way. That was the last sound she heard as great talons closed around her and plucked her from the rock stairway lifting her into the air pack and all. Oddly, she felt no fear only very intense curiosity. She watched the land below and contemplated what to say first to this dragon. She decided to keep quiet until they landed as she didn’t want to shock him in case he might drop her. Beryl didn’t know what to make of the female he held in his talons.His curiosity was definitely aroused so he decided to take her to his base camp and observe her to learn more. He landed, setting her gently down before he unfolded his talons. She surprised him by speaking to him in old fashioned, but understandable dragon. “Thank you for that smooth flight and landing, My name is Shyena. what are you called?” “You speak dragon?” Beryl stammered. “Yes, a little.” “Why are you here in the Arat Mountains?” “To find my mother,” Shyena replied, deciding to say nothing of killing since her heart wasn’t in it and her Great Sword was attached to her saddle and that was presumably attached to Sylvarino. “My name is Beryl. Weren’t you accompanied by a lovely horse?” “Yes, but he fled at the smell of dragon, though he did whinny apologies as he fled.” She smiled at Beryl. “Tell me about your search for your mother,” Beryl requested. “It’s a serious story and I do not want to alarm or disturb you.” “Is it a long story and are you hungry or thirsty?” “Yes, to all three,” she answered simply. “I only have a small bit in my pack here. I will share.” “I will provide energy food and drink for you,” Beryl answered and continued, “You are the first living human I’ve ever met, and you do not seem like an enemy, but I suppose only time will tell about that.” He sent a small flame to start a fire laid out in his cave and continued speaking, “Come sit by the fire. Our nights are cold. I will make preparations while you get settled and then we’ll eat and then you can tell me your story.” He prepared and served food and drink, which she consumed quietly enjoying the warmth of the fire and thinking about what to say and how to say it so as not to make him angry, but still tell the truth. “Thank you. whatever that was, it was delicious and energizing. Now, why I am here. It is the truth as I know it. I suspect there are factors I do not know.” “I was born in the Cho River Valley during the last years of the Treaty between dragons and humans. I heard stories of times before the Treaty and then like a fierce storm came the time of the Broken Treaty. I never understood who broke it, but I experienced the violence. The dragons came burning most of our village and our barn on our farm on the outskirts of the village, though not our stone house. It would not burn. Mother and Pa tried to put out the flames on the barn. They put me in the stone house and told me not to move. They hadn’t been at the flames long when there was a great sound of dragon wings. One of the wings knocked Pa to the ground and then one of the dragons picked up Mother and flew away. Pa roused himself and ran into the stone house sobbing. I was sobbing too, so he wrapped me in his arms and told me they were gone and we would somehow survive this together. He kept saying to me, ‘ I could hear her calling your name as they flew away. I think that is what made me get up and run into the stone house to be with you.’ I was six years old. Now, I’m sixteen and I have never seen my mother since that day. I do not even know if she is alive. I seek the truth of what happened to her.” Beryl was impressed with the obvious strength and courage of this human female, but he was hesitant to trust her fully because he knew his elders would severely disapprove. However, he didn’t feel any threat from her and he decided to trust his instincts. “I may be able to help you in your quest, especially since you are weaponless and speak dragon. Those points will go a long way with my elders. I have to take you there to them. However, I must exact a promise from you, which if you break it, things will not go well for you or any humans.” Shyena nodded firmly. “Do you promise never to reveal any information about the birthing place of dragons, which is where we must go?” “I do,” Shyena answered solemnly. “Then, we leave in the morning at first light. Sleep where you wish.” “Thank you. I’ve slept on hard ground before, so this spot by the fire will work for me.” So saying, she curled up and slept deeply until the morning came. Beryl showed her how to mount him and said it would be more comfortable for them if she rode him as he flew to the birthing place. And so they flew. Only time would tell what would happen, but Shyena was hopeful and now that was enough.

f9d058

The Newly Dead

It’s 1:13 a.m. on a Monday night when Bob sends me a pro bono assignment, and I am too dead inside to spare an ounce of compassion. I am being appointed counsel to Arles Ortega and Christina Lima Ortega and their daughter Anabel who are seeking asylum from Ecuador. Another thankless task—Ecuadorians are almost always denied asylum—all they can ever prove is vague government persecution, but it’s impossible to put meat on the bones and show personal stakes. I’m still in my office on the 32nd floor of Lexington Avenue. For the past five hours, I have been filing creditor claims in the Revlon Bankruptcy for our corporate clients to whom Revlon owes massive amounts of money. And I’m not nearly done. A second e-mail from Bob pops up: “ I expect you to come through on this one, not like last time. Remember, part of our job is to keep up appearances and be seen as philanthropic—we can market off of delivering the American Dream—our CEO clients could give two shits about the old college try. ” As I shift focus and continue to check e-mails, I stumble on an e-mail from my brother Robert which says: “ Annie, can you please write back this time? I know we’ve been out of touch for years. But it’s about Ruth—about mom . It’s important. ” I can never finish anything before three more things are forced on me—and everyone wants something from me. I have reached a point where I am at capacity and don’t even have the bandwidth or energy for this. Good news always comes in threes, that’s what Ruth used to say—so I can’t wait to see what comes next. My law firm, Dickens, Woolf & Poe, PC is only a few blocks down from the Roosevelt Hotel where the asylum seekers have been gathering throughout the July heatwave, sleeping outside on the dirty streets by Grand Central Terminal waiting for a room. The city reopened the shuttered hotel. Renamed it the “new Ellis Island.” All eighteen floors are now being used to house migrants. I decide to walk by the Roosevelt Hotel on my way to get a drink at Sally’s. As I hit the streets, there is the familiar rumble of tires, the hum of traffic, and the kick of an occasional muffled exhaust. The streets smell of an odd mix of detergent from the vent fumes, skunky drafts of weed, roasted nuts from street carts, and the wet mildewing stench of still-steaming coffee grinds creeping out of partially opened garbage bags piled outside of restaurants. There is also the warm hug of a summer breeze. The constant honking of horns to which I am familiarity deaf, like a fire alarm beep that you have subconsciously muted until someone brings it up. I’ve muted out a lot of things that are meant to warn me before I am consumed in smoke and flame, I suppose. The electric friction of the concrete—hard and tangible—anchors me in the thrall of the streetwalkers. There is a hypnotic effect to the sound of the click of my Christian Louboutin black leather pumps which I reflexively keep on a steady beat, with a sassy clomp, clomp, clomp , and an occasional snare— click —as I pass by slow walkers—because mommy needs a drink. “Bienvenidos al arrival center!” a sign reads, and another right next to it says, “We are currently at capacity.” I know that unnerving lost feeling of taking a last-minute late-night flight and arriving in a strange town where all the hotels are booked—and driving bleary-eyed from one hotel reception to the next before finally finding a room at a fleabag motel offering hour rentals. This is even worse. These people have traversed jungles and continents to land here, to a reception of indifferent concrete. There are new smells of urine and body odor. There is a restless rustling and scraping of clothes as people try to get comfortable on the cold hard pavement. Kids groan and grumble to their parents with shrill yelps. They are stretched out between 45th Street and 46th Street, maybe two hundred or three hundred families, restless and sweaty in the humid, damp squalor that has followed them. They are all huddled between the exterior of the famous hotel and a set of metal barricades, imprisoned between worlds. I walk past the intersection and duck into Sally’s, the midtown dive bar par excellence. Now, I really need a drink. * * * Sally’s smells like teen sex in the back of a Ford Focus with too much perfume, too many breath mints, and a double shot of Little Trees New Car Scent. And cinnamon Fireball. And there is a homey hint of sudsy keg beer lathering in the drip tray below the taps. An anxious DJ with a laptop— DJ-Push-Play —is in the back playing “Don’t You Worry Child” by Swedish House Mafia. Jamie comes to the bar and pours me a tall glass of Macallan on the rocks. “What’s up single malt,” she asks, flicking her head and tossing her straight-ironed bleach-blonde hair over her shoulder, revealing a scoop neck tank top that says, “Tequila is my spirit animal.” Much as I love her, she’s only in her late 20’s and I envy her youth more than she could ever envy my money. “Pondering lipstick,” I tell her, pulling out a case of Tom Ford Scarlet Rouge and applying it to my lips. Then I look up and say, “Revlon bankruptcy… channeling my inner Charles Revson… I feel like fighting the entire world armed only with lipstick and nail polish.”. “Ha. Good choice of weapons. They are up for the job. Trust me,” Jamie says, shooting a gunmetal glance at some doe-eyed young pup NYU student at the far end of the bar, and running her fingers through her hair to pull it behind her ear, simultaneously exposing her neck. “’Lipstick is made in the factory; ‘hope’ is sold in the store,’ was the famous Charles Revson line,” I tell her. “I like that,” she says. “For families, I think it’s the other way around,” I say, “It’s the home that crushes the hope out of you. And ‘lipstick’ here means sweeping all of your financial problems under the rug.” “So, we’re back to Ruth, huh. What do you think of this squirt at the end of the bar? Kind of cute right?” Jamie asks. “You think any guy that makes googly eyes at you is cute—which is all of them. Not very discriminating, if you ask me,” I say. “Ehhh. So, what is the Ruth emergency? She call you for money again?” she asks. “No. I got a text. From my brother,” I say, and shoot the whiskey down in a single gulp. Jamie grabs the bottle and says, “Careful single malt.” “It is kind of ironic that a misogynist prick like Charles Revson started Revlon. That he empowered generations of young women,” I say. “Ehhh, it checks out. It’s not what they give you, it’s what you do with it,” Jamie says. “You know, my mother always said, ‘Women fall in love with what they hear. Men fall in love with what they see. That’s why women wear makeup and men lie.’” “Oh, you’re going to do great on the speed dating scene,” Jamie teases, and then says, “Here’s one for the road. See you same time tomorrow?” “You can count on it,” I say, “But I may need you tomorrow morning for something… text you the details.” “Last call,” Jamie screams and then jumps up on the bar—Coyote Ugly style—and takes the $100 bill I gave her and sticks it to the ceiling. They have walls of foreign bills and a ceiling full of American bills to boot. The whole purpose of this place seems to be to make their profits into wallpaper, with the exotic foreign currency covering the walls, and the boring local tender looking down from above. As I walk out, I see Jamie flicking on the lights and chatting up Bobby Boucher at the end of the bar. * * * The hotel room where Arles and Christina Lima Ortega are staying has red walls and smells of stale cigarette smoke and carpet lint. I’ve convinced Jamie to come with me because she speaks fluent Spanish, and she is acting as a translator. When the gangs killed presidential hopeful Fernando Villavicencio in Quinto in broad daylight last month, that sealed it. It was like killing Kennedy. It killed all hope. Christina tells me that during the election, polling places had signs that said, “ El voto es secreto. ” But no one believed it. The gangs knew everything and ruled everyone. Villavicencio was a former journalist and writer who vowed to free the country from the grip of organized crime. So much for that romantic idea. When they shot him eight times as he left a rally, it was like the gangs were saying, “ Bullets triumph over words .” “Why are you afraid to return to Ecuador, Christina? Have you been harmed or threatened to be harmed in the future,” I ask. “We live in Quinto,” she says, shrugging, “It is a jungle.” “But specific harm Ms. Ortega—a beating—being detained—threatened with treason—held at gunpoint—accused of being part of Villavicencio’s regime—anything like that?” “Of course, of course. You want me to make something up. Everyone has been threatened. Not just us,” she says. “Please, Ms. Ortega, I need details for the papers,” I say. “Things are as likely to turn around in Quinto as Villavicencio is to rise from the dead,” she says, shaking her head, “I won’t take my baby back there. Deport me then. I will find someplace else.”  “Maybe Villavincenzo [ Vincencio ] can be a spiritual rallying cry for the people, after all—like Jesus coming back in spirit .” “Oh no, letrada , you are wrong, ledtrada de oficio , you make mistake,” she says. “What do you mean?” I ask. “Have you ever seen a spirit eat fish?” she says. The problem here is that general corruption and gang violence aren’t enough to make a case for asylum, and Ms. Ortega’s specific threats are vague at best. “Returning to your application, we are going to have to demonstrate ‘credible fear,’ of an identifiable harm upon return…” I say. I watch Jamie translate and Christina gives me a confused look. “They shot Villavicencio eight times!,” Christina says. “But they didn’t shoot at you. We have to show a significant risk they’d persecute or torture you and your family ,” I say. “I am supposed to just wait for that to happen,” she says, adding, “What kind of mother do you take me for?” “No, of course not,” I say, “It’s just the procedure.” “Sólo el procedimiento? Sólo el procedimiento! Tengo mas miedo de vivir en Ecuador que de cruzar el Darién,” she says, and I look at Jamie as she scrambles to translate. Jamie flicks the blonde hair out of her face and blows on it saying, “She’s saying she has more fear of going back to Ecuador than she did crossing the Darien Gap—how can I describe this—I’ve seen it on YouTube—it’s like a trek—like if you tried climbing Everest—but it's through this rain forest jungle with mud and quicksand, tree roots, snakes, poisonous bugs, shoulder-high river crossings, treacherous mountains, roadside machete bandits—lots of them die.” “I see,” I say, and nod to Christina. “We were almost out of the jungle and came across a human skeleton,” she says, “A little one, a child’s skeleton. The bones were yellow, which means newly dead. The bones do that when they are newly dead. They still pull in nutrients because they don’t know the body is dead yet.” And she looks over at Anabel, the infant sitting on her father’s lap, playing with a gray elephant plush toy that he keeps pulling away to peals of laughter. “That’s horrifying,” I say. “Ñawparirka,” she says, and Jamie can’t translate this one, so Christina helps out, apparently knowing more English than she lets on. “One who went ahead,” she says. “Oh, so you’re saying, don’t be sad for the dead—they’ve gone ahead?” I ask. “Dead long time. Troubles here are short. The saddest thing is not to live when alive. Or not to go on when dead. The saddest thing is the newly dead, the bones still holding on to life,” she says. “Like all those people outside, waiting for a room?” I ask, and then ask a second question, “But what is the threat to you if you return?” “Ms. Meyer, you won’t let them send us back?” she asks. “Ms. Ortega, I will do what I can, but it isn’t really up to me—” “—No, don’t do what can; do what it takes,” she says. “But Ms. Ortega, I’m not the Judge—there’s one rule for everyone,” I say. “Are we newly dead over here, and don’t know it?” Christina asks. I’ve been down this road before and know that almost all of the Ecuadorians are turned away and denied asylum. But somehow, I’ve got to come through for Christina. I’ve got to show that they are likely to be persecuted if they return, and probably do so with next to no documents and a case as thin as a single sheet of paper. * * * I walk out into the din of the city streets during the morning rush. Jamie pulls out a Newport cigarette and the smell of menthol and Chanel No. 5 covers the rusting of the summer sun on a jungle of steel and glass. A Jamaican man with hazel eyes and long dreadlocks is out on the corner by the Roosevelt Hotel across from the migrants, and he has a group of plastic drummers providing accompaniment. He strums his guitar and the streets ring with a voice like an angel appealing to the damned. The busker finishes up his rendition of “Take on Me” strumming and saying, “You're all the things I've got to remember / You're shyin' away / I'll be comin' for you anyway / Take on me (Take on me)…” I think of how Ruth put her life savings into a Merle Norman Cosmetics franchise after my father left, and those first hopeful days setting up the displays at the Cherry Hill Mall, outside of Philadelphia. She had signed a ten-year lease. Gone into severe debt for the build-out. Bought a package of initial inventory from Merle Norman that she couldn’t afford. Set up point-of-sale systems and with great care organized her display cases. It was astonishing how quickly after that she had a bankruptcy discharge, and a sheriff was at our door asking us to leave. The busker immediately breaks into “I Ran (So Far Away),” by Flock of Seagulls, singing, “Reached out a hand to touch your face / You're slowly disappearing from my view / Reached out a hand to try again / And I ran, I ran so far away / I just ran, I ran all night and day / I just ran, I couldn't get away.” As melodramatic and offbeat as the tune is, it stirs something in me. It reminds me of that feeling, that shame, and the way that simple man in cheap polyester, smelling of fast food and human detritus could strike mortal fear in you with only a badge and a piece of paper. I need to find proof of a credible threat from a supposed authority figure—or invent one. But there’s somewhere I have to go first. * * * The hospital rooms at Mt. Sinai are yellow. The smell of antiseptic reminds me of nail polish and the faint smell of talcum powder in the air makes me think of concealer. Ruth has her permed hair perfectly arranged, as she sits up watching Fran Drescher in T he Nanny . I look in from the hallway. I heard that she is selling Mary Kay Cosmetics now. Even from here, I can tell that she is wearing Chanel 31 Le Rouge L'Esprit Cambon out of its crystal glass case, her lipstick du jour. She’ll be wearing this stuff when she is buried no doubt. I walk over to her and say, “Momma, it’s me.” “Oh Annie, are you wearing M.A.C. Angel? It looks like frosting, dear,” Ruth says. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask. “I didn’t want to bother you, honey, with all the stress you have,” Ruth says. “But, mother, you’re dying,” I say. “Oh, I’ve been dying a long time now. Not much you’re going to do about that,” Ruth says. “Mother, I can’t believe you were just going to sit here and die, watching old reruns of The Nanny and never even say anything,” I say. “You haven’t said anything to me in a long time now,” Ruth says. “Mother, I know, I’ve been trying to set things right… for myself… but I’m lost,” I say. “It’s ok dear, we all are. Lost. Somewhere between life and death. Between hope and despair. Unsure if we are still here or if we are just ghosts hanging onto a dream that died a long time ago.” “But Mom, you’re leaving us,” I say. “I’m so proud of you,” she says, looking at me every bit the same as Christina Ortega looked at Anabel. And as I take her wrinkled hand in mine and turn off the television, her bones pull back some of the old magic from when the things that mattered to us were still alive. * * *

rtqqzh

A Natural Wonder

In the heart of the bustling city, amidst the ceaseless hum of traffic and the cacophony of voices, there was a sound that went unnoticed by most. It was the soft, melodic tinkling of wind chimes, hidden among the urban jungle. Every afternoon, like clockwork, they came alive, offering a brief respite from the relentless noise of the metropolis. In a small, dimly lit apartment on the top floor of a nondescript building, Sarah sat by the open window, her gaze fixed on the wind chimes that dangled from the iron railing. The chimes were an heirloom, passed down through generations of her family, a relic from a simpler time when life was slower, and the world was quieter. As the sun dipped below the city skyline, casting long shadows across the room, the wind chimes stirred to life. A gentle breeze, carrying the scent of distant rain, swept through the window, causing the delicate metal tubes to collide. The resulting sound was a symphony of delicate notes, like a lullaby for the soul. Sarah closed her eyes and allowed the sound to wash over her. It was a sound that transported her from the chaos of the city to a tranquil garden, where the air was scented with blooming flowers and the only soundtrack was the whispering of leaves in the breeze. She felt a profound sense of peace and nostalgia, a longing for a world that seemed increasingly distant. In her apartment, Sarah lived a solitary life. Her days were consumed by the demands of a high-stress job that left little room for anything else. But those few moments each day, when the wind chimes sang their song, were a precious escape. They reminded her of her grandmother, who had once told her stories of a quieter, more connected world. One evening, as Sarah sat by the window, lost in the enchanting melody of the wind chimes, she heard a voice from the apartment next door. It was a voice she had never heard before, soft and hesitant. "Excuse me," the voice said, "I couldn't help but notice the wind chimes. They're beautiful." Startled, Sarah turned to see her neighbor, a young woman with kind eyes and a warm smile, standing by the open door that connected their apartments. "Thank you," Sarah replied, a bit flustered by the unexpected intrusion. "They've been in my family for generations." The neighbor stepped closer, her curiosity evident. "Do they make that lovely sound every day?" Sarah nodded. "Yes, like clockwork, every afternoon when the breeze picks up." The young woman's eyes sparkled with interest. "I've always loved wind chimes. Would it be too much trouble if I sat here with you sometimes and listened to them?" Surprised by the request, Sarah hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Of course, you're welcome to join me anytime." And so, a simple friendship began. Sarah and her neighbor, whose name was Emily, would often sit by the window together, their silence filled with the enchanting melody of the wind chimes. As the days turned into weeks, they began to share their stories and dreams, finding solace in each other's company. Emily, it turned out, was an artist who had recently moved to the city to pursue her passion for painting. She had chosen the apartment next to Sarah's because she found the sound of the wind chimes both inspiring and calming. Sarah, on the other hand, had once harbored dreams of becoming a writer but had put them aside to pursue a more conventional career. One evening, as they watched the sunset paint the sky with shades of orange and pink, Emily turned to Sarah with a question. "Sarah, have you ever considered writing again?" Sarah sighed, her gaze fixed on the wind chimes. "I used to love writing, but life got in the way. I haven't written anything in years." Emily smiled. "You know, the sound of the wind chimes reminds me of stories waiting to be told. Maybe it's time for you to pick up your pen again." Sarah looked at Emily, her eyes filled with uncertainty. "It's not that simple. I have responsibilities, a demanding job. I can't just drop everything to pursue a dream." Emily's voice was gentle but determined. "Sarah, life is too short to ignore the things that make your heart sing. You don't have to quit your job, but you can start small. Write a little every day, even if it's just for yourself. Who knows where it might lead?" Inspired by Emily's words, Sarah decided to take her advice to heart. She began to carve out time in her busy schedule to write, even if it was just a few sentences each day. The act of putting words on paper brought her a sense of fulfillment she had long been missing. As the days turned into months, Sarah's passion for writing reignited. She started a blog where she shared her thoughts and stories, and to her surprise, people began to connect with her words. She even received encouraging messages from readers who found solace in her writing, just as she had found solace in the wind chimes. Emily, too, continued to pursue her art with unwavering dedication. Her paintings began to gain recognition, and she held her first art exhibition, showcasing her unique perspective on the city she now called home. One evening, as Sarah and Emily sat by the window, listening to the wind chimes that had brought them together, Sarah turned to her friend with gratitude in her eyes. "Emily, you were right. The sound of the wind chimes, and your friendship, helped me rediscover a part of myself I had long forgotten." Emily smiled warmly. "And you, Sarah, have shown me the power of pursuing your passions, no matter the obstacles. We've both been inspired by a simple sound." In that moment, as the wind chimes continued to play their gentle melody, the two friends realized that they had found not only solace but also inspiration in the unlikely harmony of their lives. The sound that had once gone unnoticed in the bustling city had become a reminder that amidst the noise and chaos, there was always room for beauty and dreams to flourish.

tk141p

The Dragon's Knight

Personally, I like the big guy, but that’s just me, you understand? I feel as though if the king wanted me to go slay a dragon, he should have picked a nastier one. This fellow ain’t bad at all is the problem. I showed up and he was just sitting there lighting the occasional tree on fire. Well, I suppose if you like trees, that sort of thing might upset you, but a tree never did me any favors, so what issue should I take with it? Every other knight was given a notoriously terrifying dragon to vanquish, and by the time the king got to me, I could tell he was holding back a giggle. See, I’m not his favorite, because one time, I pointed out that the table isn’t even all that round. It’s really more of a sphere, if you think about it. Next thing I know, I’m no longer invited to any of the knightly activities. Then, I’m given the job of looking for all the worst relics, like the Odorous Slippers of St. George, who had remarkably smelly feet. The dragon was just the last straw. Sending me off to take down a lovely creature that just wants to sit around all day and set ugly old trees aflame. I have half a mind to ride that dragon all the way back to the kingdom and give him a real target to set his nostrils on, you understand. The trouble is, even if I wanted to do such a thing, the big guy can’t really fly all that well. He’s got these little wings and a rather large body, what from eating all the local cows. Me personally, I don’t see anything wrong with a hearty appetite. Why, I myself could finish off two or three racks of lamb and a barrel of ale back when I was a lad. Can’t be doing that now though, or I’d be in the latrine for a fortnight. This dragon, though, is most likely not more than one or two hundred years old based on what I know about dragons. You see, the wings don’t come in until they reach three hundred, but the body grows much faster than that. No wonder the poor guy can’t get himself up in the air. If you ask me, he’s depressed about the entire situation, and the cows are just a way for him to eat his feelings. Now, I can’t understand why the farmers are upset about their livestock. That’s their way of earning a living, and without livestock there’s no living. Still, you can’t blame the dragon for wanting to eat, and what with him being as big as he is, he’s naturally going to eat more than us measly humans. And you can’t blame him for not having any money, because he can’t rightly go out and get a job, now can he? What sort of profession do you want to see him attempt? Tailor? You want to ask a dragon to fix the hem on your skirt? I bloody well don’t think so. He’s not good for much, but sitting around, although don’t tell him I said that, because he’s very sensitive. Why, the first day I showed up, he was looking at a butterfly going around his nose, and he had tears going down his little dragon face, because he was so touched by the beauty and symmetry of that wonderful insect. Then, the butterfly landed on his nose, and he sneezed, and incinerated the poor thing, but that wasn’t his fault now, was it? If you’re going to land on a dragon’s nose, you have to assume it may sneeze and turn you into a pile of dust. That butterfly took its chances, and look what happened. Me, I stay away from the big guy’s nose. Of course, you can lay on his stomach all you like, and it doesn’t cause a bit of trouble. He may be a bit ticklish, but he won’t hurt you provided that once he gets to laughing, you run behind the nearest rock. Once he gets going, there’s arson everywhere, but soon enough, he calms down, and then you can go right back to tickling him. It’s like a game the two of us play. We mainly spend time out in the quarry now though, because there are more rocks to hide behind, and because the last time we played it near the village, he lit up two churches and the butcher shop. Then again, what village do you know needs two churches? They must be doing a lot of sinning around here if they need that many, and I think the better solution is to simply stop sinning. Now, that’s just my opinion, but I’m entitled to it, you understand? The king gave me two months to get here, slay the dragon, and get home. Dumb bugger doesn’t know a thing about the geography of his own kingdom. It’s only a day’s journey on horseback. That means, I can bide my time before going back to tell him off. When I do, he’s getting an earful from me, you better believe it. I don’t care if it costs me a trip to the dungeon. A man has to stand on some kind of moral principle, doesn’t he? When I took my knight’s oath, I promised to defend humanity against all threats foreign and familiar. Well, the way I see it, this dragon has been living in England his whole life, so he ain’t foreign. And I’ve now tickled him at least a dozen times, so he’s very familiar to me. All that being said, I don’t see how I can rightly slay him when it wouldn’t be upholding my oath. To me, he’s no different than a little baby sitting in a field, provided a baby could set a tree on fire. Who knows? Maybe there are babies that can. I’ve seen stranger things in this world, you understand? Once I tell that king off, me and the big guy here are going to go traveling. Until his wings grow in, we’ll have to walk, but the exercise will do him good. I’ll take him around to see the whole world as we know it. Then, when we’re done, we’ll see the world as we don’t know it. You see, I never had a kid of me own, because as knights, we’re not allowed. So this dragon might be the closest I ever come to being something of a father. You can’t go throwing away a chance like that. It’s a beautiful thing when another living creature depends on you. If it weren’t for me, who knows what would happen to this defenseless creature? Why, just the other day, one of those poachers tried to sneak up on the big guy when he was asleep. Those poachers like putting dragon scales in their tea, because they think it makes them immortal. The great irony of that fool trying to live forever is once he tried to cut off one of the big guy’s scales, he scared him awake, and if you think the fire’s bad when he sneezes, you should see how hot it burns when it’s first thing in the morning. The only thing left of that poacher is half a toe and a few gold teeth. Garish fellow he was. I doubt he’ll be missed. That’ll be the last close call my dragon has for awhile. I’m going to look after him now. Once I head back and give the king what for, it’ll be me and the big guy and nobody else, which is probably for the best anyway. He gets nervous around new people, and when he gets nervous, he gets to sneezing up a storm. I think I’m about all the friend he can handle, you understand? It ain’t easy making friends when you’re a dragon.

wzwt0s

The Castaway Bride

THE CASTAWAY BRIDE “Land ho!” A desperate bellow, brightened by hope. Perhaps salvation was within our grasp and we would survive after all. I tightened my hold on the whatever-it-was that I was clinging to, and held my breath as yet another salty shower washed over me.. The night was alive with curses, screams and prayers. A bolt of lightning turned our darkness into day, and I caught a glimpse of two men wrestling with the great wheel of the Windrider , striving to keep her nose headed into the towering waves. I possessed only meagre book knowledge of the art of sailing, but I knew enough to realize that if our vessel’s course changed even a little, she would wallow helplessly in the trough between waves and be overturned. Time seemed to stand still while images of my life paraded before my inner eye. Myself as a little girl in ribbons and lace, the first disappointment of a father who longed for a son and fathered only daughters. Next, the eagerly inquisitive adolescent fenced in by the disapproval of her mother and her governess, whose only goal was to foster a favourable marital union. Some years later, the woman of twenty-two, stolidly watching the marriage ceremonies of two of my five younger sisters, wondering if matrimonial bliss was truly the destiny of a woman of even a modicum of purposeful intelligence. Then, finally, my latest self at an overripe twenty-four, involuntarily betrothed to Lord Cecil Behoven, who looked old enough to be my grandfather. Then I fell in love and everything changed. I, Lady Cynthia Panterra, knew without a doubt that I was destined for better things. Romain Desrochers, first officer of the tall ship Windrider , had some business with my father. After their deliberations, he was invited to stay for luncheon. As soon as he kissed my hand, I knew that this was the love of my life, and there could be no other. We exchanged the customary pleasantries over the meal, and all too soon he was on his way to conquer the oceans. I watched his receding back until he disappeared from sight, wondering if he shared the mysterious stirrings deep in my belly.  That day, I became a woman; that very night, I became a man. I stole a rough blanket and boy’s clothes from the laundry, wrapped up a few provisions, slashed away my long hair, smeared some dirt on my face, and betook myself to the harbour, where the Windrider was moored, prepared to depart at dawn. Providence was on my side. One of the cabin boys had been arrested for pickpocketing, so not many questions were asked when I presented myself. I gave my favourite uncle’s name, Josiah Garton, and made my cross on the paper, agreeing to serve in any capacity required, for a year or a day, more or less, since the length of sea voyages was unpredictable. My ineptness earned me many an oath and the occasional cuff, but I learned quickly, and became more capable as my muscles grew stronger. Despite the lack of amenities, I found life at sea much preferable to the interminably humdrum hypocrisy of the drawing room. My days were brightened by the presence of Romain, who seemed oblivious of my existence; my nights were haunted by dreams of passionate adventures-to-be. The romances I had read in secret proclaimed that true love always finds a way, as inevitably as the ocean waves which now threatened to engulf me. Another bolt of lightning struck our central mast, splitting it in two. One half bounced off the deck into the waves; the other struck the first mate's shoulder and mowed him down like ripe harvest grain. Romain jumped out of its path, but not far enough. It caught his leg, pinning him down. With no consideration of possible consequences, I leaped forward to help. The deck tilted, liberating Romain and rolling the mast towards me. Some force greater than I – perhaps an angel, perhaps a gust of wind, perhaps the simple will to live -- lifted me upwards out of its path. Before there was time to feel any relief or gratitude, the next wave hit, capsizing the boat and spilling us all into the turbulent waves like discarded chess pieces. By some uncanny synchronicity, Roman and I happened to grasp the same piece of mast before the waves swallowed us. We rode the infernal waters together, choking, sputtering, gasping for breath, but never letting go of the wood that was our only hope of salvation. After an eternity, the sea calmed and the sun rose.  Guiding the fragmented mast to shore was no easy feat. I was too exhausted to stand when we landed, and crawled only a few feet before I lost consciousness. So began our great adventure. Not the one I envisaged when I put to sea, but marvellous nonetheless. After I recovered my senses, I nursed Roman with great solicitude, splinting his damaged leg with tree branches and vines, though he swore that it was not broken. A week later, he set out to walk the circumference of the island, while I hovered over him, imploring him to rest. By evening, we were back where we had begun, having found no evidence of human habitation. No other souls from our ship managed to reach shore. A few fragments of wood, a sea chest, and a barrel of stout drifted onto the beach in the next few days, but that was all. The chest contained some clothing, four books, needles and thread, and a flint and steel, all of which proved useful in the days to come. We found no signs of life on the island save some fat birds and four-legged creatures that resembled foxes. We sampled the fruits on the trees and discovered by trial and error what was palatable and what was not. The ocean provided us with an abundance of clams and fish. Sometimes we would roast one of the birds, which were easy to snare because they had no fear of us whatsoever. During the long sunset-blessed evenings, we would exchange tales true and imagined, and teach each other songs and dances. Romain’s manner gradually warmed towards me. It seemed that he might be developing feelings for me, the lowly cabin boy he had never taken the slightest notice of. In response to his smiles, I became more and more careless about concealing my identity, hoping that he would realize the truth of our situation. One hot afternoon, while Romain was busying himself with weaving a mat from palm fronds, I retreated to a nearby pond to freshen up my clothes. Because I had nothing to change into, I usually played in the water fully dressed, rinsed myself under the waterfall that fed the pond until I tired of the game, and then allowed my clothes to dry on my body. On this particular day, the sunshine sparkling on the water enticed me to remove all encumbrances. The warm breeze caressed my body as I plunged into the water, laughing and reveling in the innocent freedom of a child. I had never felt more alive. I was luxuriating under the falls, eyes half-closed, when a tall form reared from the water. Romain had come to join me. We stood face to face, Adam and Eve in Eden before the fall. I had never seen a naked man before. My bemused curiosity quickly turned to dismay when the grin on Romain’s face faded to utter horror. He splashed out of the water, scooped up his clothes, and ran like all the demons of hell were in pursuit. I did not see him again until he appeared at our encampment the following night. I had started a fire and was roasting some clams. I heard his step and looked up, expecting an apology, or at least an explanation. He towered over me, his face twisted in wrath. “What have you done?” he roared like an offended deity. I was too taken aback to answer. I had spent considerable time wondering whether modesty or revulsion had driven him away, but I had not anticipated this response. It was obvious that I had sinned in his eyes, but I did not have the slightest notion of what I had done amiss. “You must have known that a woman aboard a vessel is bad luck,” he continued. “Thirty-three good men and a cat lost their lives because of you, and my career as a marine officer is utterly ruined.” He continued to rant and rave until I was too exasperated to put on a submissive face. I stood up and met his eyes. “Such nonsense! You know full well that is a tale that sailors invented so that they could have freedom to do whatever they wished while they were at sea!” He stared at me as if I had grown a six heads. I stared back, shooting imaginary lightning bolts into his insolence. He subsided, bit by bit. Then a rueful smile lit his face. “I do admire a woman who has the courage to speak her mind.” I sat down, knees trembling. “Supper is ready.” He did apologize eventually. All barriers between us vanished for a few golden hours. I told him my whole story, how I had found my life’s purpose in his eyes and could not bear the thought of never seeing him again. Death was preferable to being chained in the bonds of loveless matrimony, but I had dared to hope that life at sea would be preferable to death. Romain recognized me then, and even remembered my name. He kissed my hand gallantly and said, "My dear Lady Cynthia, I am at your service in every way but one. I have no taste for the fairer sex." He was true to his word, and cared for me in every possible way, like the most faithful of servants. I lacked for nothing he could provide. However, my shattered heart could take no pleasure in his attentive efforts. How I longed for our former days of bawdy jokes, familiar slaps on my buttocks, and the uninhibited freedom of dancing on the beach together! But I was Lady Panterra now, and Romain was forever beyond my reach. We still had long conversations in the evenings, reading the rather tiresome books about botany and economics that the waves had gifted us with, recalling the past and speculating about the future. He shared his sea lore with me, and I acquainted him with the peculiarities of genteel society. We whiled away many hours in storytelling -- tales of adventure, battles, narrow escapes, love lost and found. I smiled and jested when it seemed appropriate, and wept bitter tears in the solitude of the night over my own tragic tale of eternally unrequited love. A year or two later (it was so hard to keep track of time!), we were rescued by the Blessed Mary , a merchant ship which had wandered off course. When Romain was lighting the signal fire we had prepared on the beach, I considered disappearing into the trees to escape returning to my bondage. But my sense of duty kept my feet rooted in the sand. I need not have worried about the sensibilities of my family. They were dismayed by my return. It was one thing to have a daughter tragically snatched from them by an unknown perpetrator; it was quite another to have said daughter returned, with roughened hands, muscular arms, and sun-bronzed skin, from being marooned with a sailor. Mercifully, Lord Behoven had succumbed to influenza, so he was spared the disgrace of breaking our engagement. The last of my sisters was only days from her nuptials, which narrowly escaped being cancelled by the family of the groom. I was allowed to attend the ceremony, but not as a member of the bridal party. I was a ruined woman, with no prospects whatsoever. Romain did his chivalrous best to amend the scandal by asking my father for my hand. Father refused rather ungraciously, saying that he did not want a common sailor in his family. He had advertised an offer of a substantial reward for my safe return. After much hemming and hawing, he presented half to the captain of the Blessed Mary , and half to Romain. Romain immediately purchased a vessel of his own, assembled a crew, and set out on new adventures. My parents decided that it would be best to sequester me on a country estate, in the hope that my existence would be forgotten. So here I am, living quietly in reasonable contentment. My allowance is not opulent, but adequate, allowing me to purchase all the books I can read. I am patiently putting money aside in the hope of embarking on another sea journey. I no longer dream of romantic escapades, but rather of exotic lands beyond the horizon. I am thirty-one years old now, practically a crone, and I wish to see more of the wide world before I die. ***** Cecil Rutherford set his pen down and picked up the sheaf of notes he had written. He spent interminable minutes riffling through the pages, sometimes scowling, sometimes smiling, sometimes raising a quizzical eyebrow. Just when I was sure that I would explode with impatience, he rendered his verdict. “My dear Lady Panterra, your story is both fascinating and unusual. But we cannot possibly publish it. The scandal would be too great.” I put on a face of innocent dismay. “Scandal? How can the truth be scandalous?” He huffed at that, with a sardonic smile. “You must know that Lord Dogshead is happily married.” “Lord Dogshead?” I queried. “Oh – you mean Romain Desrochers.” The “common sailor” whom my father had rejected had done very well for himself. He owned a fleet of four ships, and had been elevated to the peerage for his scientific discoveries and advancement of lucrative foreign trade which enriched the Crown. He had shed his past like a dead shell and adopted the name of his estate, which was well-known for its unusual landforms. Cecil coughed discreetly. “He has been blessed by three children, and one on the way.” “He is much at sea,” I said shortly, biting my lip to keep me from mentioning that any fool with nine fingers to count on would know that two of those children could not possibly be his. “You know,” Cecil said in a conciliatory tone. “If we – tweaked the story a little, our readers would find it entertaining and even inspiring. As it is, we cannot offer you any remuneration.” “I care nothing for the money,” I burst out. “I just want the truth to be known, once and for all. I have born the burden of whispered slander and half-truths for too long, and I want it to end.” He stood up, gazed at me with renewed interest, and bowed. “I do admire a woman who has the courage to speak her mind.” I stood up as well, and waited for him to take his leave. But he had other ideas. “I hear that there is a country festival in progress. Perhaps I can find a story there. Would you care to accompany me?” I blushed and lowered my eyes. “I am so sorry – I must decline. I am expecting a visitor in an hour.” Cecil tilted his head, completely unruffled by my attempt at a polite social lie. “This evening, then? I hear that there will be dancing. I would very much like to learn something of the local country dances. Could you assist me?” My heart started to pound. Joining the servants in their festivities was one of my guilty pleasures, but none of them had ever presumed to offer to dance with me. I opened my mouth to utter a tactful refusal, and heard my voice say, “Seven o’clock would be convenient.” So here I am, hysterical with anticipation, trying to decide what to wear. I do not even know if Cecil is married, and I don’t care. If I must be a disgraced woman, I may as well enjoy the freedom of acting like one. I am not naïve enough to imagine that anything will come of this chance encounter. But if it does, I will never consent to be confined at home. I will insist on accompanying Cecil on each and every one of his adventures. Who knows, I might even become a journalist in my own right. Come what may, this will be a night to remember. It will be good to dance with a man again. 

ywns6g

She Consumes Me

There once was a warrior who didn't want to kill the dragon, not because the dragon had been his wife before transforming. He would have had every right to refuse the King's proclamation. Nor was it the fact that he, himself, was subject to the same curse that had caused his wife to turn. No, the true reason he didn't want to kill the dragon was simply because dragons are cool as shit—and he rather liked transforming into one and going on rampages with his wife. They would fly over the beautiful countryside and barrel-roll through the skies until a town caught their eye. She would give him a knowing look and off they would go, swooping low, delivering some hellfire to the residents of some sleepy town. Oh, the fun they had! And laughs aplenty. After satisfying their bloodlust, they glided to a lush glade and basked in the afternoon rays while picking the occasional shoe or pitchfork from their dragon teeth. Life was good and the killing was easy. But eventually, he would morph back into human form. The first time this happened, he was lying next to his dragon wife staring at his human hands where, moments before, claws of immense power were his to wield. He felt small and weak. She snorted and nudged him away. He stumbled backward, trying to find the strength to stand on shaky legs. As she fixed her gaze upon him, sadness stirred within him. With a few mighty flaps of her wings, she was gone. He fell back to the ground and wept. On most occasions, the warrior would stumble back to the village on his own power, but this time was different: the King's appointed constable picked him up on the outskirts of a dense forest. The constable described a terrible scene:. Fire and screaming. Chaos was delivered by some fearsome flying creature. The King in a fevered panic. The warrior stroked his chin as if contemplating the King's plight, but inwardly smiled. My lovely wife, how I love thee. The constable stared intently, awaiting his reply. The warrior nodded grimly. He had no intention, however, of tracking down and slaying the dragon—not his wife, anyway. The King's court was in considerable disarray since the attack. Some of the royal banners dressing the cracked western wall were still smoking. Others were charred and tattered. Well done, my sweet wife , thought the warrior as he approached the bottom step of the King's throne. The King issued instructions and equipment to the warrior, as well as a small regiment of soldiers. A secret mountain pass loomed ahead. He easily lost the soldiers, discarded the ornate armor, and set off to find the specter who forever changed his wife into dragonkind. He encountered many obstacles, not the least of which was his hunger: smoked pork sandwiches danced on the periphery of his taste buds. The warrior set up camp north of the King's domain, high up in the rugged mountains where he built a small fire. As he roasted two boulder vermin on the spit, he scanned the valley below for signs of activity. A bird of prey flew below him and screeched as he lost sight of it. He directed his attention back to the crackling vittles, gently squeezing the meat between his fingers to test for doneness. Nodding to himself, he began to eat. Halfway through his meal, he heard a twig snap. Silently, the warrior rose and drew his blade. * * * In the darkest recesses of a secret mountain lair, a bloody assassin drags himself to his master's feet. The specter seizes him, much as one might a rag doll, enraged that he would lead the warrior to her front door with his blood trail. The specter flings the assassin against the wall and thus concludes his service to her. She knows the warrior will be here soon. So much to do! With an enchantment, she alters the web-covered cave into a dazzling ballroom. Live music echoes through the chambers as phantom court dancers gracefully spin and bow. The specter even re-creates a chocolate fountain in the center of the dining hall. It's a bit much, even for a specter. A mountain storm whips up as the specter awaits the warrior's arrival. Some time passes, but the warrior hasn't shown. The specter gets bored. Maybe he was injured in the altercation with my assassin. Or fell from a precipice? A win! Perhaps he lost the assassin's blood trail and will never find my lair. Another win! But who am I fooling? This is the warrior we're talking about. The guy who just barely escaped with his life, and only a partial transformation spell, when I changed his wife into a dragon. Nah, he's pissed! The specter must have nodded off because she didn't even see the warrior enter her lair. He was over by the punchbowl, slurping the enchanted drink like a parched peasant. He glanced back at her. She rose to meet him and smiled. He projected only loathing. The specter could read his mind. Many images—so much pain and anger, especially the memory of the time the warrior and his wife had sought the specter's help in destroying the King after that fateful decree. She peered deeper into his mind and saw a scene of the warrior's son riding into battle, riding to his death. It was not in her power to restore the life of his son. Instead, the specter offered immense power to the couple. His wife accepted without hesitation. He, however, sensed deception. Stumbling back, he received only partial transformation. At the moment his wife was being changed into a beast, he knew the specter intended to keep him as her own dragon pet. The warrior tossed the crystal punch goblet and it shattered into a thousand pieces. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic and stepped towards the specter. She projected into his mind the futility of trying to destroy her; she was, after all, a phantom. The stare-off continued until a wicked grin appeared on her face. The specter moved to the center of the room and with a sleight gesture, transformed the cave into a tacky game show set with three portals to pick from. The warrior crossed his arms and clenched his jaw. Specter was now adorned in a rhinestone evening gown. Making a sweeping motion with her arm, Portal One lit up and opened dramatically to reveal a scene portraying the King's ruin. The castle was reduced to rubble, the King lying under the debris, while the specter and the warrior sat atop the slain dragon—his beloved wife!—toasting the moment with golden ale. In front of Portal One, the angry warrior slashes wildly at the image. Specter tilts her head and shrugs before theatrically motioning to Portal Two. The second scene shows a dazzling white washer and dryer combo, with wondrous new features like high-efficiency spin cycles and temperature-sensitive fabric settings. Portal Two sends the warrior into a frenzy, violently stabbing at the image until he pants like a wolfhound. He tosses his blade to the floor and rests his hands on his knees. Fury is exhausting. The specter waits for the warrior to regain his composure. She gestures to Portal Three, but he waves it off as if to say give me a moment, will ya? When the specter finally reveals the third option, the warrior stands with mouth agape: the sky is filled with dragons circling the King's ruined castle. The warrior smiles warmly when one of the dragons swooshes past. My sweet wife! We will yet be reunited. The specter considers the warrior, knowing his heart's desire—knowing what he would sacrifice to be with her. The warrior drops to his knees and puts out his hands as if to receive this dark enchantment. Specter transforms into a swirl of black smoke, scales, and horns. She pulls the partial enchantment from the warrior as he screams. * * * It's been a minute since the warrior was fooled by the specter. He can no longer transform into a dragon and rampage with his lovely wife, but knowing that she's up there somewhere—flying free, without fear of the King's army hunting her—is a comfort. And she has lots of company now, since all the kingdom's people were turned into dragons…except for him. Life is funny that way. As he lives out the rest of his days, hiding from these dragons, he can only hope that when his number is up, it will be his dragon that catches and consumes him. Only fitting, since, even now, she consumes his every waking thought.

46885y

One unlucky day

They were scared. scared of leaving the world too soon, scared of feeling the cold steel and sliver press against their body once more, scared of leaving the village with no defender and open season to any of the cowardly and superstitious but most importantly, they were scared of him, Zeveres. Zeveres the mighty, a powerful hero that had slain many great foes, defended people from the smallest outpost to the biggest empire, rescued whoever or whatever and did it all with a smile and go lucky attitude. The one thing he couldn't do however, was be in a relationship. He was so used to being the hero all the time, ever since he was a child that he couldn't wrap his mind around being taken care of, whether from his family, friends to even his own lover. The need to help and protect was so great that everytime that they did something for him, he would repay them a hundred fold and they loved him but those closest to the hero saw the cracks, cracks of pressure, cracks of stress, cracks of time. On one of his Adventures he had met someone, a beautiful man with eyes that reminded of the cavern in which he found miraculous crystals. The man had noticed him and felt a sense of ease and passion rise as he looked at him, they both had longed for each other even though they had just met. Before they could even approach the other, a massive creature had burst through the wall of the tavern. The creature had been covered in fur, wearing tattered rags and a wolf-like head, the creature was a lycan. Zeveres had reached behind himself for his sword but he was stunned, he looked behind and remembered that his friends had told to just have fun, with NO gear. People running around them, the creature let out a deafening roar that halted people for nearly a full minute, almost all of the people. One man had slowly crept to the creature, knife in hand. After the roar he rushed the thing, jumping onto Its back and stabbing its neck. Zeveres was in shock but he spared no time and rushed the creature as well, hands open with magic within them. The creature had thrashed and tried the man off but couldn't reach him. Hearing something, they turned to see Zeveres inches away from them with glowing hands and lunged for him, fangs brought to bear. "Be careful" the man on the wolf's back yelled, worried for the hero's safety. Zeveres couldn't help but chuckle as he heard the concern thrown at him, him? Be in danger? Impossible. He saw the lycan rushing towards and he ducked under it as it flew over him, reeling his arm back, the man on the lycans back and saw the thing go flying into the ceiling as he fell off. Before he hit the ground, he felt himself be grabbed by something, something soft but firm. He had turned his head and saw him, Zeveres, standing still and locked eyes with him. It was as if he was saved by an angel. They both had stared for nearly 20 minutes into each other's eyes and then getting closer, their lips gently pressed against each other. "The name is Lukas and you are Zeveres, right?" the man, now named Lukas, asked, his eyes still looking like he was drunk on love. Zeveres, looking the same, just simply nodded.d, not able to even understand or speak words at the time. Lukas just laughed but not in a condescending way but a soft, loving way that mesmerized Zeveres in more ways then one. After that day, Lukas and Zeveres started to see each other more and more between Adventures, heists, and even other taverns. The more they were around the more they started to notice that their love for the other grew to the point where they couldn't ignore it any longer. During one mission to save a kingdom's last heir, the two found a quiet place from everyone else and made more love then either one had made before, finding places that were hidden to even themselves and put them in such a tired state afterwards that when they returned it was no wonder what they did. The two had become a couple, buying a house together and thought of having a family together but there was always one problem that Zeveres had. Everytime that Lukas wanted to do something that was physically demanding or tiring, Zeveres tried to forbid him from doing it for fear that he would hurt himself. Lukas had tried to do many things like train but Zeveres wanted to oversee him to make sure that he didn't hurt himself so before he got any real progress, Zeveres would stop him or when he tried to upgrade his armor and weapons, if Lukas had flinched once or had a small cut then Zeveres step in or even when he tried to put banners for a friend's party, Lukas just wiped his forehead but Zeveres pulled him off the ladder gently and put him on ground while he hung up the banners. He knew that Zeveres could get overprotective and wanted to keep everyone he loved safe after his parents death but he could handle himself, he was an assassin for Avalon's sake! One day, everyone that Zeveres was close with had tried to set a surprise party for him because of all the hard work he did. While Lukas was setting some stuff up, he had received a letter for when the event would take place and where, a little joke was also left in that made him chuckle but unfortunately, Zeveres saw him chuckle and began to get suspicious of him. For the majority of the day, Zeveres had spied on him, making sure to see and study his every move to the point where Lukas could barely wash his clothes without Zeveres right behind him. He tried to ignore it but he couldn't any longer, and Especially after Zeveres literally went and used a tracking spell on his clothes after he was done washing them. He asked what Zeveres was doing, Zeveres tried to hide it but he was concerned that Lukas was seeing someone else. Lukas could barely believe it. Zeveres, the man of his dreams, was so paranoid that he would put a tracking spell on his clothes instead of just asking. He felt betrayed, violated, and even hurt that Zeveres didn't even have enough trust to ask him about it for fear that he would be lying. He couldn't stand it anymore, he had enough of it all! He still loved Zeveres but he was tired of him acting like a hero all the time and trying to protect him from things that didn't need his protection and now he couldn't even trust him enough to ask if he was trying to see someone else, he was done and made that known to Zeveres. They argued for hours and hours, each word thrown at the other hurt them in ways that no weapon or foul magic ever could, calling each other liars, bastards, and finally Zeveres ended with it "I'm sorry that I just wanted to protect you, like I always do." He nearly yelled this but it was the last straw for Lukas. Lukas looked at Zeveres with rage and anger in his eyes, not even feeling a hint of pity or empathy. He now was centimeters away from Zev, looking into his soul with nothing but anger that shocked Zev to his soul. He shouted " you're not sorry but i'm not mad that you protect people, you've always tried to protect people but i'm mad that you didn't trust me enough to ask!" Zev took a step but Lukas kept going, continuing his verbal assault. "the only reason why you are even a hint of sorry about this is because you were caught and didn't want trouble but you got it!" Lukas was panting, slightly tired from his little rant but he wasn't finished just yet. "But the real reason that you didn't trust me enough to ask me about this is because you never trusted me in the first place!" Zev had tried to come up with an excuse, some plan about just making sure that Lukas wasn't being manipulated but he saw through it all. In a fit of rage, Lukas stormed off, leaving marks in the wooden floor. Zev tried to go after him but before he could, Lukas had come back with a paper in his hand, the same letter that Zev saw laugh at earlier. Zev was concerned until Lukas threw the letter at him. Zev caught the letter and looked confused, wondering why he was thrown this but then Lukas nodded to him, signaling for him to open and read it. Zev, with hesitation, opened the letter and as he read it, his concern and worry was replaced with a level of guilt and regret unimaginable. Raising his head, he could see Lukas's anger and irritation rise from just the way he looked at him. He tried to step forward but Lukas stepped back. Lukas felt anger and hurt towards Zev but he couldn't release that on him. "I'm not mad anymore. Honestly I don't even care anymore because it's not worth it." Lukas had given up, he was done trying to get Zev to trust him and he was just done with it all. Lukas grabbed his satchel and made his way to the door but Zev stopped him, holding his wrist. "Lukas please just - " Before Zeveres could finish, Lukas had yanked his wrist away and smacked Zeveres in the face. Zeveres held his face, confused and unsure with what just happened. He looked to Lukas but what he saw was something that scared him more than any monster could, he looked into Lukas's eyes and there was nothing there, no anger, sadness, not even disgust, just empty. Lukas turned around and walked out of the door, no hesitation, no looking back, just leaving. Zeveres sat there, holding his face and alone with his mind, again. Months had passed, many questioning as to where Lukas went and what happened between him and Zev. Saddened, Zeveres could never answer these questions as they brought too much pain on top of his major grief so he ignored them, figuring it better to ignore instead of dealing with them head on. After the fight, Zeveres was never the same. He had lost the go-lucky attitude with the award winning smile that he always had, possessing a much more cold and stoic outlook that shocked many across the lands. He tried to put on a mask, to hide his hurt, pain, regret, and guilt but many could see through his lies as there was a coldness that was never present before. He had stopped going on a lot of Adventures and spent more time on his own investigation. Trying to find Lukas as he had disappeared from the face of the earth after their argument about the letter. He tried to look for anyone that Lukas knew but he couldn't find anything about them either but he never caved, constantly searching and searching and with every dead end he put more and more effort until he didn't eat, sleep, or had to use the restroom. His party members had worried about him but he just ignored their concern, simply thanking them for even having the effort to do so. He had kept searching until he got a letter from the king of Avalon, saying that he needed assistance. At first he ignored the summons, figuring that some other adventurers could do it but their party decided that he needed something to get his mind off of Lukas and figured this was a way to do it. They had talked with Zeveres and despite his numerous protests, he came along for his friends and to provide help to the people of Avalon, not the royalty. Taking a carriage, they spent a week-long trip to the kingdom without stopping. As they came into the kingdom, many of its citizens had looked at them in awe but they were mainly looking at Zev and he waved back, utilizing the fake smile that he practiced over and over. They parked their carriage and walked into the palace. It took them a while but they arrived on the throne in front of the king himself, the man who had seen far better days and looked horribly distraught. His looks of pure terror and restlessness was replaced with joy and hope as he noticed the heroes enter. Leaping from his throne and rushing to them, he shook Zeveres's hand. "Thank the gods that you are here, I was worried you wouldn't get my message." Zeveres had been slightly startled by the king's innate speed but ignored it for now. "Of course, we are the champions of the land after all. So why have you summoned us?" The king then let go of Zeveres's hand and sat back on his throne. "As you know, it is possible to have magical beasts protect cities and villages." he said this with a level of concern still lacing his voice. He then looked at a guard and signaled him to hand something to Zeveres. "The problem is that this one village has recently obtained a very powerful dragon as its protector and they have not accepted any level of sanction, in fact the creature has burned any and all patrols we send." the paper that the guard was a map to the village that the king talked of. "Now I don't want the creature to be killed or the village unprotected but we need this creature to be under some level of control so that it doesn't gain any ideas to hurt the village itself." The heroes had looked somewhat wary but decided to follow the king's wishes and left to find the village and sanction the dragon. As they were on the roads, Zeveres looked at the map one last time and realized something that he didn't before, the village that they were traveling to was the same village that Lukas had come from. He couldn't believe how idiotic he was for not seeing it sooner. They arrived at the village, the citizens barely noticing them. finding a place to stop, they exited the carriage and decided to split up, looking around for the entrance to the cave where the creature had made its lair. Each of them had looked around, talking with some of the villagers, using spells, even digging around but they found nothing until Zeveres noticed something on the side of one of the houses, it looked like a simple drawing but Zeveres had a feeling it was something more. He touched the drawing and it began to open a stairway into the ground, showing that it was hidden in plain sight. They entered, making sure to stay together as they didn't know what this creature was fully capable of. At the end of the stairs, there was a tunnel and at the end was a dim light. They reached the end of the tunnel but before they could even leave it, a massive claw had reached in and grabbed Zeveres, leaving the other to yell his name. Zeveres had tried to escape the creature's grasp but he couldn't budge it, leading to the creature's laugh. "You hope to beat me? Cage me? You are more of a fool then I took you for." During the dragon's mocking, Zeveres had managed to free one hand and blasted the dragon's eye with ice. As it roared in pain, its grasp loosened and Zeveres leapt out, landing on its head with his sword in hand. He tried to stab into the dragon's head but he knocked off before he could. The dragon had ignored its now lost eye and rushed to Zev, anger surging in its veins. With a tail swipe, Zeveres was sent flying but he grabbed it, holding on for dear life. The dragon tried to get him off but Zev wouldn't budge, his grip tightening. He leapt from the tail on to its neck, the sword unsheathing from his back. The creature tried to slam its back into the walls of the lair but Zev was not stirred. There was a glowing core on the back of its neck and Zev was merely inches away from it. He kept crawling to it and was finally on top of it. He raised his sword and stabbed into its weak spot, making the creature fall to the ground. He jumped off of the neck and walked in front of the dragon, his blade dripping with its blood. His party had yelled at him to stop, to just cast the seal and they could leave but Zeveres was tired and he wasn't going to take another chance. He was right in front of it's only eye, blade readied and raised with nothing but anger in his eyes. The creature that had been able to burn down entire cities had now been quivering in fear. Zev looked into its eye one last time and he was shocked at what he saw within. He dropped his blade and looked at the creature in shock. He reached out his hand to touch its scales. "Lukas?" the creature hadn't looked away or even tried to deny it and Zev's concerns were confirmed, he stepped away in pure shock and pain. Zev just looked at his hands, he hurt the one man that he cared for more than any one. He picked up his blade, sheathing it and turning around. "I'm sorry, truly. I will talk with the king to try and not send any more patrols" He then left the lair, leaving Lukas alone, again.

1uht21

Merciful Blade

Two months. That's how long Marcel and his company had been tracking the beast. Two months of following partial tracks and village gossip. They traveled through woods, across rivers, and over vast plains. After all that time and a chance encounter with a woman in Granholm, it was only now that Marcel stood at the entrance to the cavern where they were told they would find the monster they sought. Marcel Travers looked over the men and women under his command. All were wearing the armor of the Drakon Guard, the most loyal and elite of the king’s army. A gold dragon with its wings spread was inlaid into deep blue armored breastplates and shields. Marcel’s hand gripped his sword hilt as he considered the best course of action. Helena approached him and said softly, “We should spread out in order to force the beast to split his fire. He won't be able to take all of us out simultaneously.” Marcel nodded, then said, “I don’t want any of us to be taken out if we can avoid it.” Helena was about to say something, but another Marcel suddenly looked to the cavern and drew his sword. The sunlight danced along the blade's sharp edge. This sword was not made from ordinary steel. Marcel’s blade, along with all members of the Drakon Guard, was made of a blend of the best castle-forged steel and a metal called adamantine. Adamantine was the hardest and most durable substance known to mankind. Weapons made of this incredible metal could cut through dragon scales as easily as they cut human flesh. It was this weapon that Marcel now held in front of him as he stared at the cavern entrance. Helena looked back and forth between the cavern and Marcel. “What is it,” she asked. “What do you see?” Marcel kept his eyes on the cavern as he replied, “It’s not what I saw. It is what I heard.” Helena listened for any sound but heard nothing. “What did you hear?” Marcel rubbed his temple under his helmet. “I heard a voice in my head.” Helena looked at Marcel for a long time, then said, “What did the voice say?” Marcel finally looked at her and replied, “It told me to come in.” Helena looked at the beckoning darkness. “You can go in there, but not alone.” You may accompany him, Helena Krell. Helena snarled as she drew the two swords that rested on each side of her waist and started toward the cavern. Marcel followed her, saying, “You heard?” Helena nodded. The men and women of Marcel’s company shouted questions, but Marcel told them to be silent and not enter the cavern until he called for them. Just before he entered, Marcel grabbed a torch from another rider. The man leaned down and struck flint and steel to create sparks. The torch lit up with a woosh, and Marcel walked over to join Helena at the entrance. “Ready,” Marcel asked. Helena nodded. The two of them then entered the cave. The torch cast strange shadows on the cavern walls. Helena walked a little ahead of Marcel to be the first to face any potential danger. The voice in their heads had not spoken since they entered the cavern. They had not spoken to each other either. Both were lost in their own thoughts about the situation they found themselves in. After what felt like a long time, Marcel said, “I am certain the dragon is calling us, but for what purpose?” Helena shrugged. “Does it really matter?” “Yes, it does. Most of the time, a dragon would have attacked us as soon as he caught our scent.” Helena glanced at Marcel. “True. Perhaps this beast would rather his prey save him the effort of hunting.” Despite himself, Marcel could not help but smile. “I think there is more to this than an easy meal.” Helena rolled her shoulders, her blades winking in the firelight. “I hope so. I have no desire to meet my end in this hole.” As they rounded a corner, bright light shone on the walls and floor ahead of them. Marcel knelt and leaned the torch against the wall. They would need it to light their way out. Helena sheathed the blade in her left hand and gripped her other sword with both hands. “I don't like this,” she said, turning slowly to keep the entire room in view. “We are wide open for an attack.” Marcel gripped his sword but did not draw it out. He, too, was looking around the huge open space. On the far side of the room, another dark entrance yawned. “Where is the dragon,” he asked. Helena turned her head to him. “I don’t know, but if he doesn’t show himself, I will not be vexed.” Marcel listened for any sound, but he heard none. “I am going to try something,” he said, closing his eyes. “Watch my back.” Helena nodded. We are here. What do you want of us? Marcel directed the thought toward the darkness on the other side of the room. Welcome to my home. I mean you no harm. The voice in their heads was deep but not menacing. “That has yet to be seen,” Helena said as she slowly lowered her sword but did not put it away. Marcel’s voice boomed around the cavern. “I am Marcel Travers, Commander of the Second Company of the Drakon Guard. Why have you summoned us?” The cavern floor shook as heavy footsteps grew closer to them. A few moments passed before a magnificent and terrifying sight filled the cavern. A large head on a serpentine neck led a massive body into the room. Sharp white teeth stuck out from the closed jaws. Its four legs reminded Marcel of oak trees. Claws the length of his sword scraped the floor, and its tail trailed at least seven feet behind it. The dragon spread its wings to their full span, then snapped them closed over its sapphire blue scales. “It is the most beautiful and frightening thing I have ever seen,” Helena said. Marcel nodded without taking his eyes off the dragon. You may put up your weapons, the dragon said in their heads. You are in no danger here. Helena hesitated until Marcel nodded to her. Once her sword was sheathed, Marcel asked, “What is your name?” My name is Eirwen , she said to them. Helena’s face showed surprise. “You are female,” she asked. A laugh rumbled through their heads. Are you shocked that I am female? “A little,” Helena admitted. “We are more accustomed to dealing with the males of your species.” Marcel spoke up again. “We were sent after you because our commanders said they had evidence of you taking cattle from Drakonfeld. Have you been that far east?” Not for a long time. It has been at least sixty years. Helena looked at Marcel. “Is it possible that she is lying?” Marcel shook his head. “Eirwen is a blue dragon. They are known for only speaking the truth. The magic in their blood makes them incapable of lying. They are also known to possess the ability to see into the future.” Eirwen inclined her head to Marcel. Your knowledge of us is refreshing. No, I can not lie; I would not want to, even if I could. Helena leaned against the wall. “So why are we here? You obviously want something from us; otherwise, you would have eaten us well before now.” Marcel gave her a reproving look, which she ignored. Eirwen laughed again. I like you, Helena. You do not hesitate to get to the heart of a matter. Eirwen lowered herself to the cavern floor. I called you here to warn you and to help you. “Warn us of what,” Marcel asked. Rebellion and treason in Drakonfeld. “What?” Marcel and Helena spoke the word together. “Are you certain,” Marcel asked. Eirwen nodded. Only a few weeks after you departed Drakonsfeld, the regent and some members of the regent council seized power. The prince was deposed, but he is as yet unharmed. Helena pushed away from the wall and headed back to the tunnel. “Where are you going,” Marcel shouted. She whirled around. “I am going to put down this insurrection. Are you going to join me?” Marcel shook his head. “Do you really think fifty horsemen will make a difference? There are likely thousands of rebel troops in the city. We have been gone for two months. We have no idea what we would be facing.” Helena shouted, “Facing them would be better than cowering in this cave or riding aimlessly all over the countryside!” Marcel took a calming breath, then said, “Sit down, Helena.” Helena took three long steps and stood in front of Marcel. She gripped her sword hilts as she stared into Marcel’s eyes. Marcel did not show any fear. He was calm as he repeated, “Sit down, Helena.” It took a mighty effort, but Helena stepped away from Marcel and leaned against the wall again. Marcel addressed Eirwen. “You said that you were also here to help us. What did you mean?” I can help you restore Drakonfeld to its rightful ruler. Helena pushed off the wall. “You would do that?” Eirwen nodded. Helena and Marcel shared a long look. Marcel finally looked back at Eirwen. “What would you ask as your price?” Eirwen shook her head. Nothing. I only want to be left alone . Helena nodded. “We don't have any other choice,” she said. Marcel stroked his goatee. “Eirwen’s price is more than fair. But do I have the authority to make this decision? We were sent here to kill her.” Helena shook her head. “No. We were sent here to get us out of the way. This usurpation would not have happened had we still been in the city.” Marcel nodded. “That is true. No one would have dared do this had we been within a day’s ride.” Helena took Marcel by the shoulders and said, “We are responsible for the security of Drakonfeld. In taking Eirwen’s bargain, we would be doing just that.” Marcel stepped out of Helena’s grip and thought about what he was about to do. Should he fail, he would be remembered as a martyr. Should he succeed, Marcel would be lauded as a hero. But should he do nothing, he would be seen as a traitor, just as those who usurped the prince. His choice made, he looked at Eirwen and asked, “Please tell my company outside what happened and that we are riding back to Drakonfeld.” Helena smiled. “I knew you would make the right decision.” Marcel shrugged. “It was the only choice. Besides, for all the plotting the regent did, I bet he did not consider dealing with a dragon in his plans.” Marcel’s company stared dumbfounded as Eirwen walked ponderously to the open field a few dozen yards away. The horses were nearly mad with fear at the sight and scent of the dragon. A few had thrown their riders and bolted towards the woods. After a semblance of calm had been restored, Marcel addressed his command. “We are returning at once to Drakonfeld. Allow no one to stop you, especially if they are from Drakonfeld. I consider the capital to be under a hostile occupation, and we will treat it as such.” Marcel could feel the anger of his men. He also felt their loyalty and determination to make things right. He motioned to Eirwen. “Eirwen has graciously offered her assistance. Not only will she help us fight, but she will contact every loyal Drakon warrior and rally them to our cause.” The men and women cheered at that news. After the applause died down, Marcel continued. “We were sent here to hunt down and kill this dragon. A dragon that now is willing to help us fight for what is ours. In return for her assistance, I have made a pact with Eirwen. After we win this battle, I will create a unit to guard the approaches to Granholm to ensure that no one enters her territory. I will, of course, need volunteers.” Another cheer went up, and it made Marcel smile. Marcel nodded at Helena, whose voice rose above the din. “Mount up, Drakon Guard! We ride for honor and to victory!” The company leaped on their mounts, and within moments, they had been swallowed in a cloud of dust heading east. Marcel’s own horse had been tied to another and was gone. Eirwen approached him and lowered her head. Marcel hesitated for a moment before positioning himself just behind her head. Are you ready , she asked. “As I will ever be.” Eirwen took a few running steps, flapped her wings, and in moments they were airborne. Marcel looked down at the earth below him and shook himself. I am truly flying, he thought. The giddy feeling faded as he watched his command waving to him as Eirwen flew over them. They reminded Marcel of the task that lay ahead. The traitors will pay and pay dearly.

zr2kb9

Family Values

It was a sultry, mulch-scented late autumn day; when leaves squelched underfoot and caterpillars concertinaed their fat green bodies under old bricks and fell asleep. Hanging low in the sky, the sun prickled the bronzed shoulders of busy gardeners. The allotment bloomed with ruby-red plums, plump, sweet blackberries, and row upon row of fern-like fronds of juicy carrots. Douglas’s heart swelled with pride; his vegetable patch stood every chance of winning a gold medal at the annual produce show.         Scraping mud from his Wellington boots, on the honed edge of his shovel, he inhaled the earthy scent of his compost bins. His stomach lurched, reminding him of when he took part in the Chipping Magna raft race and disgraced himself by heaving his breakfast over the side. It wasn't the smell that threw his equilibrium; his wellies were six feet off the ground by the time he grabbed for the roof of his shed. A rough-hewn finial came away in his hand, and as he ascended, like a tweed-wrapped Michelin Bibendum, he flung it with force into the trees beneath his feet. "If that's you, John, this isn't funny," he said, his voice booming, his eyes seeking whatever crane or contraption had pulled him into the air. But there was none, and Douglas grimaced as a tenuous idea formed in his mind. Elchinor. #        Questioned later, Douglas remembered it was a Tuesday because it was pasta night, and he had anticipated the peppery Jalapeno Muenster cheese sauce his mother ladled on in generous measures. Wearing pink slacks with a smart crease down each leg, an M and S polo-neck jumper, a well-arranged Hermes lookalike scarf, and serving mac 'n' cheese meant Tuesday. His mother's idiosyncrasies were a talking point among Armstrong Avenue's Am-Dram Society.         "Wednesday?" one thespian would ask in a stage whisper.        "Ham omelette, beige moleskin," the reply.         Amateur dramatics made an excellent cover for the self-styled Mrs. Adams, who learned English from the collected works of Coward and Wilde and spoke like an eccentric flapper. The milkman had objected to, 'darling boy, leave it there and peel me a grape instead,' complaining to Douglas that he felt, 'used.'        Her silver turban was not part of the usual costume, but neighbours still spoke of her portrayal of Lady Bracknell with hushed awe. Rolling her crimsoned lips around the phrase, 'a handbag ?' she stole the show.        Douglas was little more than a spoiled egg when his mother set up home in Chipping Magna: his birthplace was the dim-lit cellar of the library, between the musty piles of late returns - A to D. Within months, she had assumed the role of the chief librarian and obtained a small mortgage on the stone-clad semi-detached property in Armstrong Avenue.        At thirteen, and inseparable from his woollen hat, she told him the truth of her arrival on Earth, and taught him his native language, 'just in case.' He practiced the sibilant alphabet, made easier by speaking while chewing his toothbrush,       "Visssh, topeshh, moossik, glouzz."        The letters sizzled in his mouth.        That he was different, not odd, comforted Douglas, and knowing that his father had not deserted him, but his mother had, 'metaphorically missed the jolly old boat, dearest,' he celebrated by sleeping with his beanie hat in a drawer. But he was a sensible boy, and next morning, bouncing, long-limbed, to school, he kept his head covered and his mouth shut. #         As an impromptu spaceman, Douglas gave little thought to his mother's wardrobe or her potential as a Mastermind subject. No longer at the whim of gravity, he ascended, arm outstretched, his garden spade tugged by the impatient magnetic field of a passing spacecraft. He flew, like the six-foot-six string of an eccentric balloon, through the gossamer of space. The solar panels of the International Space Station dazzled his eyes, and he missed the waved fists of the astronauts completing their first, but no longer ground-breaking, space walk. Gloomy Saturn thundered past like a sweat-drenched pugilist in a ring, surrounded by its cheering and jeering satellites. Douglas glowed with warmth - glad to be wearing his comfortable duffle coat, hat, and wellingtons - despite the stream of frost-laced air from the oxygen-powered spacecraft.        Gaseous elements tickled his sensitive nostrils; pungent sulphur and methane, from the spacecraft's exhaust. Vague worries formed in his head; would the allotment committee give his plot to John Arnold, who coveted his courgette patch and tried to sabotage his cabbages with black-fly? Was a spade's iron content enough to keep him in the spacecraft's magnetic field? Best hold on tight to the implement, he decided. Crashing into China might cause a breakdown in interstellar relations.        A preference for fibreglass shovels meant no one else from the Chipping Magna Allotment Association tumbled in the spacecraft's tow. Douglas was as alone in space as he was in life.        Getting close to someone is hard when you can't remove your hat.        He waved the spade above his head, in the direction of travel. Would anyone see him?  he wondered. Did interstellar vehicles have a rear-view mirror? The spacecraft slowed as Neptune appeared, glowing azure blue like a royal diadem. His mother had told him, Earth was an oxygen refuelling station, but Neptune was a launch pad. Images of his body, torn apart by the immense speed, blood falling like crimson raindrops, filled his head. For a moment he considered letting go of the spade and taking his chances with China.        Douglas felt the increasing tug of the vehicle as it reversed toward him, its frosty emissions sprinkling him with a fine white coating. If he'd had one of his carrots with him it would have made a fine nose. Gripping the spade, hands shoulder-wide, knuckles protruding, his body dangled like a snowman-gymnast. A hatch opened; a mechanical hand flexed and grabbed the toggles of his coat. The airlock clunked closed behind him. A purple aroma tinted the air. The scent filled his ears. He laughed aloud, an unaccustomed noise, overflowing with the gooeyness of a chocolate caramel bar. Holding his hands over his ears he pumped to create a vacuum, until his ears popped and his normal senses returned. Patting himself down he counted his limbs, and finding they were all intact, gave a silent fist-pump.         His wellies left their mark on a pristine corridor. It reminded him of home, except for the Laura Ashley floral paper his mother chose for the ceiling. He wondered if she missed him yet, whether she ever would, and, if he sent her a postcard would they accept an IOU for the postage. #        On the bridge of the ship, the pilot waited, sniffing the arrival of his stowaway. He would not recognise the pungency of compost or the rubbery stickiness of Wellington boots, or know the outcome of a moment of passion thirty Earth cycles earlier. Yishak and his co-pilot had buried themselves under a bush behind the Chipping Magna library. It was fortunate for them both that the library had not yet installed CCTV, but instead relied on the honest citizens of the town to snitch on the dustbin surfers and the dog walkers who failed to scoop their poop. He returned to the ship; she disappeared to seek out a bathroom and missed the shuttle back to the orbiting spacecraft. Had he caught the rich effusion of the books in the library, he might have remained with her.        Reaching the bridge, Douglas's eyes widened like saucers. The pilot stared back, mouth agape at his mirror image. Flinging aside his spade, Douglas tore off his hat. Crackling with static, his cerulean blue hair reached for the stars; the three small buds, which his mother said resembled the moons of Elchinor, pinged cranberry red.        Tears washed his cheeks with the scent of a motorway service station in the rain.        "Yishak," he said. "Mikmazz," a crack in his voice, his arms open wide. "Daddy."

p94mnk

It All Begins At Chapter One

A rather throbbing beat rings in your ears as rain patters across a cobblestone path. Your boots make a slight thud, a minor squeak from the rubber soles against the hard stones. The sound of sloshing water as you walk. Light tapping hits your raincoat as you toss your hood on in haste. Even in your raincoat and boots you can feel the cold, wet rain trying to seep into your skin. A yellow warm light draws your attention down the cobblestone path to reveal a hidden bookshop sitting at the end of the dark alley. The smell of the alley is cold and wet, as if it’s never gotten an opportunity to dry. You walk closer as the lights seems to warm you like the warmth of a comforting hug. The bookshop itself should be off-putting, the closer you come to it the more you notice that it’s seen better days. Around the windows and door dark green paint is flaking. The red brick above is practically stained black. The shop windows, although big in size, is covered in grime alone the bottom of each window grille. Even with its sunken rook and crooked door, it somehow adds charm. Despite its appearance, each step draws you closer to the inside, an indescribable pull. Stepping in, that yellow light that warmed you is now a soft glow, like the warmth of a candle without the constant flicker of a dancing flame. The familiar feeling overcomes you. The silence that permanently resides in a bookstore. Not required like a library where you fear the “shh!” from the glaring librarian for daring to breathe too loud. But rather a sign of respect for fellow lovers of books everywhere. The size of the shop surprises you. It’s double in size, as if it’s cloaked somehow behind that stained red brick. The floor is a light hardwood, scuffed with shoe marks that have never been scraped off. Dingy carpets cover it from further wear. It creaks as you walk across the floor, the wood announcing your presence. You stop as you look down at your boots, they are completely dry, as is your raincoat. You turn behind you to see no wet footprints following behind. You turn your attention back to the shop, every square inch is covered with books. Some books stacked on top of each other, creating little towers and cities of their own. Tight aisles, enough for just one person and a ladder that sits on rails to reach books that sit on the top shelf which is about ten rows high. Archways are used for books too; random shelves sit on them. The smell of books fill you. Worn leather bound books, you wonder if they are first editions. The hidden stench of too many cardboard hardcovers in one place, thankfully hidden by the material covering it. The paperback with several lines through the spines, a well-read book. The pages stained with the smell of ink, words waiting to be read. Towards the back of the shop sit some chairs with a large wooden table. Books rest on the top, tightly closed, chairs pushed out in front like someone is sitting there. You reach out to touch one of the books and find they are stuck in place, shut tightly. Displays perhaps? Chairs also stationed in their place. Perhaps someone just left to grab another book, their absence only meant to be short. But as you look around, no one is here. A ladder slides across the rails, the hardware scratching against the metal. It startles you as you look up and notice the ladder stopping at its aisle. Empty. It feels like it’s for you. Telling you to go. “It’s called for you.” You turn as a shop clerk stands there. His voice soft and caring, something you’d crave from a parent or teacher, an instinctual comfort. Although he’s young in appearance he speaks like an old soul. A tan apron hangs from his waist, a stained cloth peaking of the pocket, perhaps for dusting books. “It will take you to your next story.” You look at him puzzled. Ladders don’t move without something helping. You grab the ladder looking for some small motor or battery. But it shakes you off, a loud clanging at the bracket holds it from jumping off the rails, almost as if it reads your mind and finds the thought offensive. You step back rather in shock, bumping into the shelf behind you. A book clatters to the floor. The shop clerk picks up the book, resting it back in its place. “Perhaps you’ll ride along with the armored knight as he rides to save the princess. Maybe you’ll be walking alongside real historic figures as you watch them make the history you’ve only heard about. Or you’ll be flying in various planes, learning their style and craft. You could become a child again, next to your favorite childhood character as they go on their various adventures. Voyage space perchance? Watch a young woman become queen and rule a kingdom. Dine along a group of friends before they graduate college and venture off on their own lives.” He smiles. “It awaits.” “What awaits?” He nods to the ladder. “It will show you.” He pulls out a chair as it vibrates across the floor. “This one is free.” You should be scared. But instead you grab hold of the ladder and step on to it, it sinks slightly under your weight. Suddenly it flings down the aisle as you wrap your arms around the rung. Wind rushing past you as you wait for the crash at the end. It stops just mere inches from the other shelf. A relief of breath releases from you. You glance up as a book pops out of the rows. You climb up, pulling it from the shelf. The ladder moves again, this time, moving slower back to where you started. You climb down as the clerk stands behind the chair. The ladder rolls away as you glance back at the table. A book that was once there is gone, the chair pushed in. “They finished their story.” You shake your head in confusion. No one was sitting there. In fact before the clerk arrived, you thought you were the only one here. “Surely you’ve caught on by now?” You don’t answer. You can’t believe it. Places like this don’t exist, things like this don’t exist. Living on this earth as long as you have, surely you would have seen something before this? Heard of something before this? You look back at the clerk as he sits on the table. Waiting for you to accept what you already know. Because this bookstore isn’t just any ordinary bookstore. Glancing down at the book, no title exists, no author name. The book remains shut tight, you can’t open it or shift through the pages. “One of my favorites.” The clerk smiles towards you. “Take a seat, place the book on the table. When you’re ready, open it and it will transport you.” “How will I know if I like it?” “The book didn’t choose you, you choose it. The ladder just lead you to where it was. But you can leave at anytime, take a break, come back another time. It will be there…waiting for you.” He points to a book sitting next to him. “She’s been back five times with this book. Not my personal cup of tea but it’s got a bit of a thrill to it. Either way, the stories are here for you. For you to leave this world and enter another. Live the lives of characters that don’t exist in this world. That’s the beauty of books.” He stands as you take a seat in the chair, it’s hard and solid. The chair slides up to the table as you set the book on the top. The table is sturdy to hold you through whatever is about to happen next. “It’s its own magic without there ever being any. You can live as many lives as you want just by turning a page, reading but only words. But here you get to experience it on another level, call it magic if you must. Rather it’s just another element for you to enjoy the story.” You turn towards him but he’s gone. No sounds of departing footsteps linger, not even a woosh of air like he just passed by. He’s simply vanished and you start you wonder…was he ever there? You turn back towards the book, the hardcover smooth against your fingers. Suddenly the book begins to budge and you are able to open it. The pages flip to the opening chapter where you are pulled into the book. Where a new world for you all begins at chapter one. 

szzg90

Kid Cube

Sensei Bob pays me 'nother visit in my dreams. He ain't dead or nothin' like that. I just ain't been answerin' my phone. "Billy-san, destiny call. Why you no pick up?" I act like I'm dozin' in my dream, hopin' that old bastard'll finally leave me be. But Sensei Bob's still floatin' above me when I crack open my right eye. He's wearin' that black gi and givin' me that blind soulbreaker stare. And when he pulls out that damn short sword and points it at his pot belly, I know he's fixin' to commit Seppuku, that fancy Japanese way of spillin' your guts real slow. "Ohhh Billy Billy-san. You bring shaaame, great shame, to all of Mexico." "I ain't from Mexico," I say to stop him 'cause I already done seen Sensei Bob commit Seppuku eight times this week. "No, you from Mexico. Why else you take so many siesta?" Sensei Bob knows my granddaddy's from Puerto Rico, so he gets a kick out of tellin' Mexico jokes, like there ain't a difference between the two. "Quit sayin' that shit. Speak normal." "You no like my English?" He leans in so I can see them milky white eyes up close. "Speak English, you dumb bastard." And don't think I'm bein' prejudiced here. Nah, Bob's an old white man, born and bred in Biloxi, Mississippi, but he likes to talk like Mr. Miyagi from the Karate Kid 'cause, if you ain't guessed yet, Sensei Bob's an asshole. "Aw c'mon hoss, where's your sense of humor? Why won't you teach the boy? Ain't you never heard of affirmative action?" Sensei Bob says in his normal drawl. And he done mentioned teachin' that boy eight times already, but I can't see no point to it, so I stare straight ahead at the land and sky. All tiles, changin' color faster than a chameleon slipped LSD. Always colored tiles when Sensei Bob sneaks his fat ass into my dreams, and I can't help but be lookin' for patterns. "C'mon boy, you think I like astral projectin'? You think I like sprayin' blood all over your face?" I don't think. I know for a fact. "You gotta be the one to show that boy cubin', Billy, or it's end of days, son. You need me to spell that shit out for you?" Sensei Bob sighs and grabs the sword handle with both hands, a sure sign he's goin' for Seppuku numero nine. "Hang on, hold on now. Tell you what. I'll teach the boy if you cut off that stupid ponytail—and I mean for real back in Biloxi—then send it to Cleveland first class express." "You talkin' about my warrior braid, son?" Sensei Bob flicks his ponytail over his shoulder. His hair's been runnin' all its life from his ugly face and tryin' to escape down his back, so that ponytail's just about all he got left. "Call it what you want. I just want it on my doorstep." Sensei Bob stops floatin' and drops his ass to the ground. His sword flashes, then he's holdin' that ponytail like some sorta dangerous snake. "Call it a gesture of good faith, Billy-san." He drops the cut hair, and them white strands blow across the flickerin' tiles. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then I see that good old boy grinnin'. Sensei Bob sticks his sword in his stomach, then cuts sideways. "Naw, Sensei Bob. Naw!" He pulls out the sword and sprays me right when my fool mouth is wide open. I wake up gaggin' in my leather recliner in my house that came off the back of a truck, the house that's fixin' to be hauled away by 'nother truck when my workman comp runs dry. But it ain't so bad gettin' to sip beer and nap til that happens, cept for Sensei Bob interruptin' my dreams. Bob keeps sayin' the day of reckonin' is almost upon us. He says the reckonin' comes 'fore the end of days, which may or may not happen dependin' on how things get reckoned. And how it all gets reckoned depends on me teachin' some little kid to cube. Or so Sensei Bob foresaw. And Bob can't teach the boy 'cause he gone blind, though he seems to get by just fine with astral projectin'. He can also swing a sword like a madman and whirl a bo staff like a windmill, but he didn't teach me none of that. Naw, what Sensei Bob really taught me was cube-fu. Call it a Rubik's cube if it makes you feel smart, but you probably ain't. I'm talkin' about your classic 3x3x3 cube though I been known to dabble in that devil's playground of 6x6x6. And I used to be the fastest there was around. Now, the official record of 3.13 seconds belongs to an autistic Asian kid, but I'm tellin' y'all that I, Bill Suarez, a one-quarter Puerto Rican, three-quarter redneck, fully unemployed grown ass man, used to be able to do that shit in 3.03 seconds. And I suspect it ain't physically possible for a human to solve a cube in under 3 seconds, though I'm the one who came closest. But the cubin' community don't want to hear none of that, and the Guinness Book of World Records is rigged—though that don't matter now without my left hand. I done lost it a couple years back when some fool in his Ford sideswiped my mail truck right when I had my arm hangin' out the window. Anyhow, Rufus Jones's the name of the boy I gotta teach. He's over on the East Side of Cleveland—not your silly ass Cleveland up in highfalutin Ohio, but the real one down here in Mississippi—a side of town I got no business bein' in now that I ain't drivin' no mail truck. Still, I'm a man of my word. So I hop in my Chrysler Town & Country and cross them railroad tracks over to the East Side. I bring one of my cubes and a Bible so no one be thinkin' I'm there to buy drugs. Only problem is it's my granddaddy's Bible, and I can't read no Spanish. I try listenin' to the news to pass the time and hear the Pentagon panderin' to the public with some report on UFOs, cept they callin' them UAPs now. And I can't listen no more to them VIPs in their big black SUVs changin' UFOs to UAPs 'cause who gives a shit? Just say aliens if y'all mean aliens. So I switch to my favorite tunes. Now y'all probably assumin' somethin' else, but I'm listenin' to Coltrane 'cause jazz is like snowflakes in music. No one way about it with Coltrane improvisin' and chasin' that dragon. Even recorded he don't sound the same way twice. And the way of the cube's just the same. You got your Sune, Anti-Sune, Sexy Move, Reverse Sexy plus your T, H, Z Perm algos, and that's not even breakin' a sweat. You also got your Checkerboard, Sledgehammer, Hedgeslammer, Bottlecap, Six-Spot, Slash, 4-Wires, Ron's Cube in Cube and so on. And I'm twistin' that cube one-handed while listenin' to Coltrane float through his Giant Steps, when I see Rufus comin' down that sidewalk. I know him from the images Bob's been beamin' in my mind. Rufus's wearin' a black hoodie over a black cap plus black jeans, and that boy's swaggerin' Black as night when he sees me watchin' him from my van. I'm thinkin' about how to make a good first impression when Rufus cuts a beeline straight for my van. I unlock the passenger side and he slips into the front seat without a word. He looks at my missin' left hand then at the cube in my right 'fore puttin' on a pair of tiny headphones. Looks like Sensei Bob's been showin' up in his dreams too. Rufus obviously don't wanna talk with them headphones in like that, so I'm 'bout to pull out when some little old lady starts knockin' on my window. "You listen' to Miles Davis," she says. "Well, actually that there's Coltrane, ma'am." "No, I know me my Davis—hey, where you takin' my boy? Where he takin' you, Rufus?" She leans in the van. I look over at Rufus for some help, but he got his eyes closed, just noddin' along to whatever's on them headphones. So, I thrust my granddaddy's Bible at her. "We goin' to Big Brother Bible Study and… Math Camp." "How you spell that?" "Uh, triple B SMC." "Well… okay, but you best have him back by 10:53. You hear me?" "Yes ma'am." I cruise off real slow 'cause she's still sorta standin' there in the street. I stop down the block when Rufus holds up his hand. We both look back until she walks back into one of them pill box houses. Rufus has his headphones off so I figure now's the time for talkin'. "Hey, why your ma bein' real specific about havin' you back at 10:53?" I ask. "She ain't my mom. We all look alike to you?" "Naw, it's just she—I'm a quarter Puerto Rican, you know." "Yeah, I bet you one-fourth Cherokee too." "Yeah yeah, but I know you somethin' to that woman." "She my grandma, man." Then he rolls down his window and hangs his right arm out the van. "Hey now, don't you be doin' that, son. That's dangerous." I hold up my empty left sleeve for him to inspect. Rufus stares at it for a second, then he bursts out laughin'. "Oh shit, you for real, Billy?" Yup, Bob been in his dreams if he's callin' me Billy. "You call me Sensei Bill," I say. Rufus just pops his headphones back in then keeps lookin' my way and snickerin' til my ears are burnin'. So, I drive the van off road and up gravel 'til we on them railroad tracks. Rufus pulls out them headphones yet again. "What you listenin' to anyway?" I ask, like there ain't nothin' unusual about my parkin'. "Drift funk," he mumbles. "And why you even here?" "That old man in my dreams. Says I'm supposed to save the world." "And you believe him?" "Not til I saw you just like he said." "Well, I don't know about that. I just know cubin', so F, U, R, B, L, and D. Like fur bled, but there ain't no e. Front, up, right, back, left, down. Them's your moves. All clockwise. Then you got your apostrophes. All counter-clockwise. You got all that?" He gimme a nod, then just looks back and forth between the cube settin' in his lab and them tracks. "Well, c'mon then. We ain't got all day. Train be comin' any minute now." And I just set and stare while Rufus struggles over that cube. He ain't half bad. I can see he got the intuition but then he starts panickin' when he hears the train whistlin' round the corner. After that boy twists himself into a corner, I grab that cube from him and it takes me 'bout 30 seconds to finish on account of my one hand, but we still got more than 5 seconds to move 'fore the train come. When we back drivin' on the road, I let out a whoop 'cause damn if I didn't miss that shit. And Rufus starin' at me. "That's the way of cube-fu, son," I say, thinkin' maybe one day he gonna be in the Guinness Book of World Records if I train him hard enough. "Now you keep that cube 'cause you earned it." But Rufus already jumpin' out of the van when we come to a 4-way stop. "Where you goin'? I can drop you by your home." "Naw, I'm good." And there ain't nothin' to be done if he don't wanna ride. I hear this thump when I'm drivin' off 'cause Rufus done thrown his Rubik's cub at my van. So there also ain't nothin' to be done if that kid don't wanna learn. I get a few days of peace without Bob botherin' my dreams none 'fore a box comes to my door. And curled up in that box like some dead baby ferret is Sensei Bob's ponytail. And man, I tell you, I feel dang lousy about it. But ain't nothin' to be done there neither. Still, I start investigatin' that drift funk to get a sense of Rufus's warrior spirit. Google corrects my ass and gives me "pho" instead of "fu." Aggressive drift phonk. Memphis beats and Moscow bass. It's not Coltrane, but I can still hear cubin' takin' shape. Choppy and heavy, but cubin' all the same. Then my Motorola start buzzin'. It ain't Sensei Bob, so I pick up. "This Sensei Bill?" "Depends on who callin'." "Man, tell that fat old fruitcake to stay outta my dreams." "Aw man, he commitin' Seppuku in front of you too? Now that's this fancy Japanese way of—" "Naw man, he keep tryin' to rap at me." Aw, what in the hell, Bob? Then me and Rufus are hemmin' and hawin' on the phone. I can see he's anglin' for me to give him cubin' lessons at home. But I don't know 'bout that. Then a flash of insight hits my dumb ass. It ain't about invitin' me to his home. He just don't wanna leave Grandma Jones alone. I bring two cubes this time in case Rufus throws 'nother one at my van. I guess 'bout now I'm supposed to detail our trials and tribulations, but there ain't much to say there. We practice in the basement to stay out of Grandma Jones' way. And sure it's hotter than the devil's ass crack down there, but cube-fu ain't for the faint of heart. The first week I show Rufus all them algos, but then he starts combinin' them in ways I never seen done. So I start throwin' shit at him to test his concentration and speed. We start small with me throwin' pennies, but after a month I'm hurlin' encyclopedias at him. When Rufus catches encyclopedia A, throws it back, and completes that cube one-handed, I start bringin' my bo staff. One of them days, when the phonk is driftin' and the staff is swingin', Grandma Jones sneaks down the stairs and we finally notice her there starin'. "We doin' math," I say. "Yeah, we doin' algorithms and shit," Rufus say. "Rufus!" "He said 'and lit' ma'am. We also doin' a literature review." And Grandma Jones, God bless her, just shakes her head and walks back up them stairs without a word. I start callin' Rufus "Kid Cube" and he don't seem to mind. And sometimes he insists on cubin' with his eyes closed, like he knows somethin' I don't. As he gets faster, I buy us a real precise stopwatch, and we start to show off his skill to the online community. When Kid Cube beats the world record of 12.78 seconds for blindfolded cubin', I got to film him a second time 'cause my hand was shakin' too much first time around. And the Guinness Book folk pretend they ain't noticed, but the Bolivar Bullet newspaper here does a feature on him. But I gotta be honest. I'm scared 'bout how fast Rufus be gettin' with his eyes closed. Once he decides to do it with his eyes wide open, he gonna beat my 3.03 seconds easy. Sure, I got my pride, but it ain't that. I know Kid Cube's gonna shatter that impossible 3-second barrier, and it brings to mind Sensei Bob's day of reckonin'. Now I don't pay much mind to the news, but the Pentagon done released a second report on them UAPs. Supposedly they everywhere now, driftin' like phonk from Memphis to Moscow. I ain't seen Sensei Bob in my dreams for months now, but he pays me 'nother visit the night 'fore my last day with Kid Cube. In that dream he just bows real low then leaves. No jokes. No tiles. No nothin'. I wake up with cold fear in my gut 'fore I even see it hangin' over Cleveland, Mississippi. UAP my ass. It's either a mother ship or some kinda alien whale. I gotta find Rufus. He's on his doorstep when my van squeals to a stop. "You got that stopwatch?" he asks. Then we shakin' hands and my throat's closin' up. "Sensei Bill. I got this," Kid Cube say. I can't do nothin' but nod and get outta the way like a Sensei's supposed to. Then Rufus be twistin' that cube faster than lightnin'. And the world be twistin' too. The stopwatch says Kid Cube done it in 2.72 seconds. And I say he done it with his eyes closed. And Kid Cube says nothin' 'cause he's gone, same as them aliens that was pressin' down on Mississippi and the rest of the world. You ain't gonna read bout all that in Pentagon UAP report numero three. That's why I'm tellin' this. I want y'all to know that on the day of reckonin' a boy named Rufus Jones saved y'all from the end of days. I set with Rufus's grandma the other day. We heard some Coltrane while she called him Miles Davis and I told her 'bout the great thing her grandson done. She listened real close then asked me to make sure Rufus come back by 10:53. And maybe he will, 'cause Sensei Bob's callin' again. He's sayin' his blind ass gonna leave Biloxi and come to Cleveland on account I gotta stay here for Grandma Jones. Bob's sayin' it's time for the real trainin' to begin, and that he's gonna fix me up with some sorta robot hand. I don't know bout that last part, but I suspect we'll be pavin' the way for his return. I'm talkin' bout the one, the only, Mississippi's own Kid Cube.

b5k6ua

A Lucky Knight

A sleepy river wound its way through the houses and huts of Hamdorn, a peaceful village in the kingdom of Bardton. The river provided the essentials for the village to thrive: water, fish, and boats laden with goods from Elgin. However, tonight, it added one more essential: a romantic backdrop. Sir Dugmore and Lady Frances walked along its grassy banks, holding hands and speaking in hushed tones. "I don't understand," Sir Dugmore said. "What's so hard to understand about liking dragons?” Lady Frances said. "The part where you like them?" 'Well, now you have." "You are laughing?" "No." "You are with your eyes." He looked intensely at her with a grin. "You are jesting with me?" "I am serious," now she laughed. "When I was a little girl, I saw a green one with flecks of purple and deep blue scales fly over my house. She was so beautiful." "How do you know it was a female?" He questioned with a smile. "It is impossible to tell." "Okay, Dragon Slayer," she said in a playful mocking tone, "I don't know what it was, but I've always believed it was a female. It was too beautiful to be otherwise." He laughed, "Dragons beautiful? Not in my book. Dangerous and sly is more like it." "I would expect nothing less from a dragon slayer. Your line of work has blinded you." "Many dragons have tried." "Be serious. You have only fought dragons. You have never tried to get to know them." "They never seem to be in a conversational mood, with them spewing fire at me and all." "I'm done talking with you," she acted offended, turned her head, and walked a little before him. "I'm sorry. Please forgive my crude behavior," he said as he caught up to her.  "I might," she smiled. "What must I do?" "You could change careers." "Sorry?" Her expression became serious. "The past few days with you have been wonderful, but I can't agree to marry you because of what you do." "Slay Dragons?" "Yes." "But it is the most noble calling of a knight." "Not in my opinion." "It's the highest-paid." "I don't care about money. If you really want to marry me, then stop." "What would I do if I did?" "You could go on quests, guard castles, or go around protecting the weak." "Is there any compromise? I love you more than words can say. However, I would be grateful if there is any way to avoid a pay cut. I want us to have a lovely house, nice clothes, and financial stability. Knights who go on quests hardly get paid since they usually never find what they seek. Guarding castles is the lowest-paid position, and as for protecting the weak, I have always believed I was doing that by slaying dragons.” "You've thought of our future? That is so sweet. There may be a compromise. What if you don't kill the dragon but instead convince it to relocate. Your employer would be happy, and so would I." "I have never negotiated with a dragon before, but I am willing to try for your hand in marriage." "Prove that you can do it, and I will marry you." They held hands again and headed back to her father's house. As they went, Sir Dugmore's mind raced as he began to realize the difficult position he put himself into, but then he took another look at the beautiful Lady Frances, and it erased all confusion. * * * * * * * Two weeks later, near the castle of Igstone, Sir Dugmore advanced cautiously to the mouth of the cave that housed Moog, the red dragon. Lord Adar hired him to rid his land of this evil menace. A breeze escaped the mouth of the cave as he entered by skirting the wall. He felt the dragon's presence before he could see it. He heard the breathing of the dragon and could smell its sulfurous breath. He grabbed his prized invisibility cloak he purchased for a significant sum from a wizard. It not only protected him from being seen but also from being smelled, which is equally important when dealing with dragons. Then he pulled out his dragon-scale sword, capable of cutting through the dragon's scales. Armed and hidden, he put a flute to his lips, but instead of producing music, it bounced his voice from place to place to confuse the dragon of his whereabouts. "Hello," he blew the flute, and his voice sounded like it came from the other side of the cave. The dragon stopped breathing and began to stir. He stretched and sat up on his front legs, shaking his head while looking towards where the voice came from. "Have you come here to die?" "It's not on my list of things to do today, but I would like to talk." This time, his voice came from behind the dragon, and Moog turned towards it. "Where are you?" Moog asked. The monstrous red dragon rose to all fours, sniffing the air. He scanned the cave but saw no one. "How can I hear you from different directions but can't see or smell you?" "I have my secrets." "Who are you?" Moog was stalling while he searched. "I'm Sir Dugmore. Perhaps you've heard of me?" His voice now came from a corner of the cave. "Sir Dugmore? The name does sound familiar. Are you the infamous knight who slew Brygon, the orange?" He continued searching with his long neck stretched, sniffing the corner. "I am. However, I have changed." "How? Do you just talk to dragons now instead of killing them? Am I supposed to believe you?” "I could have killed you already. My sword is made of dragon scale." Moog suddenly pulled his neck back and crouched in fear. He knew the power of a dragon-scale sword. "Alright, Sir Dugmore, what do you propose?" "Lord Adar has hired me to get rid of you, so you must go, but we could skip the fight and devise a better idea.” "I'm listening." "I found a cave in the north that would be perfect for you. It is isolated and the land around abounds with mountain goats and rams. If you agree to move, I won't kill you." "I have been thinking about leaving here. It has grown too populous, and Lord Adar keeps sending knights to kill me. I'm not getting any younger, and eventually, one of them will succeed," the great beast paused to think. "I agree to your terms." "Great. There is just one more catch. You see, I only get paid if you die. So, I need you to pretend to die. I thought I could shoot you with an arrow after you fly out of your cave to supposedly cause havoc and mayhem." "Arrows can't pierce my scales. Everyone knows that." "Of course, but everyone also knows all dragons have one scale missing on their belly." "Ha. No man can hit such a small target. It's only two fingers in size." "I know. However, if you fall after I shoot my arrow, everyone will believe it because people saw it with their own eyes." "I guess so. Men are stupid. It should work. But won't they find me and try to steal my scales?" "They would, but I won't shoot until you fly over Lake Refleet. It is so deep no one will try to scavenge your scales. All you must do is stay underwater until dark, then fly to your new cave." "Do I fly out now?" "Give me five minutes to get my bow, and remember to head towards the lake. It wouldn't hurt if you blew out fire and roared a little to get everyone's attention." They both readied themselves for the play to begin. After five minutes, Moog flew out of his cave, roaring and blowing fire. He flew over the lake and circled a few times. Sir Dugmore pulled back on his bow, closed his eyes, and let the arrow fly. It sped through the air into the tiny exposed spot on Moog's belly. When Sir Dugmore opened his eyes, he saw Moog grasping the arrow as he fell into the water. "Oh, dear God, what have I done?" Sir Dugmore lowered his head and thought of his beloved Frances. "What will she say when she hears that I killed him?" * * * * * * * Sir Dugmore rode back to Hamdorn with a heavy heart. How could I have made that shot? It was one in a million , he thought. As he neared the village, he saw Lady Frances walking towards him. Even from this distance, he could see she wasn't happy. Obviously, she had already heard. He pulled on the reins, dismounted, and tied his horse to a hitching post. "Hello, my love." She stood tapping her foot while he parked his horse. "Hello? Is that all you have to say?" "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." "You didn't mean to shoot an arrow at the dragon?" "No, I did mean to do that, but I didn't mean to hit him." "So you just accidentally hit a spot no bigger than my hand while he was flying hundreds of feet in the air at great speed? Is that what I'm supposed to believe?" "It was a one-in-a-million shot. I didn't even have my eyes open." "A one in a million? Are you sure about that?" "Well, I guess it could have been a one in eight hundred thousand. Maybe a million is a bit of an exaggeration. But I really didn't mean to shoot him. It was only supposed to look like I shot him." "Well, it definitely looked like you shot him. Wait a minute, that's because you did." "I don't know what to say. Please forgive me for being so lucky?" She stomped her foot down, turned, and walked away. Sir Dugmore hung his head down and went back to his horse. He got a room in a local inn in hopes that Lady Frances would change her mind. But after a few months, he fell into a depression and tried to drown it at the local pub. The villagers couldn't understand his behavior since they all saw him as a hero, the knight who made a one-in-a-million shot. Many nights, Sir Dugmore would get drunk and say, "One in a million," repeatedly. The men in the pub would cheer each time, thinking he was bragging. Some nights, he would drink so much he would pass out. The pub owner would get a few men to help him carry Sir Dugmore to his room. Once in bed, they could hear him softly say, "One in a million. One in a million." The pub owner said, "That's right. You made an impossible shot. You are a lucky man."

gaeqix

The Reincarnation of My Failure

Over the years, I have trained many, but boys like him rarely appear in a millennium. “Master Muida, we need you!” The part when they call me “Master” always makes me want to run. To direct them to any other powerful being that is more skilled, more qualified, and much more refined. It’s the part when they say “We need you” that makes me stay. But this time, I’m not sure I can. The tawny youth knelt outside my door. He resembled a man I’ve not seen in a thousand moons, yet one I will not forget after thousands more cross the sky. Years have made the wood of my abode moss-ridden, and I can’t understand why these fools know there is a door here at all. Despite my most recent failure, I still haven’t put up a sign of cautionary nature: “Those who wish to save their world, look elsewhere for your salvation. You will not find it in me.” I cannot save them, though they believe I know the means to. However, I can tell you how it all began, and how it will go, and the record remains unanimous: it all ends the same. I, Muida, goddess of teaching and looking to the future, will not take on another student. It’s not that I’m tired; I enjoy the thrill of training. It gives me a good workout, both physically and mentally. And please don’t misunderstand me when I say that the kids are all the same. I’m not bored, bitter, or bothered by the fact that they keep seeking me out. It’s the fact that they seek me out and then don’t learn all I taught them. I trained them to protect others from the enemy. I can’t protect them from their own humanity once they leave my oasis. Some seem to understand that. Let me rephrase: He never understood that. “Are you Master Muida, or shall I search for her elsewhere?”  The boy outside called and woke me from my internal monologue. I opened the door. I knew I shouldn’t have. The lean, freckled teen looked up at me, surprised that I actually greeted him. His hazel eyes peered into mine. I suppose he expected a great wizard of sorts; a creature weathered by years of solitude. What he got was along that line, although my skin isn’t weathered, and my light hair has not yet turned silver; it’s my soul that’s done the aging. “What has brought you to this place, traveler?” He wasn’t from around here. His sand-ridden sandals and tanned complexion told me that much. “I come to seek your training and guidance. The signs of the gods have led me to this place.” “And those signs?” “The ones written in the stars above me as I traveled, and the ones hidden deep within the caves of my village.” “From whence do you hail, sign-follower?” “A small village on Amyra, the little island far south of this place.” “I recall the island, traveler-” “Kellen. My name is Kellen Indiros.” “Tell me, Kellen Indiros, what threat brought you to this place?” “Raiders from the far west seek to destroy us. They have sent warnings that we are to give up our ways and our land. My people are strong in the faith, but I do not have enough faith in their ability to fight. That’s why I consulted the caves. The elders painted the history of our land there, and that’s where I found mentions of you.” “Mentions? And what did the painted histories speak of? “The paintings told of a warrior who trained the greatest hero Amyra has ever known. Is it true, that you trained Barak Acaraus?” Warrior. Hero. Barak . These words, concepts lost to my memory but not fully faded. He had succeeded all that time ago. But at what cost? “Well, Indiros, you must be told that I am no warrior. My purpose is to teach those who wish to learn for the betterment of their future. But you will be relieved to hear that you have come to the place of Barak Acaraus’ training.” Kellen’s face relaxed into a wave of relief. His journey had not been in vain, or so he thought. His parched tongue forgot its thirst and began to ramble. “The songs of his praises are sung throughout each household in my village, but he cannot save us now. The call of the sword has been passed to me. My father…” I attempted to listen as the boy spewed a familiar backstory, common to every wet-behind-the-ears underdog I’ve ever trained. Here are the commonalities: 1.    Parents: Deceased or never known. 2.     Hometown: Tiny, and of the agricultural variety. 3.    Occupation: In the typical farming or sheep-herding department A silent part of me thinks that my fellow deities find it amusing to push the hearts of cast-offs toward this place. These children just want to be needed, and if it took a suicide mission to save their people to gain some sort of favor, they would lap up the water of death rather than flounder in their obscurity. Once he had completed his tale, the youth kneeled before me once again. I offered Kellen a drink, which he graciously accepted as I gathered my robes and motioned to the useless walking stick I keep around for decoration. He retrieved it for me and we walked into the night. Time for his first lesson; whether he will receive it or not determines the acceptance of his apprenticeship. At the brink of the steep ledge overlooking the great sea Kellen crossed only hours before, I sat on a weather-worn boulder. I motioned for Kellen to repeat my action for himself, and the shocked human knelt. He had removed his dirty sandals at the point of my destination, doing what every good worshipper of mine would: showing the respect they think I deserve. I stared at the constellations above; each named for someone I had met so far back into the past that they had become myths. Barak did not have a constellation, but if he did, I would know which one it was: it would burn so bright only to fall and I’d never see it again. My clear irises reflected light, and although it was painful, I kept my gaze turned toward the sky. I began my lesson. “Look up at those stars again, Indiros. The signs pointing you to me reside within your hopeful heart, not penned in pangalactic charts. And the people you so desperately wish to save didn’t send their now-hailed Barak Acaraus here so I could train him. They sent him here to die. Every ‘chosen one’ is. Impossible odds, unbeatable forces…You’d be surprised how many youths are exactly your type. I have trained countless, but you and Barak were different, can you believe it?"  My memories took me back. "When Barak arrived at my door, he wanted nothing more than to leave this place as a hero. To prove to his people that he could be the one to save them all, from what I can’t recall. Probably raiders of the same sort you desire to defeat. Barak turned to me, believing I could be the solution. I could train him, certainly.” Kellen’s eagerness overtook him, “What did you train him in? Swordsmanship? The dark arts?” “I trained him to be a listener, as I do all of my students. In the past, I had begun with the sword, and if my students truly needed the skill, a little enchantment was granted. But Barak was impetuous. Before I could trust him with a blade, I needed to trust that he would listen. So I attempted to train him, to hear the people’s woes, and to acknowledge the logic of his foes. I taught him that the last weapon he should utilize is the sword by his side, and the first two in his arsenal should always be at the ready: The thread of thought in his mind and the wit imbued in his tongue.” “Those things surely cannot be that difficult to master,” Kellen declared, preparing to bow again. “If you taught him, then by all means, Master, make me your student, and send me to glorious triumph!” Oh, had I heard those words a hundred dozen times before. “Those who believe it’s all that simple can go home empty-handed. The last thing you need is a sword, Indiros. You are headstrong, but not yet strong-minded. What does your village say about Barak’s victory?” That last remark of mine wasn’t necessarily for Kellen to ponder a deep truth. I just wanted to know what had really happened to him. Kellen’s face dimmed, the enthusiasm levels dropping as fast as the moon rose overhead overhead. He narrated the ballad as if he had been told the story each night since infancy. “Barak did not fail in his enchantment of the people, and he fought bravely to the end, his sword in hand. His words of wisdom saved the village he so loved, but he died crying out the name of his love...Muida, Muida, my strength and my love. Welcome me once again: master, teacher, pure dove." So, that’s what happened. He listened...and that still didn't save him. My tears were spent for Barak long ago, and I hadn’t taken a student since. One would think that I remained professionally detached from those I train. That was often the case. But Barak was an overeager moth that was in desperate need of a flame I didn't know I possessed. While he casually and easily learned my most important lessons, he studied me, and any human trait he could find within me. My loneliness left me weak, and Barak took down my walls that had been overgrown much longer than my ivy-woven hut. Training with the sword became a dance, and any enchantment of mine was quickly matched with equal force, but he had me under his own spell. The man I loved worshiped the ground I walked on and went to his death in my name.            “ I need you ,” Barak had begged me in his ethereal voice; the voice that had matured into adulthood just as much as I presumed his character had grown since we had met. His dark complexion contrasted with my own albino skin, his hands forever combing through my long spider-web-hued hair. I’d have given immortality up to see him to the ends of the earth. But, bound forever to this soulless oasis, I could not follow him into battle. He kissed me for the last time, his hand leaving mine as his boat left the shore. In a song of his own, he promised to return. He had forgotten the second lesson: don’t make your loved ones promises you cannot keep. I didn’t cry for him now. A soft laugh of fond remembrance was the only sound I could manage. “I always wonder what happens to my students,” I redirected. “Obviously I'm still breathing and I’m here to be sought out, so the world hasn’t burned. Well, at least most of it hasn’t.”            “But that’s just it! If you don’t wish the world to end, you must train me as you did him!”            “No,” I choked. “I cannot-no, I will not attempt to train another. If they do not listen to me and know that I see their fate, I see that all their efforts will be in vain if they do not realize their human frailty. I let my guard down and thus failed to teach him to safely guard himself. An expert swordsman, he was, and he had a way with words like no one I had ever heard. But he was too headstrong, as you are. So I command you, find a trainer that will take you. Do not fight in my name. It means nothing. Do not call upon me for victory; I cannot give it to you." “But Muida, I need you-”   “I certainly don’t need another Barak’s blood on my hands. Leave me…please.” I had only ever begged a mortal to stay once, and now I begged one to forsake me. What kind of a goddess am I? Kellen rose from his prostrated position, placing the sandals back on his feet. I guess he finally realized he wasn’t standing on hallowed ground. He stood in the presence of a true fool. His hazel eyes brimmed with bitter tears; he didn’t bow as he left. "I believed the legend of Barak to be true. That a great master teacher would gladly teach. His skills were only learned from you. It was not his sword fighting, his magic, nor any words he could speak that saved him. It was the love that you showed him. I see that now. But you are right. As you have commanded, I will succeed. But I will not credit you with teaching me." He turned and descended the craggy stone staircase that led to my hilltop, boarded his small boat, and disappeared as silently as he had approached me at sunset. I knew not whether he would succeed or fail. The future was unclear to me for the first time. Returning to my lodging, I shut out the day I just had of reliving memories I wished would evaporate. My countless students who had succeeded in their quests would forever be memorialized in ballads, epics, and the stars themselves. But nothing could drown my true legacy: I had sent two young men to certain doom because I tried to get them to hear me. I forgot the humanity of one and tried too hard to remind the other of his own. I had failed Barak all those years ago. And my failure had been reincarnated before my eyes just moments before.            After he left, I wondered about Kellen and whether I had made the right decision. My fear had taken hold of my tongue. Perhaps I spoke out of turn. After all, he learned the first lesson. I asked him to leave. And he listened. 

mbuyq8

Chapter 2: The Swan

“Smell,” he said. Annabelle closed her eyes and breathed in the warm nostalgia of her favorite honey-sweet scent. Her soul dissipated towards the outstretched wings of the Swan constellation. “Xander, I’m coming,” her soul screamed through the heavens. A wall of mist greeted Annabelle’s soul upon reaching the constellation; it felt like love, hope, and something so familiar that it stunned her like a heart attack. She had only one thought as she flew through the warm, Misty clouds toward the light of a glistening blue ocean below her. “Who’s Super now!” Feeling a surge of joy and peace as she breathed in the fragrant air that tasted like cotton candy. She glided down towards a green Island oasis encircled by the stilled glass sheen aquamarine water reflecting the ringing bell of blue ocean water above and island like a mirror of perfect harmony. The hole it sat enveloped by was like a gaping wound that never healed, bleeding water endlessly with cascades of constantly roaring seawater, six miles in diameter of the soundless depths below. The black sand beach welcomed her toes with its warmth and wetness when she landed and walked along the tideless water, Annabelle looked back to see her footprints miles behind where she landed and two figures coming towards her, holding each other as they walked in Love’s warm embrace. “Bruce!” yelled Annabelle in a shock of realization as the men got closer. Bruce looked peeringly towards Annabelle and smiled with elation as he ran to hug her, welcoming her home. “About time; what took you so long, old lady.” Annabelle laughed as she replied, “I didn’t fire the starting gun and had no control over the finish line either.” “True,” said Bruce with a smile as his partner caught up to their reunion. “Who is this?” asked Annabelle. “This is Oliver,” beamed Bruce, “He is my Heart.” “It’s wonderful to meet you,” Oliver stumbled, “I’ve heard everything about you.” he smiled broadly. “Bruce, why didn’t you tell me you were gay?” “You would have encouraged me too much; life was already painful, and more disappointment in a world built on Hate wasn’t worth it.” “Here, though,” Bruce breathed as he put his arm around Oliver and stretched out his other arm. “Here, we are free to be exactly who God made us to be without all the Hate, Shame, and Oppression of opinions.” “True,” Annabelle smiled. “So, how did you two meet,” she asked gleefully. Both men answered simultaneously, “Do you want to see.” They both put a hand up to her temple and forehead. Close your eyes and repeat after me, Bruce explained. “I wander so I may Wonder.” Annabelle’s echoed recitation faded her reality into the drizzly dream that came with the hush of a memory. “I wander; so I may Wonder, both for the prize of “Wonderful Thoughts”; but also for the knowledge  which comes from an “Understanding Idea,” conceived while Wandering…” “Time never changes,” thought Bruce. “Life is like walking nowhere but seeing the landscape of everywhere on a multi-directional pad I can’t see but know exists.” “Sunny, my ass,” he growled. “Can’t the news ever get it right ?” The sky was still blue and clear as he drudged through the oddly placed downpour. His jeans and the Grey denim hoodie hiding his blonde hair aided him while his hands found safety inside its pockets. All of this, however, did nothing to help his feet. Bruce’s blue eyes contorted with each sopping step he took past the ultra-luxury cars parked next to the ten-dollar tent city downtown had become. Like the poor of the city, his feet found only the cold, wet rainstorm of punishment and abuse. Anger and Justice are bought and paid for commodities of the rich in Hell’s Kitchen. Despite the heavy presence of security and cameras, Justice for the Poor was non-existent and oppressive: “Irregardless of Right,” the greed of the mighty  always won. As bad as this city was, there were worse places to be. At least Chloe was here, and “The Unity Bar” wasn’t going anywhere. Regardless of the weather, Bruce always stopped to marvel at the sign a few feet from its entrance. The bar got its name from the “U shape” its sign took; it was The Pub-LIC, and the neon wasn’t what transfixed the eye. Descending downward from the end of the sign were the words “Live IN Confidence,” with Confidence  bent backward ending on the same “E” as Live. The word IN shined an oppressive Blue, contrasting the white light of the other letters, and a red triangle went around the letters” INi.” Chloe was the owner/bartender, and everyone respected her rules. She made it simple, though; she had only one: “Don’t be an Asshole, the Hate stays Outside.” The why , for everyone’s respect, was unclear until today. In the year Bruce had been coming to her bar, no one had ever pushed the rule posted on the front door. Occasionally unrest sparked, but as soon as her head perked up and she had those “What the fuck did I just hear” eyes come out. Whispers and fearful eyes calmed everyone down. Bruce always assumed that the fearful looks were actorial and the whispers sounded like this: “Dude shut the fuck up, and we get a free drink.” As soon as everyone was seated again, Chloe would always smile and give everyone in the bar a free drink, and life would continue. Pushing past the door began like every other day before as he and Chloe performed their customary greeting upon arriving at his seat. “Hey Bruce, how’s it going?” Chloe said with a smile. “Living the Dream!..” “Not mine, but somebodies,” he added with more snark than smirk. “Better a dream than a nightmare,” she replied. “It feels like a nightmare, but life could be worse,” he thought as the doors swung open, blasting Bruce with the last dash of sunset’s harness. Time felt frozen; his chest felt like a pixelated hummingbird as his heart beat somewhere between so slow he thought he might die and so fast he might still die. Was it the light from the sun that blinded him or the man walking through the door? Oliver smiled, and like a thunderclap, time started moving when Bruce realized he had been staring the whole time. He turned, grabbed his beer, and finished it in a single chug. Bruce appeared panicked as he pushed his glass forward for a refill. “What the fuck is your face doing right now” poked Chloe as she poured him another beer. “Yes,” said Bruce as he slammed the beer again and pushed it forward repeatingly. “Do you need to take a shit; that wasn’t an answer to my question,” Chloe chuckled as she poured another beer, deeply interested in what had him so frazzled. “What the fuck should I say” thought Bruce. Should I tell her I think I just saw; I don’t even fucking know. Is this Love, or just take your clothes off? One, I know for sure, but is it the other, too? “Can Love even happen like that? If anyone would understand, it would be Chloe. She doesn’t allow any hate in her bar.” “Hey, dipshit, you’re doing it again,” Chloe said in more concern than camaraderie. “Are you ok?” she asked as she touched his hand. Bruce looked down briefly to gain his composure for a conversation he had never had. “Well… Do you believe in Love at First Sight,” he asked. “I think I’m in love,” Bruce said with a half smile, trying not to show his excitement because it wasn’t real yet. “Really?” “Did it just happen? Is that why your face looked so stupid,” she teased. “It is,” Bruce smiled, “and unfortunately, you weren’t the only one to notice, so the hand has been dealt as my father would say.” “Stupid face,” he laughed out loud. “Listen; don’t think I can’t, Bluff,” Bruce said to change the subject yet still talk about it. “I can; you will see me at the card game on Friday. I was just caught off guard, is all. Can I have another beer and an ice water,” he said with a please and a smile. “You can,” she paused. “As payment, I’ll take a head nod towards who so I can tell you everything I know with even more info than DaNi could gather,” Chloe negotiated. DaNi stands for “Digitally Artificial Neural Intelligence,” it is essentially everything that connects us to the operating system or direct access servers that feed our cooperative society. Everyone runs on it, and all information has an open-access portal, but the user holds their personal data; companies are no longer allowed to. Each person is given a specific toned ripple, and if anything doesn’t match their tide, it throws alarms off immediately. It’s like a personal assistant and an ID card; most people wear them in jewelry, but some have housing units implanted to wear them because they are our physical digitized footprint. About the time Chloe set down Bruce’s drinks, a loud voice rang out for attention. “What are you doing out around normal people, you dirty piece of shit!” Curtis Curd was standing inches from Oliver, yelling at him with his fingers buried in Oliver’s chest. “Hey, friend,” Chloe interjected as she walked towards them. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but you are breaking our only rule here.” “Get back behind the bar bitch; this has nothing to do with you,” Curtis croaked. Everyone in the room but Bruce seemed to pucker their assholes all at the same time physically. As Chloe shot Curtis a smile, she raised her left fist to eye level, where a red ring of fire encircled her cornea, and her hand ignited in flames. “This is my bar, Bitch,” Chloe assaulted back. “I think you are the one who should back away from my friend, friend.” “I’m not your friend,” Curtis coiled as he stepped back, releasing a silent yet noxious scent from the shit he almost took in Fear and shock at her powers. “That’s where you are wrong,” Chloe softened; only my friends are allowed in this bar. My friends know Not to be an Asshole; because in here, Hate isn’t Tolerated. “People who aren’t my friends end up as toasted marshmallows. Inside these four walls is my world; I can’t control the world, but I own mine, and I make the rules here. Now, you can stay or go, but disrespect won’t be tolerated,” Chloe continued. “Well, you don’t know who my father is,” cut Curtis. “Well, you aren’t your dad, and whoever he is doesn’t frighten me; I’ll burn his house to the ground while he is asleep, the same as you,” her eyes burned hotter. “I fear no one but the Apathy of a silent voice, and do you hear anyone coming to your defense in here? You should be afraid of the silence as well. I will cook you where you stand, give everyone a free drink, and wish you well with hope for your next life in a toast as I sweep you into the trash.” Your life could be as painful as the suffering you inflict; killing you would be a kindness with what I could do to you. “DaNi, please pull up everything you can on the man I’m looking at right now,” Chloe said. “I want everything you can find on him, from his tax records to his sperm count; also, I would like you to hack into his private archives and find any embarrassing dick pics he might have saved.” “The man in front of you is Curtis Curd, and I’ve located all of the info you requested and found over 200 such photographs through his portal,” said DaNi into Chloe’s ear. “Thank you, DaNi.” “Prepare to send the most damaging photo through all his social accounts with the following statement and lock him out. My cock is so small it’s laughable to call me a man, but my throat is open to anyone who is one,” said Chloe. Heat rises, and a panic engulfs his body, showing its color and his rising Fear as it floods his face. “Why are you trying to kill me,” he cried. “Why were you trying to kill him,” Chloe shot back. “I was just having some fun,” Curtis characterized. “Well, I’m about to have a whole lot of fun,” she said with a wink. Fear leaked out of his pants as he fell backward into his seat. Chloe sat in the chair across from him as if they were two friends having a simple debate while the rest of the bar went on as if nothing was happening. “What is your favorite number,” asked Chloe with an inquisitive softening. Curtis looked bewildered by the question as he stumbled for his answer. “I like to win, so I would have said One,” chortled Curtis, “but I just pissed myself.” “Fair enough,” Chloe laughed compassionately. “My favorite number is Nine; Nine mathematically proves the existence of God through INFINITY if viewed in the correct light.” Without nine, there could be no zero; without zero, we could never have realized ten, and without ten, Infinity would be science fiction that the world’s religions would burn into obscurity. Nine is my favorite, but it would be nothing without “the invisible zero,” which shares itself with everything else. Nine is a mirror number, like duality looking back at itself. The number itself is dualistic; it’s a zero hanging on to the top of a one like a balloon on a stick. 0 9 1 8 2 7 3 6 4 5 5 4 6 3 7 2 8 1 9 0 “If you start with a zero and count to nine descending downwards, then put a zero behind the nine and count back upwards to nine, you get all the multiples of nine. Nine has an invisible zero, like a DNA strand of numbers, which is incomplete without the starting zero. Infinity was born within the whole, and “Whole” means Unity.” Chloe motioned Curtis’s attention to the person taking the stage; “Listen to what this person has to say,” Chloe asked without asking. “Hello, everyone,” came the soft, humble voice from center stage; “this is my poem; I hope you like it,” they said meekly. I am an American . I owe “You” no apologies, nor will I accept those apologies made for me by others. If you dislike me, you despise me not for what I am but for what you are not. With my sweat, I have created my life, which I have ch-o-sin and desire freedom for all humans. To the world, I have shared my worth in giving my blood and effort, not because of obligation, but by my own Freewill. I have fed the world’s starvation; many bit my hand in anger from the hurt and abuse they have been forced to suffer; I used the other hand. I defeated all my enemies in silent and violent battle, then pulled them and myself up from the ashes of defeat. Once strong, they again attacked; I turned the other cheek because Forgiveness doesn’t work “without Forgiveness.” Though I am strong and shouldn’t use my strength to rule others, don’t misjudge me. I will not allow the Fear of my own power to become my weakness or apathetic nature; if you wish to Rise, I will give you a helping hand. But by the grace of God, and I’ll first be damned; if I will let you drag me down to feel equal. Rise because I will not fall into “your violence.” I will Fly! A vibrant applause filled the room as D. Ault stepped back into the shadows. “Zero is the only single-digit number,” Chloe continued. “The rest work in partnership with zero even if we don’t see it in maths. Forgetting the invisible zero in 1-9 is like forgetting the Love god has for all his children, especially the ones you dislike.” “I share all this with you, Curtis,” said Chloe, “To show you the power and inclusiveness within humility and what “we lose” in the violence and belittlement our Hate and Anger force upon others.” “You decided to be a prick because of something you don’t like but which is none of your business,” Chloe added. “You are both NPCs in each other’s background; his choices aren’t yours to control, criticize, or belittle.” “DaNi cancel request,” Chloe said softly: “Listen, my patience is the only thing that kept you from living the hateful, abusive indifference you passed off in your ignorance of his value.” “You get to make your own choices, but in my house, you only have Option A and Option B.” “What options are those,” Curtis croaked. “Apologize and go back to drinking separately; while you each go about your business or Burn Bitch,” Chloe said in playful jest. Curtis turned, and for the first time in his life, he looked at Oliver standing before him; shame, Fear, and desperation filled his face, and he saw his reflection. He stood up, shook Oliver’s hand, and apologized. Turning towards the door, he left in quiet contemplation; the words above the entrance took him into the cold night air. “Inner Nobility Ignites” Chloe stood up and walked back over to an awe-struck Bruce. “So,” she said excitedly, “Who is it,” as if nothing else had happened. “The man whose life you just saved,” Bruce blushed. “That’s Oliver,” Chloe beamed. “Funnily enough, he will be at the poker game on Friday as well; you better work on your poker face,” she laughed. “Yeah, stupid face,” said Bruce as he caught Oliver smiling back at him. Annabelle’s vision was again on the beach with Oliver and Bruce, tears falling from everyone. “That was beautiful,” said Annabelle. The scenery seemed to glow vibrantly as Annabelle’s memory whispered her heart’s name, “Xander.” Bruce frowned for the first time, “He isn’t here…”

cbwtvf

In The Name Of The Prince

William reached the edge of the forest as the sun had almost finished its slow and gracious downhill slope behind the mountains. An eerie spectacle unfolded before the young man’s eyes. From his point of view, he could see nothing ahead but a vast, dried, dusty and dark land, filled with steep stones of all dimensions and- he hardly held his gasp- skeletons. Skeletons of many young men whose pride, courage, or perhaps despair and resignation have brought there, to their end. Most of them were facing the forest. They probably saw in it a refuge they hopelessly tried to reach. A futile shred of faith. As William was embracing the shadowy land, whose boundaries reached a mountain’s foothill, his eyes noticed its murkiest side, and, embedded in it, the entrance of the lair.  That was it. The final step of a nightmarish journey. Overwhelmed by a mix of relief, melancholy, fear and rage, William contemplated for a moment the place which would soon turn into the theater of his destiny. He fell on his knees. For hours he walked toward this destination. Obsessed by it, he never really took a moment to meditate on his adventure, to reminisce about his fellows. They were fifteen at the beginning. Robert, Richard, Stephen, Edward, Henry the miller, James, John the cobbler, Henry the carpenter, John the plowman, Simon, John the potter, Thomas, Merlin, Jack and him, William. Fifteen young men ripped from their families, thrown into a journey which was not theirs and given a task they never asked for. Fifteen at the beginning. And then there was William. All alone lost in his mind. For he knew what he was compelled to do in order to earn back his life, or what would be left of it. A will, greater than his own commanded so, even if he failed to understand why. Why him? Why them? But it was no time for soul-searching questions. William stood back on his feet, tightened the scabbard of his sword, and took a determined step towards his destination. A certainty of death to anyone. But to him it was his ticket home meanwhile beheading was the price to pay. This was William’s sole thought as he courageously approached the dragon’s lair. *** William’s journey started around a month ago. William was plowing his father’s land with his two brothers when five royal horsemen erupted. By order of the king, one of them was bound to enlist in the army. The three brothers were surprised by such an order, for no war has been declared on the kingdom. But no one could question the king’s will, and the three brothers put themselves at the king’s disposal, before their father’s reproving but hopeless eyes. The leader of the horsemen chose the most healthy-looking of the sons. It was William. A moment later he was on the back of a horse, riding away from his birthplace. They took him far away, on the kingdom’s final edge. There, in the last inn before the Uncharted Lands, he met his future companions. They were all recruited the same way. Gathered in a large hall, they were discussing their odd situation when he came in. The prince! The young men stood and kept quiet, stupor-stricken. Despite all his flashy jewels, the prince did not look any older than them, and looked surprisingly thinner and shorter. Preceded by his suit, he nobly sat at the table, closely protected by his royal guard. The captain of the guard spoke. As they suspected, there was no war on sight. They were rather assigned with a secret mission. It was helping the prince accomplish his first royal exploit: to kill a dragon.  As the tradition ordered it, any pretender to the throne has to showcase his royal lineage by killing and decapitating a dragon. The king being gravely ill, the young prince had to quickly execute this ritual to prove himself worthy of ruling the kingdom once his father would pass away. All the kings went through this formality but no history book nor any folksong ever mention the kings being helped by commoners. The captain carried on, explaining how it was for them a great honor to be chosen for this unique task. But none of the young men was listening any more. They hardly believed what they heard. Facing a mighty and fire-breathing monster? Them who only knew, one his plow, the other his mill, or his hammer, or his pot? How could have the prince seriously considered them fit for this unreal task instead of some nobles or trained warriors? None of them believed nor wanted it. But no one said anything. It was the prince’s decision to take them with him on his own glorious journey, all they could do was to comply. Moreover, the captain’s final words were definitive,” Should this mission succeed, you and your family will be covered with gold; refuse or fail and you will be executed.” At least, there was a possible reward. Being covered with gold would guarantee a worriless life for them and their families. This thin hope helped the fifteen young men sleep on this fateful first night of enrollment. They were woken up early in the morning and given a solid breakfast. “First time of my life that I don’t spend a sunrise among my sows” Merlin jokingly said. But no one else was feeling like laughing. The captain handed them some new clothes, complete sets of armors, swords and spears. "A solemn priest compelled them to kneel and offered up a prayer on their behalf. A moment later, they were expeditiously ordained Horsemen of the Royal Guard. Each of them was given a robust horse. Overnight, these fifteen commoners were transformed into warriors. They were afterwards brought at the entrance of the Uncharted Lands. “Remember, said the captain, to go straight forward. No turning right nor left. You should soon reach the dragon’s lair. -Where is the prince? William asked timidly. The captain shot him a glance. - Bring the beast’s head back, he simply replied, or don’t come back at all. Now go. *** As he carefully entered the lair, William expected to directly face the dragon. To his surprise, the so-called lair was not a large cave where the beast would be nesting, but a long dark tunnel which seemed endless. The young farmer started to question the very existence of the dragon. What if the whole thing was a lie? They lied about everything else, why not about this? “Lies, lies…” he whispered angrily as he stood in front of the tunnel. All they said was a lie. His companions and he were told they would quickly get to the dragon’s lair. A journey of one day or two. But after one day of galloping across the dangerous Uncharted Lands, the first place they went into was not the beast’s residence, but a large and deep river. There was no way around. They had to cross it and abandon their mounts. Jack noticed three small sailing boats with no oar. As they looked closely, they saw some pairs of oars, attached at the very bottom of the river. Richard, John the potter and Jack were the best swimmers. They jumped in, detached the oars and swam back to the surface. As they handed the oars to their companions, their feet were ferociously snapped from beneath up by three alligators, covered with transparent scales, which had swum upon them, unnoticed. Their companions desperately tried to pull them up, but the creatures’ jaws were too strong. The swimmers were shortly cut in half and blood-emptied. *** William furiously wiped his tears. -No, he said, this beast exists. It has to. They cannot be dead for nothing! I’m convinced it existed, and there is one way to find out. The only way was the tenebrous tunnel in front of him. He had no other option anyway. He could not go back empty-handed. Assuming he would survive all the dangers on his way back, they would simply hang him or toss him in a cage. He reluctantly entered the tunnel, thinking about the various cruel ways his companions died. -All of them, dead, he whispered. After Richard and John the potter, Robert, Henry the miller and John the cobbler were killed by a giant ogre. They all tried to fight him but their spears and sword would break on his skin. The survivors could only run away to escape. -All dead, said William, for a prince who did not even mind talking with them. Henry the carpenter and John the plowman have been carried along while they entered a large hole in the ground, trying to catch a couple of rabbits for dinner. They realized too late that the hole was inhabited by a bunch of goblins. The remaining fellows had no choice but to cover the hole with a giant rock, as they heard the screams of despair of their friends. -Even if it exists, said William to himself, what can I do? Can I solely take on a fire-breathing monster? Stephen was trapped by a joyful troll. The creature was sitting in front of a bridge they needed to cross. The troll claimed an odd retribution to let them pass: a hug. Stephen naively devoted himself. For once, they had met a peaceful-looking creature. Then they heard Stephen’s bones creak. Merlin reacted fast and planted his sword in the troll’s skull. But it was too late. As the dead monster released his grip, the young man’s boneless corpses fell on the ground like a straw mattress. The horrifying sight of his exorbitant eyes and bloody face would forever haunt William’s dreams. -And even if I managed to kill the dragon, said William while leaning against the rock face, even if I killed the dragon, why would I bring him its head? Why would I help a liar? He knew why. It was the only way back to his people. He would bring the head, the prince would be anointed king, and William would rejoin his farm. And there was nothing he could do about his fellows passing but pretend nothing ever happened. There was no way to avenge their death. -Forget, I have to forget, said William. Once it would be done, he would have to forget it all. Forget about Richard, John the potter, Jack, Robert, Henry the miller, Henry the carpenter and John the plowman. He would have to forget about Stephen, his hugged-to-death friend, about Edward, James and John the cobbler who were mauled by a pack of wolves as they entered the forest. Merlin ultimately lit a fire using two flintstones which chased the canines. Sadly, nothing could have been done for the injured travelers. And that’s when they were four. Thomas, Simon, Merlin and William. Four survivors out of fifteen fellows, lost in an unknown forest, with no dragon in sight. Until one night they heard an unnatural roar. Convinced it could only be their freak, they followed the roar and found themselves in front of a gate. The gate’s mechanism was activated by three gigantic cranks which had to be simultaneously moved in order to open the gate. They haven’t even caught their breath yet when they hear a shrill scream. A horde of harpies were chasing them and were dangerously getting closer. The four friends quickly understood that three of them had to sacrifice themselves for one of them to reach the other side of the gate. William was the chosen one. In an ultimate effort, the three brave warriors grasped the cranks and pushed. William could pass and they released their grip just in time for the gate to close before a harpy could follow him. For how long has he been walking in that tunnel? William could not tell. It felt like an hour, a week, a month. He had long ago lost any notion of time. Starved and tired to death, his only reason to keep on walking was the memory of his lost companions and his dire will to see, would it be only once again, the face of his beloved mother. Despite the time spent in the tunnel, his eyes never acclimated to its obscurity. He could not see, sense nor feel anything before him. Suddenly he saw a glowing point, like a minuscule torch. William first thought of a hallucination but the point seemed to grow bigger as he got closer. Could it be? Had he reached the end of the tunnel? Holding his breath, William slowed his pace down, muted every single step. It was truly the end of the tunnel. The young man could guest it opened to a kind of enlightened room. He slowly narrowed down the distance between the room and him. As he got to the entrance, William bent down and put his hand on the pommel of his sword. He silently crawled in. And there it was. The dragon. William could not believe his eyes. For weeks he has been thinking about this moment, he has been meticulously preparing every move, every step, every single blow and strike. And now that he was facing his mighty opponent, he was peacefully sleeping! Struck in contemplation, William could not make a single move for several minutes. The dragon was indeed imposing but not as the young had imagined it. The beast was not as tall as a mountain but it easily measured more than eleven feet. It was covered with black scales streaked with blue gleams. Its massive reptile head was resting upon its muscled forelegs and its tail was long and undulate. Each inspiration and exhalation of the dragon shook the cave. The whole room was bathed in the glowing light emanating from its chest. William guessed that its fatal fire would come from there. Despite its body built for war and slaughter, William could not help but notice the peaceful expression of the dragon in its sleep. That was not a dangerous animal’s face. The farmer looked around. The cavern was almost clean. The rare skulls and skeletons he could see were those of wild animals. Who could tell this was a merciless monster? On tiptoe, William went closer. That was it. The final moment. Sunk in a deep sleep, the dragon never realized the young man’s presence. Its neck was all offered. And the more the young man stared, the more it looked…almost human. A single precise strike would instantly end its life, and revive William’s. Inch by inch he slowly and quietly drew his sword. William was in total disbelief. The ultimate task would after all be the easiest one. All of this suffering would end. William lifted his arms, tightened his grip, and held his breath. And… And then it clicked. William suddenly understood the whole plot. He understood everything. Why he was chosen. Why his fellow commoners were chosen. It could have never been a noble nor a valiant soldier. The king’s authority relied on the fact that everybody believed that his power came from above, as he is God’s chosen ruler. Killing a dragon was the proof of his upper essence, for no common man could accomplish such a task. If the nobles or the high-ranked soldiers realized that the prince or the king were just simple men like them, a mutiny or a coup was more than probable. Therefore, this suicide mission could only be taken by people to whom this information would be of no use. Cobblers, plowmen, farmers, carpenters, etc. Hopeless plebeians who could not refuse, nor tell a soul about it once it would be done. An unlimited and expendable labor force. William understood he had no more value to the eyes of the prince than his sword, or his armor, or a horse. Just a tool to serve a greater will. All the skeletons he saw at the entrance of the lair were mere commoners just like him. How many have already fallen? How many would have to fall after him, would he fail? He just knew that the prince, well lodged in his inn, would just keep on sending more and more of them, waiting for the task to be fulfilled. Then he would just pick his price, show it to the world, and get anointed. And the true hero would be reduced to silence with a golden handle. William wondered. Has a single king actually killed a dragon by himself? For centuries that this tradition lasted, how many plebeians were offered in holocaust to embellish the legends of kings? Williams smirked while staring at the dragon. “You and I are just the same, " he murmured, we are but instruments in the hands of sadistic megalomaniacs.” They were the same indeed. Brothers of misfortune, bound by an irresistible fate. But one of them had to die. The other one had to serve. With a successful strike, William would serve. He would go back and keep this unbearable secret. The secret of the martyrs of the dynasty. The young man smiled at his own delusion. Of course there was no going back home! Who would take the risk of letting a farmer go, carrying such a big and shameful secret? It was a complete deadlock. To kill and die or to run away. And die. Just all the same. William tried but found no will to hit the beast. He could not bring himself to perpetuate the tradition. But since when could commoners intervene in their own fate? The fatal blow had to be given. The young man braced himself. William raised his sword as high as he could and had a final thought for his family and his fallen fellows. He was ready for the strike. One last strike to try and survive. One last strike to try and go back home… Or unleash chaos.

d18qle

Song of the Seaside

A mother/daughter travel tale from the soul. Hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed sharing. "So glad we are checked in here finally. Not a bad room eh mom?" I breathed emotion in my words. Mom was not young anymore, even this trip would take a lot out of her energy level. We placed our luggage down as we inspected out our new 'home' for the next week. "Not bad at all. We should be very comfortable here." Martha murmured tiredness in her voice. I had already started changed into something warm. Brushed my shoulder length auburn hair, and washed up. When we got here, salt scented rain began to pelt down on us, making me shiver in my light sweater. Now I donned in jeans and a thick hoodie with a rain jacket. In Halifax, or anywhere in the Eastern Provinces you never knew what the weather will be any given moment. I brought layers always best to play safe. "How about some lunch? Room service." Mom suggested. After looking at the menu I ordered a burger platter with all the trimmings, mom ordered a Caesar salad. Her diabetes diet had to stay in tact. She savoured a few of the garlic herbed croutons, elegantly coated in lightly seasoned butter and pan fried. After dinne, we decided to we walk around the beautiful ocean surrounded Pier, with booths of food and gifts for tourists. Mom hobbled slowly with her cane, I strode patiently beside her yet giving her some space. She would get annoyed if I hovered. Our five-star located right downtown on the Pier, close to everything Nova Scotia, was what mom wanted. Convenient and the best. The bay facing us housed boats of all sorts. Beautiful crispy white sailboats, and some square backed lobster fishing rigs. It was the beginning of lobster season, which only lasted a short period here. I couldn't wait to dig into my first lobster dinner with garlic butter and sides of various sorts. The oysters were to die for too, fresh and huge and mouth-watering swallowed by a sea breeze drink. Vodka and cranberry. The next morning the sun shone through the shears. I had forgotten to close the drapes the night before, the bright ray's of the sun woke me up early. Coffee!!!! Oh I needed my fix and began to get the small room coffee maker going with those cute little packets of caffeine. I then had a nice shower in the luxurious bathroom with all the bells and whistles, wrapping myself in one of those soft cotton hotel robes. "I am in heaven mom." I smiled as I came out and poured more of the scented dark liquid. "Let's go out for breakfast." I suggested. "We can grab a taxi out front here." I offered. "Yes, there is a diner on the corner and they are really good so I was told by the guy that helped us with our luggage. But we can walk, it's only a block down" Together, the two of us left to go eat. The early morning was bright and crisp, after the night's rainfall. I inhaled the salted scent of the ocean. It was exhilarating to be here again. "Mmmmm, this is sooo good. I love restaurant toast. It always seems to taste better." I mouthed while chewing. Mom had an omelette with bacon and fresh fruit. "I wish I could eat toast like you, lucky." Mom said as she watched me take a big bite of the buttery toast coated with strawberry preserves. I felt a sudden pang of guilt then, looked out the window at the morning work rush began. "Lets walk around the Pier. I hear there is going to be a music festival and a bbq this week. It should be fun. We can also take some bus tours to some of the little towns like Lunenburg and even Anne of Green Gable's." Mom was excited. I was happy to be here with her. She was getting on in the years, her legs showing signs of pain and wear from arthritis and two knee replacements, one in each. I felt sad for her. I want her to be with me forever. While we didn't always have a great relationship, my mom my best friend. I had already lost two friends recently, and my heart continually ached for them. My high school bestie, and my horse expert friend who owned a small hobby farm where I rode and spent all my summers. Luna was my lifeline. Connie was my step stone. Neither were alike in any way whatsoever, but each were placed in a part of my heart that would never leave. I missed them every waking moment in my life and more so as I got older. "I am so glad we came Laura. Nova Scotia is so beautiful this time of the year. Daddy and I drove here once a long time ago. Through the Gaspe. We stayed in a motel and then got here." My mom's eyes wandered off when she would remember daddy. He passed away ten years ago of cancer. I had gone many times when he got sick, and sicker. His body shrivelled up and frail as he lay back in his hospital bed and then they put him on morphine. I missed my daddy too. Now all I had was mom it seemed left. And here we were together on this fantastic trip to the Maritimes together. "I wish we came here sooner. We shouldn't have waited so long to travel." I said after finishing my meal of bacon, eggs and toast. Traffic zoomed by on the road where we were eating while we sat at a street level view. Fake lobsters hung all around the walls and the restaurant had the flare of the sea with the usual blue and white ship style decorations. It was fun and colourful, I liked it here. "What are you starting on about now? Can't we just enjoy this trip?" Mom huffed back. She was annoyed at my comment. I didn't mean anything by it. Mom and I didn't always have the best relationship. It took us many years to bond and only as she got older and after daddy died. "Do you always have to start and get negative?" She continued. "Sorry mom, I didn't mean anything it was just a comment." I said and got up ready to leave. Mom paid the bill and grabbed her cane, hovering while she walked out in pain in front of me. 'Hmph, maybe someday we can walk beside each other.' My stomach was in knots. I wasn't happy then, in that moment, wishing I had never said anything to upset her. I followed suit as she hobbled slowly out and we got into the cab waiting to take us back to the hotel. We spent the next few days doing a few bus tours and one to Anne of Green Gable's. I loved every minute of it. Mom was happy too and we were getting along nicely, at least I wasn't saying anything to annoy her. I always felt that. No matter it seemed I would say the wrong things growing up it was hard and tiring emotionally. I tried to fit in but felt like an outsider. Nothing about my life was easy. Whatever, here we were and I planned to make the best of this trip. I made a mental choice to let go of past resentments even if for this duration to spend quality time with my ailing mom. I missed out on a lot of that growing up. My sister dominated the family. She was controlling and an over-achiever. I was more quiet and sensitive, we were not at all alike. "How was the hike on the haunted path? Did you run into any ghosts?" Mom joked, while she waited in the garden for me. It was a lovely day, sunny and warm. She enjoyed sitting outside and taking in the beauty of the well kept grounds. "The only thing I got were mosquito bites. My there are lots here, I should have used bug spray. Otherwise it was just as I expected, not very long though." I answered as I sat down beside her. Our driver came back several hours later as scheduled and we then took a drive around the small island, filled with red potato fields and corn. I was tired after that. ****** On the last two days of our vacate, the music festival started. Musicians and entertainers of all sorts began to settle on the Pier as the ocean was spread all around. Scents of fair food were all around and my nostrils took it all in, the sights and smells and sounds. I didn't want to leave yet, I could have stayed for awhile longer. I walked around the neighbourhood. Mom felt tired and was having a nap. The day was pleasant with some cloud and sun, not too hot and not to cold. I went up and down some side streets, deciding to rest after getting a Caramel Machiatto at Starbucks. Then, in the silence of the corner where I rested on an old cobblestone ledge that surrounded an equally old building, I could hear a gir take out her guitar and start to tune it. She hummed softly as she did, opening the worn out beaten case open so people could throw money in it. She began to sing and play in a sad melon chic tone, maybe sounding sadder with the sea scented air and the emptiness of the side street. 'She isnt going to make much here' I thought as I noticed not many people walked here. It was a quiet little street. The sound of her voice and her music grabbed my ears and my soul. I looked at my phone to see what time it was. Nearly noon, I should get back and check in on mom. More people were walking by and threw money in her case, coins or some bills. She would have a good day today. "He left me then and never returned, my love was gone." I tried to think if he could ever return but the sea called out his name. The ship was there waiting and carried him away from my heart. My love was gone - the ocean took him away........" Her voice was filled with so much emotion my heart actually leaped and tightened. I never heard anything like it. She was like a ghost that had come into my life to bring me something? Her husky smoky alto voice stayed in my mind as I sang those words to myself long after that trip. And so the song went on about a sailor who left his lover for the sea - her not knowing when or if he will ever return, a usual Maritime tune. Afterwards, I gave her five dollars to play it again and it made me feel so sad. Her smooth alto smokey sounding voice gave the song its haunting flavour. I had tears down my cheeks as I began to think of a young musician I dated and he broke my heart. The singer looked like she herself had been through hardships in life. Her strong arms covered with tattoos of all types and variants. Her husky voice seeing its days of drinking, drugs and smoking whatever. I never did catch her name. I thought of her often after I returned home to Ottawa for many years. There was just something unique about her music and her that brought some memories back. My mom and I returned back to Halifax the next year, the year before Covid began. I wondered if the busker gal would be there. For many years after that trip I never forgot about her. I went back to that same street and for a second I wanted her to be there. But knowing full well she wasn't going to be. Her music was special, her voice was spectacular in its husky, smoky sounding alto tone. I hoped she was doing all right in life.

pla15w

Fireflies

The wind whistled wearily and the air was filled with the clacking rattle of icicle chimes that hung from the pines. "Papa!" Sophie shouted. Her voice cracked the air like a whip, scattering a ripple of echoes that did nothing else but mock her. Needle-sharp wind pricked then a wince and a staccato of chattering teeth followed. Like an unsupervised jackhammer, her jittering jaw clicked madly, blurring the line between panic and hypothermic fidgets. “Papa!” She frantically called, and nothing but a chili whisper of wind replied. 6:23pm –five hours since her father left to gather wood. It doesn’t usually take Papa this long to gather wood, She thought, How far had he gone? Sophie tucked her hands under her arms and stood amidst a sea of trees, sweeping her gaze across the snow-blanketed pines in search of him. “Where are you, Papa?” She whispered as puffs of vapor fled her lips. She blamed her shivers on the wind, but her rapid heartbeat and the way her desperate eyes dashed across the thickets revealed the truth. Nightfall approached and the sun stretched its golden fingers through the branches to wave goodbye before plunging her into the darkness. Owls and insects, foxes and wolves­–all played their wicked theme. A darkened forest was no place for a teen to be alone and the evil sounds that greeted her concurred with this conclusion. She threw a gloved hand over her mouth and hushed, refusing to interrupt such a devilish tune. In the frosted forest, pitch-black beneath the stars, she remained as quiet as the snow. She stepped backward toward her tent, raking her eyes through the woods. Silhouettes and shadows danced in the trees singing their godless praise. With each careful step, the snow crunched beneath her boots, snapping like crisp bags of chips. QUIET! Scolded her thoughts. Her heart gunfired against her chest, banging, trying to escape like the smoke that chimneyed from her nostrils. But no matter how cautious her movements were, her body was a parade of noise and wolves howled in response to celebrate. Quickly, she dashed inside the tent and zipped the flap behind her. She plopped down with her knees pressed against her chest and cradled herself. “Everything will be alright,” She said. Now wasn’t the time to let imaginations run rampant. Now was the time to hope for only good things. Sophie breathed warmth into her gloves and rubbed them together, “He'll be back soon , ” she said as she rocked and swayed, “Yeah, he’ll be back soon." But after half an hour in the belly of the ice inferno, she knew that it was a lie. What if he's hurt and needs help? No, he’s fine. But what if he’s not? I should go. No, you should stay; he'll come back. But what if he doesn’t? The night dragged on as did that evil melody of nature. The bitter sting of wind stabbed at Sophie's cheeks and cherry nose, her hands trembling as her ice breath no longer warmed them. “I ca-can’t just ss-sit here. I have to d-do something.” But what? And how? And where could he be– Alone in the snow-laden forest? She closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “Of co-course!” She stuttered. She threw her backpack off her shoulders, unlatched it, and spilled the contents on the ground. A box of matches for the campfire, duct tape, a clean set of clothes, a first aid kit, toilet paper, and a flashlight piled before her. She picked up the flashlight and flickered it on and off. Thank God. Stuffing the rest of the contents back into the bag, she slung the backpack over her shoulders once more. With a quivering hand, she unzipped the tent and took a deep, chilled breath spilling goosebumps down her skin. "Alright, Papa, I'm c-coming." Emerging from the tent, she stepped outside into the eerie arctic night and peered into the dazzling night sky. The speckled constellations twinkling on the black canvas held no charm to her. After all, how could she admire heaven when she was alone in frosty hell? She dismissed what should have been a breathtaking experience and pivoted into the unknown. Sophie snuck through the canopied woods, her eyes darting through the thickets, wide and alert. A gossip in the trees and a whisper in the snow spread rumors in her wretched mind. "Everything is okay," She whispered. An owl in the trees sat and watched as Sophie crept through the forest, shaking as she flickered the morse code . . . - - - . . . with her flashlight. "Follow the light, Papa," She said, snooping through the icy grove. Then suddenly, in the distance, somewhere in the trees, a light‒a small, beautiful, lovely light‒responded in the dark. “Papa!” Sophie belted aloud, unfazed by the wicked wild. She crunched through the snow, forcing her way through the oppressive pines as thickets clawed at her face. The flittering light drew closer. “Papa!” She screamed and her heart couldn’t maintain. “Papa!” And the night was awake. She jumped from the cluster of trees and shouted, “Papa!” But her body froze and her heart skipped every beat when her eyes fell upon what stood before her. She threw her hand to her mouth and let out a squeal holding back her scream. That hopeful, wonderful glare she pursued was nothing more than moonlight sparkling off the wolf's unholy eyes. The white wolf grinned and its ravenous teeth gleamed in her spotlight. “Oh God!” She whimpered in her glove. Sophie clicked the flashlight off and remained motionless in the snow-covered forest. The wolf and the girl stared at each other, each waiting to make a move. "Goood wolf," She whispered with a trembling hand. But the wolf was in no wise such. It crouched, salivating while foam bubbled around its ivory fangs. Now was not the time to let fear run amuck. Now was the time to be brave. Sophie stood on her tiptoes and spread her arms wide, thinking if she became large enough, the wolf would be intimidated. But a five-foot-tall teenage girl would intimidate very few and the sinful look in the white wolf's eyes reminded her the same. The wolf looked to the sky and howled to the moon. Now was not the time to be brave. Now was the time to run. Sophie shot through the forest and the wolf did the same; sprinting after her, galloping like a mad horse; howling in the moonlight. “PAPA!” She screamed with all of her might, “PAPA!” but her echoes replied. Branches whipped by, scratching and leaving lacerations on her face and arms. Blood dripped onto the snow only kindling the wolf's animal sense. Yet despite her best efforts, no one can outrun a wolf. The white wolf closed the distance and lunged at her, locking its jaw onto her backpack. Sophie twirled violently, throwing the wolf off her back, and slamming it against a tree. It staggered to its feet and shook off the snow that clung to its fur. The wolf's unholy eyes grew more unrighteous as it dropped a piece of red backpack from its mouth. Sophie's heart drummed against her chest, a sound that the wolf enjoyed. She wasted no time and sprinted the other way, booking through the trees as fast as her little legs could take her. The wolf chased after his meal, desperate for a midnight snack. "PAPA!" She cried in the sleeted woods. "PAPA!" But there was only the wind. The wolf caught up and locked onto her bag once more. It growled and sunk its teeth deep into the fabric, ripping her bag wide open and spilling everything on the ground. With all of her strength, Sophie took the flashlight in her hand and swung it at the wolf. “Leave me alone!” She screamed. She struck the white wolf on its head with a force so strong it split the flashlight in half, shattering the glass and the bulb. The wolf fell flat in the snow and whimpered. It stood up and shook its head. When it looked into Sophie's eyes, it trembled for what it saw and ran off into the night, disappearing into the dark. Sophie panted, trying to catch her frigid breath, then realized the worst. “No, no, no, no,” She cried as she rummaged through the snow, picking up pieces of the flashlight while attempting to piece it back together. But it was no use. What was done was done. She turned to the left, then spun to the right, but everywhere looked the same. “Papa!” She called to the silent woods, and only her heartbeat replied. Sophie sat against a tree, placing her knees to her chest, and whispered to herself, “Everything is all r-right.” She said with a shaky voice, “Everything is okay.” In the glaciered garden, pitch-black beneath the moon, she shivered in the cold. Minutes passed, and an owl flew down with a puzzled look, pecking at something in the snow. Sophie looked up through her watery eyes and stared at the owl. The owl looked at her, tilted its head with a curious look, and flew away in silence. Sophie’s eyes widened and a sudden hope washed over her. She gasped, throwing her hand over her mouth as she looked at where the owl had stood. Peeking from beneath the snow, a small red box had the word “Matches” etched on the cover. Quickly she scrambled to save the little box, dusting off the snow. She slid open the box and inside sat eight hopeful matches. She retrieved the first match and like a reverse birthday wish prayed, “Please, God, bring Papa back to me,” and then struck the match. The match ignited, flickering through the dark, illuminating a tiny bubble of light around her. She rose to her feet and walked through the forest. “Papa!” She yelled, but still nothing but a breeze. Match after match, like fireflies in a garden, Sophie lit up the snow-capped forest. And although it still sang its sinister song, there was nothing left to fear except forever losing her father. Sophie reached into the box, feeling around until she noticed she was on her last wooden fire stick. “Oh God, please, please!” She begged. And with a final strike, she lit the match. “Papa!” She screamed, “Papa, please!” The flame reached her fingertips and snuffed out between them leaving behind a single whisp of smoke. Alone in the winter woods, she stood without any hope at all. Until in the distance, somewhere in the trees, deep within the night, she saw the pattern . . . - - - . . . flicker in the dark.

nd5l6m

The Fight is Won

Ser Grahame was as big as they came. He was bold. He was valiant. He was noble. He was chivalrous. He was all the things that a knight should be. Most importantly, he was focused, courageous, disciplined, wise, and just. Thinking of a proper and good knight would be to think of Ser Grahame. Ser Grahame was the first born son of Ser Johne, the mightiest and most revered of the knights of his age. Sir Johne was the first born son of Ser Normane, the best of knights and winner of the Tourney in the Jungle, back in an age when the forests were larger and more lively. And so it went with Ser Grahame’s noble lineage. All of his ancestors had been knights. Every single one of them. That was what they were about and they were exceedingly good at it. Annoyingly good. They were so good at being knights that one would expect that after centuries of the best knights going, there would be peace in the land in which they resided. This was not the case. For the first decade of his knighthood, Ser Grahame got on with the business of being a knight. That was what was expected and that was what he did. It kept him exceedingly busy. For a whole decade, he rode the narrative set out before him, doing so bravely, courageously and nobly, and he did it in every and each way a knight should. This was after all his job, but more than that, it was his very destiny. Everything would have carried on just as it always had, and how it should have according to the narrative to which Ser Grahame belonged, were it not for the appearance in his life of a single, persistent word. The word was a seed and the seed fell upon fertile ground and would not be thwarted in the pursuit of its own narrative, and that narrative was growth. A seed is all very well. A seed is miniscule and it is unassuming. That is the very nature of a seed. Seeds do not want attention, they want to hide away in the earth and get on with it. But once a seed is doing its job and, and it is doing it well, there is no ignoring it. Ser Grahame stepped over many an acorn, but he had to go around the oak tree. There was no avoiding that. This seed was no acorn though, and it was destined to be bigger and more impressive than even the mightiest of the oaks. This seed was why. Ser Grahame was a taciturn man. This was a necessity and he’d been trained this way in any case. A knight did not speak, he listened. He needed to keep his wits about him in order to keep an edge that allowed him to keep his head. The man listened and he always had. Listening was a skill that he embraced from the off. Right from the very start he understood some of the importance of listening and listening well. In living and listening some more, that importance grew, as did his knowledge and his wisdom. As he accumulated knowledge, questions presented themselves to him and he actively listened for the answers. The disciplines of his brotherhood leant themselves well to this task. The more he worked at it, the more it worked for him. The problem was that the questions got bigger and more difficult and they would not be ignored. The biggest and most difficult of the questions was the seemingly simple one. Why? Why, if he and his brother knights were so effective in their abilities, was there still not peace in the land? There was an immediate rebuttal of this question and that was that it was not his place to ask this question, let alone seek to answer it. However, Ser Grahame relied upon his values and in his values was the very purpose of his existence. He knew that war was a necessary evil, but only to be resorted to when all efforts to keep the peace were exhausted. By now, with his formidable reputation preceding him, Ser Grahame should have been a deterrent, but instead he remained an oft used weapon. He found that more and more, he stayed his hand. Mercy was a gift that he must use often and more. His strength and the outcome of any fight was obvious and so he used that power for the good of all. He fought less, and yet his victories became the stuff of legends. Ser Grahame himself became a legend, feared and respected throughout the land and beyond. This notoriety was dangerous and he understood this well before King Terence summoned him to court. He knew he had become a problem even before he was assigned the deadliest of quests. As he was ushered forth and knelt before the King, he took in his surroundings. This room alone had taken many lifetimes to build. Each stonemason and craftsman had dedicated their life’s work to this space and it showed. He loved the art of the palace and could have spent months wandering this room alone, taking in each and every detail. For him it was not about power, or wealth, it was about beauty and the meaning of existence that made life worthwhile. Ser Grahame listened to his surroundings in every way he was able, and he called this living. Now he attended to the King. He watched the man as he spoke and he saw his intent as clearly as he saw the mole on his weak chin. King Terence wanted Ser Grahame dead and there was no better way to achieve this end than to pit him against the most formidable of opponents. The King knew that Ser Grahame had to accept his quest. Not only had he sworn allegiance to the King, but this was the most honoured and sought after of tasks. A knight existed to be tested. His was a life that was forfeit as soon as he took his oath. A fine and honourable death going up against the strongest of opponents was the ultimate conclusion of the best knight’s life. Ser Grahame suppressed a smile, for it wouldn’t do to betray his thoughts or feelings. This was not  the ultimate test. He knew that. Truth was his test. To speak the truth and to be the truth, even if it brought about his end. Love and truth were everything, and this right now was merely a play with the court jester sitting atop a gilded throne. King Terence was an angry King and he was hateful. These attributes were weakness personified. Yet Ser Grahame bowed his head, “yes my, liege,” was all he said when appraised of the task he was to perform. There was a mighty cry from those assembled. “Godspeed, Ser Grahame,” said King Terence, “you fight for your King and Country.” Ser Grahame arose and bowing once more, he silently took his leave. He walked past the rank and file and in that throng he singled out the one person who truly understood what had occurred this day. Their eyes met and both knight and courtier nodded imperceptibly. It was a goodbye. There could be nothing more for the likes of them in this world, perhaps they would meet under different circumstances in the next. “Saddle my horse, boy!” cried Ser Grahame as he entered the stables. The young lad bolted up from his makeshift bed of straw. He ran to the knight and looked up at his towering lord, “where are we headed, Ser?” “ We, are not,” said Ser Grahame curtly. “But…” the lad was crestfallen, these two had ventured and adventured far and wide and his place was with this knight, right up until he himself became that which he had always desired to be. Ser Grahame placed a huge hand on the boy’s shoulder, “where I go, you cannot follow. Not yet, anyway. This is the fork in the path that takes us in different directions. The lady of fate smiles kindly on you. You will have your day.” “I…” croaked the lad, “what am I to do?” Ser Grahame smiled a rare smile, he reached into his tunic and took out a small scroll, “take this to the Master Croft, you are ready.” The lad stared at the scroll, but did not take it. He looked up at the man who had been his entire world since before he could remember, his eyes filled with tears, “but father…” Ser Grahame squeezed his first born son’s shoulder and nodded, “you have made me proud time and again, boy. Now go, and do yourself proud.” He thrust the scroll towards Gawaine, and that was the end of their audience. The lad nodded once, took the scroll and slipped it into his clothing, then went about the business of readying his knight’s horse and equipping him for his trip. When he was done, he watched the knight ride away from the palace, only later would he learn his father’s fate and mourn his departure. The pinnacle of a life is to go up against a dragon. This Ser Grahame knew, was a universal truth and not restricted to the life of a knight. He went alone, for it was right that he do so. This was his journey and his alone. He needed time. He needed space. And he needed the complete silence of solitude to consider the battle ahead and the possible outcomes of that battle. He had barely cleared the shadow of the palace itself when he understood that the battle had already commenced. That his inherent inner conflict was something he would have to overcome before he drew his sword again. His quest for peace had to begin with his own heart and mind. He saw that now and he wondered at how he had not seen it before. Another smile came to his face. More smiles in one day than he’d used in the whole year before. This smile spoke of serenity even in the face of a task that would surely see his end. To battle a dragon, you first have to find it. This is an oft overlooked aspect of the most fearsome of quests. Many a knight has died before battle was ever brought. After all, tomorrow is never guaranteed. Dragons are solitary and almost illusory creatures. Timeless myth made ancient flesh. They do not grant audiences often and they do so wholly on their own terms. They are as old as the mountains they dwell in, they are powerful beyond measure and they bow to no man. The rage-filled and pathetic King knew what he was about. His aim was clear, to rid himself of the troublesome Ser Grahame and to rise up from under the shadow his heroics and mercy had cast. Ser Grahame was everything that the King was not and King Terence envied him to a point that it pained him. It was clear to anyone with their wits about them that the outcome of Ser Grahame’s quest was a foregone conclusion, he had gone to his death and soon enough he would be a story that womenfolk told their bairns. A dangerous, living legend consigned to a harmless fairy story. King Terence had not countenanced Ser Grahame’s victory. A victory of a single knight against any dragon was unheard of. Besides which, Ser Grahame’s return in any guise other than victory was unthinkable, it was not within Ser Grahame to admit defeat. The King had underestimated the best of his knights and he had also judged him by his own standards. Defeat and failure were Ser Grahame’s bed fellows. He had risen so far, not on the backs of his victories, but by picking himself up from his failures, learning from them and going again, harder and stronger. Ser Grahame reflected upon this and much more as he rode south into the mountainous region where the dragon dwelt. Two months of travel and solitude gave Ser Grahame plenty of time to prepare, and it also gave him a beard. Never before had he worn a beard, but now it suited him to wear it. The beard was a sign of the transformation that began when the callous and cowardly King attempted to banish him from his kingdom. Abandoning his horse and much of his weaponry and armour, Ser Grahame walked up into the highest of the mountains. For seven days and seven nights he climbed until the air thinned and his lungs burned. On the final day he walked through cloud, soaked to the bone and shivering, until he emerged into a magical kingdom beyond the clouds. There he sat, the sun warming and drying him as he took in the cloudscape in joyful wonderment. Never before had he seen such a sight. Few ever had. Reaching into his pouch, he retrieved a hunk of dried meat and chewed on it until a piece came away. Picnicking in a world beyond the world he had dwelt in all his life. If this was heaven, then so be it. He took a moment longer to truly appreciate his surroundings as he chewed on the tough meat. “You are either a fool or…” the thunderous voice was behind him. Ser Grahame felt it through the rock more than heard it in the way he’d heard a thousand voices before it. “Curious?” ventured Ser Grahame. “Ah!” roared the voice of the dragon, “now that is curious in itself. Turn Ser Knight, for you are a Knight, are you not?” Ser Grahame stood, turned and bowed, “I am a man, and I am indeed a knight. I have come to parley and to pay tribute.” “Tribute, eh?” said the dragon, “what do you bring in tribute?” Ser Grahame kept his head bowed, but his eyes on the fearsome beast before him. The dragon’s head was the size of a farmer’s hay cart and there were trails of smoke issuing forth from it’s nostrils. He could hear the creature breathing. Great bellows pumping vast quantities of air in and out of its hulking form. “I bring myself and I bring my name,” he said to the dragon. A monstrous sound like a huge rockfall issued from the dragon’s mouth, Ser Grahame realised that it was a chuckle. He vowed not to make the dragon laugh, for it would surely deafen him, or worse still, scramble his insides. “Words have power, and a name is the most powerful of things,” said Ser Grahame, “I am Grahame of Falls Valley, son of Johne and father to Gawaine.” “You curious man! You come here alone and you give me this. That is not what I had expected. You disarm me with words, but to what end? Do you think you can render me helpless with words alone?” asked the dragon. Ser Grahame smiled, “never.” “Then what?” the dragon said, “you are a knight and you have a single purpose. I doubt that you have come here of your own volition. You have been sent by your King and your King would only send you here with one outcome in mind.” “Our deaths,” nodded Ser Grahame. Again the rumble of rockfall, “ our deaths? You bold and funny man! You are almost impertinent, but not quite. I find you interesting. I might even like you. That is why you still live.” “And you still live because the world is a better place with you in it,” Ser Grahame told the dragon. “Eh?” the dragon’s bright green eyes widened, “not a fool, no. Nor a coward. You are duty bound to fight me, and yet here you are.” Ser Grahame laughed. “What? What is it? Why do you laugh?” the dragon shifted and Ser Grahame fancied he saw molten fire deep down inside the beast’s mouth. “You! You with your ancient wisdom! Surely you see what is happening here?” said Ser Grahame. The dragon’s eyes narrowed. The world could sometimes turn on the smallest of coins, and now it did. That turn could go either way, and Ser Grahame was entirely at the dragon’s mercy in that moment. “Oh!” exclaimed the dragon, “we skirmish yet! You came at me head on and you brought the best of your weapons. We are well met, Ser Grahame. A finer warrior I have yet to meet. My name is Slainshar and you are the first of your kind to know this. Tell me, what is it that you desire?” “You honour me,” said Ser Grahame, “that which I desire, I believe we can achieve. You say I have a single purpose and that is true. I was not made to fight though. That is to misunderstand the purpose of my being.” “It is peace that you desire,” the dragon stated this, it was not a question. “I am a deterrent. I am a symbol of what is good and true. You are those things and more. Conflict is within. Together we are strong and together we can do great things.” Slainshar nodded, something like mischief in its eyes, “tell me, did anyone ever teach you that a fight is always won in the mind?” “No,” said Ser Grahame, “they did not.” “Your son? He knows?” asked Slainshar. Ser Grahame nodded, “everything and more. He is the best of me and he will eclipse everything that I am.” “Love as well!” roared Slainshar, “you have me there, if you had not already captivated this old and lonely dragon. You win Ser Grahame! Come, let us talk some more. We have much to talk about.” Ser Grahame was gone for a year and a day. All but his son Gawaine, and a single courtier, thought him lost forever. But in the dying embers of that day beyond the year, he returned, and he was not alone…

fdyc3y

Mystery of the Basement

In the heart of Colorado's Montezuma County rugged terrain, an air of timeless grace permeated every crevice. The landscape, etched with the hues of the earth and kissed by the warm embrace of sunlight, offered a serene and ageless backdrop. An abandoned Prairie Ranch house that had languished in vacancy for decades stood amidst the rolling hills and under the vast, unending sky. Among those rolling hills, Emma and Grace, along with their husbands, Jackson and Mark, would embark on a fresh start. Their venture led them to the desire to purchase the Prairie Ranch house, falling in love with the grand structure and its horizontal lines, overhanging eaves, and natural wood and stone. With dreams of restoring the house to its former glory, they embarked on the exciting yet daunting journey of homeownership. However, as they delved deeper into the process of cleaning and renovating, they would uncover a mystery that would challenge their sense of reality. It was a crisp Saturday morning when Emma and Grace descended into the dimly lit basement, armed with brooms and dustpans, ready to tackle the cobwebs and dust that had accumulated over the years. The air was musty, and the atmosphere was heavy with the weight of time. As they worked their way through the basement, sweeping away years of neglect, they discovered an array of objects, such as canning jars, oil lamps and lanterns, and locked safes. Dusty old books with cryptic symbols on their covers lined the shelves. Colorful and elaborate vintage circus posters from the late 19th or early 20th century, give hints of a forgotten pastime. But the most unsettling discovery was a collection of taxidermied animals, each meticulously preserved and frozen in lifelike poses. Grace shuddered as she dusted a stuffed owl perched on a rotting tree stump. "This place gives me the creeps," she murmured to Emma. Emma nodded in agreement, her eyes fixed on an antique mirror that leaned against the wall. She couldn't help but feel like it held some secrets as if it had witnessed a history beyond their understanding. The men, Jackson and Mark, joined them in the basement, drawn by their wives' discovery. The four of them exchanged uneasy glances as they took in the bizarre scene. The basement had become a twisted museum of oddities from another time. As they continued to clean, they noticed a small door tucked away in a corner of the basement. It was concealed by a tattered curtain and almost hidden from view. Curiosity piqued, they approached the door, and Mark turned the rusty knob. The door opened to reveal a narrow passageway that led to a room bathed in an eerie red glow. In the center of the room sat an ornate cage, and inside the cage was a creature that left them all frozen in terror. It was unlike anything they had ever seen. A creature that seemed to be a bizarre fusion of bird and reptile. Its wings were feathered, but its body was scaly and elongated. Its eyes were large and unblinking, staring at them with an otherworldly intensity. Grace gasped and took a step back, clutching Emma's arm. "What... what is that?" No one had an answer. They stared at the creature in shock and disbelief. It was as if they had stumbled upon a creature from a myth or a nightmare. Jackson, the more adventurous of the group, cautiously approached the cage and reached out to touch it. The creature let out a hiss and recoiled, feathers ruffling and scales bristling. "Careful!" Emma warned, but it was too late. The creature screeched, a deafening sound that sent shivers down their spines. In a flurry of feathers and scales, the creature burst out of the cage, wings spreading wide. Panic ensued as they tried to capture the creature, but it was too quick, too elusive. It darted around the basement, knocking over dusty relics and sending everyone into a frenzy. Finally, it disappeared into a dark corner of the basement, vanishing from sight. The basement fell silent, and all they could hear were their frantic breaths. "What was that?" Mark whispered, his face pale. Jackson shook his head in bewilderment. "I have no idea. I've never seen anything like it." They searched the basement, but the creature had vanished without a trace. They were left with more questions than answers, and a growing sense of unease settled over them. Days turned into weeks, and they couldn't shake the thought of the mysterious creature in the basement. They consulted experts and continued research on the web. It remained an enigma, a source of fear and fascination that haunted their thoughts. The incident in the basement had left them all with a sense of unease, a feeling that they were not alone in the old Prairie Ranch house. They began to notice strange occurrences—a whisper in the hallway, a shadow in the corner of their vision, an unexplained chill in the air. One night, as they sat in the dimly lit living room, the atmosphere grew heavy with tension. No one wanted to acknowledge the strange occurrences, the unexplained presence in their home. But it was impossible to ignore. A soft rustling sound emanated from the basement door, followed by a faint, mournful cry. The four of them froze, their hearts pounding in their chests. "Did you hear that?" Grace whispered, her voice trembling. Emma nodded, her eyes wide with fear. "I heard it too." Jackson and Mark exchanged a solemn look, then rose from their seats and headed for the basement. The women followed closely behind, their footsteps echoing in the silence of the house. As they descended into the basement, the red glow from before had returned, casting an eerie light on the scene. The creature was there, perched atop the cage, its eyes fixed on them. But this time, it didn't hiss or screech. Instead, it let out a mournful, haunting cry, a sound that seemed to be filled with a sense of profound sadness. As they watched the creature, they felt a sense of empathy, a connection to something beyond their understanding. It was as if the creature was trying to communicate, to convey a message they couldn't comprehend. And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the creature spread its wings and vanished into thin air. The red glow faded, leaving them in darkness once more. They stood in the dark basement, stunned and bewildered. The problem they had encountered remained unsolved, the mystery of the creature in the basement still shrouded in uncertainty. As they ascended the basement stairs, a heavy silence settled over them. They couldn't explain what had just happened, but one thing was clear—their lives had been irrevocably changed by the inexplicable presence in their new home. In the quiet of the night, they retreated back to the dimly lit living room, their thoughts consumed by the enigmatic creature and the strange occurrences that had plagued them. The house, once a symbol of their dreams, had become a place of mystery and uncertainty. They couldn't help but wonder what other secrets the old Prairie Ranch house held, and what other mysteries were waiting to be uncovered in the days and nights to come.

3n05j0

Inner Worlds

She strode through the threshold and into the pristinely clean room. As the heavy metal door slammed shut behind her she paused in the center of the room, gleaming metal racks all around her. Breathing in she savored the smell of industrial-grade cleaner and walked over to the storage unit built into the wall. She slid the door open revealing the mirror and a rack of standard-issue clothing. As a samurai from feudal Japan donned armor for battle, she reverently fitted the uniform around her body. She stared into the mirror. Her eyes gradually unfocused as racing thoughts began to consume her. Her work was hard and messy. Often overlooked, derided, considered undesirable. Viewed as being performed by the unskilled dregs of society. She knew the truth, however. Unskilled? Laughable. She was an artist, the Picasso of her profession. True, her art would never be displayed in a gallery, but her mastery of it was no small feat. She’d like to switch places with a so-called ‘Titan of Industry’ and see how they’d do. It may not be the most glamorous position but someone had to do it. This was a necessary means to the society’s limitless ends. What would happen to their precious productivity if her work were to suddenly cease? There would be utter chaos in the streets. Really, she should be hailed as a hero, the white knight of fairy tales who constantly rescued the village from the dark clutches of lethargy. On the other hand, perhaps she was more of a seedy drug dealer. After all, her position really only existed to supply the society’s growing addiction. The people didn’t care where it came from as long as they got their fix. Much like a drug cartel there were dark sides to this industry that were all too casually overlooked. The shady business practices, abysmal working conditions, and lack of oversight to name a few. She’d have thought that the environmental impacts alone would have caused some members of the society to at least curb their usage. It did not. Her job was more necessary than ever. Despite all this she actually liked her job, and she was good at it. As good as any of society’s leaders were at whatever it was that they did. A loud ringing shook her from her reverie. Her eyes refocused on the face in the mirror. Into the fray once more, she thought. She took a deep breath, straightened up, and turned on her heels, ready to perform her vital functions for the day. A thick plastic curtain separated her from her workspace, and she quickly pushed through it. Immediately she was met with all the familiar sights and sounds. There were tools and machinery lining the walls on either side of the narrow corridor. She walked to her station for today, and stared at the sleek, shining machine in front of her. She would have to work fast or the whole operation would be in jeopardy. The loud grinding to her right stopped, and that was her cue to begin. Like an astronaut performing emergency maintenance on the life support systems she dove into her work. Sweat formed on her brow as she quickly pulled the lever out of the machine that had made the alarming grinding sound just moments before. The dark brown powder was piled nicely in the metal scoop attached to the end of the lever. She grabbed a heavy tool and crushed the powder flat. A seasoned thief attempting to break into a safe she carefully fitted the lever into the gleaming contraption. When she felt the teeth had found their marks she jammed the instrument up and turned it to the left, locking it into place. Now she was a squid in the murky depths of the ocean, all ten arms shooting out to catch her prey. Arms flipped switches, turned dials, and placed containers perfectly to catch the dark sludge that would soon seep from the machine. The machine itself had sprung to life. It rumbled, rattled, and sounded like it might come apart in front of her. Undeterred one of her free arms reached down into cold storage and pulled out a jug of cold liquid that would be vital to success. On one side of the machine the mad scientist began to mix a chemical concoction into the appropriate receptacles. She switched to the other side of the mechanism as the hot slurry started to drip out. She carefully poured the cold fluid into a stainless steel container and raised it to the engine. She grabbed the shining rod protruding from the unit and plunged it into the cool liquid. As another knob turned the scientist's eyes gleamed and steam shot from the apparatus. If she fumbled here it would mean failure. She snapped the steam off precisely as the dark brown deposit stopped dripping. The previously cold liquid now bubbled. The machine fell silent. Heat radiated from it and a bead of sweat rolled down her forehead. Her ceramic crucible perfectly captured the searing muck, not a drop wasted. With the crucible in one hand and the bubbling steel container in the other, she began to pour them simultaneously into the chemical mixture. Like an alchemist rendering gold from molten lead, all the ingredients came together. Another successful mission, she thought as she carefully sealed the containers. Slowly, she zoned back into reality. “Two caramel macchiatos!” she yelled. “Nice work Alli,” her supervisor said, “Keep them coming, we’ve got quite the rush this morning.” A bell rang as another customer entered the coffee shop. The line was almost out the door already. Alli didn’t mind. The big rushes were her favorite part of the job. When the orders were coming fast there was no time to stop and think, all she could do was act. It was the perfect opportunity to get lost in her work, in her own inner worlds. With the back of her sleeve Alli wiped the sweat from her brow. As another customer stepped up to the counter and placed their order, Alli prepared herself. Order received, Allie thought, robotically. She started up the coffee grinder and dove back into her work, something of a machine herself. 

ngadc7

A Knight Full of Grievances

“Aren’t you getting a little sick of this, man?” “Sick of what?” I shoot back to Barren, confused by what he means. “Wandering through miles of wilderness? It keeps us in shape.” “Sick of this,” he repeats, motioning with wide arms at everything around us. “At all of this. Is it worth it? It gets old after a while. Don’t you ever want to do something else with your life?” We leave our horses behind us, heading to terrain they can’t enter. A shallow river lay before us like a writhing snake. We wade through the creek bed. Our boots are a symphony of swishing and crunching through water and river rocks. I think over his question, but a good answer escapes me. Didn’t we spend our whole life getting ready for this? This is our job, after all. It’s not like we can quit because we’re a little tired today. What about the gold? How will we support our families back home? What is he even saying? If we leave this position, we will just have to find another. At the end of the day, at least what we do is flashy. I mean, when we walk into taverns, people talk. “I think it’s worth it,” I say, my voice comes out unconvinced. “We’re a few of the lucky ones. We climbed our way up the ladder. We were given titles. We should be proud of ourselves, shouldn’t we? There aren’t many of us left from our village back home, you know.” “And why do you think that is?” he counters. “I’ll tell you. Those left of us are the only ones stupid enough to work under these conditions. Everyone else, with half a brain rolling around in their head, already jumped ship. It’s a fool’s errand, Melvin. I’m telling you.” “But we save people, Barren. That means something, doesn’t it?” He says nothing as we continue our trek under a starless sky. The air is a thick swamp of heat. We’re submerged in the kind of humidity that makes breathing feel more like suffocation. Our heavy chainmail isn’t helping matters. I have so much sweat underneath it, I could fill a barrel. The stench is something I hope never to bring home with me. My wife will leave me for the town’s bread maker, I’m sure. Barren holds a torch in his right hand as we march forward toward the caves. The flames spit and claw at the air as they go to war with the darkness. The sounds of our swords clink against our waists as we continue to take note of everything in our surroundings. Any moment could be our last. “And what about Vivian,” I continue to badger him, “You never would have met her had you chosen any other purpose in life. You saved her. You’re a hero! Think of your father-in-law and the land he gifted you with. You have honor where most people go hungry.” “Land I never see,” he interjects. “A woman I never touch. Think about it. This god forsaken business takes us all over the land. For guts, for honor, for glory. It’s all sickening after a while. Sometimes,” he quiets for a moment. “I just want the simple things. Don’t you?” “Simple things?” “I don’t want to work for somebody else. I bring all this honor home and get sent right back out again. It’s a vicious cycle. We’re nothing but slaves with showy titles,” he kicks a large rock in front of him and watches as it skitters from the torch light into the darkness. “I missed Honora’s second birthday, Melvin. I missed her second birthday and that’s right after I missed her first one, too. She doesn’t even know her own father!” I have nothing to say about this. He’s right. His words sink into my flesh like a blade piercing through organs. I think of my dearest Eleanor at home pregnant with our first child. This is what it will be like for me, expected to run out on an expedition any time our lord tells us to. We’re nothing more than well trained dogs. We sit when told, roll over when told, and if we’re really good boys… we’re fed treats and given pats on the head. Barren is right about everything. “Well, what do you suggest?” I ask. “It’s not like we can return home empty handed.” Barren lets out a deep breath, “Can you imagine Lord Ralph’s face if he had to come do what we do?” I try and all I can picture is his blotchy red cheeks. I can see his beady brown eyes full of terror as he swings a sword around in all directions. Will he even be able to lift it? Nobility has never had to do a thing they didn’t want to do. Barren and I have been swinging swords like our lives depended on it since we were boys. Let’s face it, our lives do depend on it. Do they make chainmail in his size? I doubt the endless rolls of his stomach would fit into any kind of armor that would protect him out here. He’d die in seconds. “He’d never make it,” I tell Barren, and he belts out a hearty laugh in agreement. We listen to the trees groan and creak against a steady breeze blowing to the east side of us. The moving air is the only thing keeping us from being slayed ourselves by unbearable heat. These conditions are ridiculous, I admit to myself now that he brought it up. I consider asking if we should set up camp for the night but think better of it. The more ground we cover tonight, the faster we can return home. If we survive, that is. “All I’m trying to say is how pointless it is,” Barren calls out. “We are out here risking our lives and someone else gets rich off our backs. The last few times we returned he gave us a fourth of the riches we were promised. Trying to secure goods in town keeps getting harder and harder. The prices go up, the work isn’t getting any easier, yet our pay is never what we’re worth. We work long hours away from our families. We’re told from a young age how glorious this life will be, so that we spend every second preparing for it. We take lessons in sword fighting and compete to see who can be the best. Even if we become the best, what then? Is this really the dream ? Quite frankly, old friend, it wasn’t what they promised. Instead, it’s rather… exhausting.” We continue in a sobering silence. It isn’t what they promised at all. What a fool I’ve been, working myself into the ground on endless expeditions. Chasing after riches and God knows what else. Is this really the best way to spend my time here on this luscious green earth? It’s not like I can take any gold or honor with me to the grave. After we die, everything about us dies too. Some memories last longer than others, but eventually, like small grains of sand, we all drift away in the end. “I have a dream… do you want to know what it is?” Barren asks me, voice full of thought. “What is it?”                                                              “I’d like to take Vivian and Honora to a place far away from here. Far away from the politics and the toxic games of nobility. Vivian’s father married her off to me like she was cattle,” Barren says, eyes dark and full of malice in the shadows of the torch light. “Four daughters, and all they are to him are bargaining chips. I see the hurt in her eyes every time she talks about him. He hasn’t visited her once since he sent her to me. I can’t imagine doing something like that to my precious Honora. This place is sick. Don’t you think there is a better place out there somewhere?” I can see he is confiding in me, hoping the weight he wrestles with in his mind can be lifted. I look for any kind of strength within me to share with him yet find myself debilitated. The truth is, I can’t see how running away will do us any good. “No,” I tell him. “I don’t.” In the distance, we see a large stream of fire shoot into the sky. A loud roar echoes. Our feet draw us forward, closer to the beast we’re meant to kill. We’ve been on so many of these trips now, I don’t feel fear or anticipation as we dredge toward our fate. It’s another day, another slay, and I miss sharing meals with my family. “I don’t think there is a better place, Barren. Humans are the same wherever you go,” I watch as he battles the sweat dripping down his face into his beard. “You know what I do think?” I tell him, as we move out of the water into a tall field of grass ahead of us. “I think if something isn’t working anymore… it needs to be fixed.” Barren gives a grunt of approval, and I can see the gears turning in his head. People think folks like us are all muscle, doomed to die young in the glory of battle. Our cleverness has kept us alive far longer than we had any right to live. It’s true what I told him. I don’t think there is a place better than this. Even so, he isn’t wrong for wanting a better life for his family. When I think of the world I want my unborn child to grow up in, is this it? A world where the rich get richer, and the poorer you are, the harder it is to survive. Will my future son have to risk his life over and over again to put bread in his mouth? Will my daughter have to marry any gent off the street to ensure her own survival? Or something even worse, will my family only be concerned with what they can take while they are alive, and not what they can give? Is there nothing we can do to make this world a bit better with our meager slices of time? Is this…. all humans are capable of? I shudder in fear, and not because of the beast we are headed to vanquish. No, this fear is for a different beast all together. I’m truly afraid we can’t do any better than this. “I heard a rumor once,” Barren’s voice is low. “On how to train a dragon.” I give him a look that says he is crazy. For the record, he is . If there is one thing harder than asking humans to be less greedy, and to look out for each other more, it’s training a dragon. “Rumors are groundless works of fiction,” I say. “Not this one.” “So, what? You think Vivian will let you keep a pet dragon at your estate?” He shoots me a grin. One I know too well. It’s the same grin he gives me every single time he convinces me to do something stupid I’ll regret later down the road. “No dead body, no gold. Those are the rules,” I remind him. “You told me to break the rules.” “When did I tell you that?” “Moments ago! You said if something was broken it needed to be fixed. Doesn’t that also mean if there are rules in place doing more harm than good, they need to be changed?” “What an incredible way to twist my words, Barren.” I shake my head at him in disbelief, not that it does any good. He’s been this way since we were children. Always getting ideas in that thick head of his and running with them. Not without dragging me behind him, of course. Most times against my will. “What good will a trained dragon do?” I ask. “Where do you get these unbelievable ideas?” “You’re telling me we should leave it like this, Melvin. And you killed my dream moments ago, saying there is no place better than this. It’s a bit of a dreary thought. The system here is broken, a predatory exploitation of humans and nature alike. Our only option is obvious, isn’t it, old friend? Tell me, what can two knights fix all by their lonesome? Even two who are inconceivably handsome, and wickedly cunning, like you and me.” “What are you suggesting? Things have always been this way,” I point out. “Our job is to slay the dragon. You’re saying you don’t want to? Lord Ralph will have our head’s if we stray from the path he carved for us.” Barren gives a disapproving look in my direction, “Don’t you think it’s thoughts like those that keeps real change from ever happening?” He has a point. “I don’t know what change should look like, do you?” I question, my voice on the hesitant side. “Where would we even begin?” “I think you were wrong earlier, Melvin. I really do,” his voice is steady despite the terrain becoming steep as we head uphill. “Humans are not all the same.” We see the caves ahead of us. There are catacombs of them riddled into the side of a cliff so high we can’t see the top of it. The cliff is known as “Dragon’s Breath.” These caves are home to many creatures including the legendary Vermillion Dragon . She is the last remaining female of her kind. Her head will fetch Lord Ralph a hefty lump of gold. Many have made it this far only to never return home again. Barren and I eyeball it like we’re returning home to see our mothers. The surroundings are familiar but we’re ready to be scolded at a moment’s notice. We have been here and back so many times the men at home call us, “Wyvern’s tongues.” Men who can slide in and out of what’s considered the dragon’s mouth and  remained unscathed. “It’s quite easy, isn’t it?” Barren continues. “To believe things will always go on this way. But I think there are more people like us than you realize.” “More people like us?” I question. “Of course,” he goes on. “People who see the cracks in the foundation of the very houses we’re meant to dwell in. The one’s who recognize it’s only a matter of time before the walls come down and we’re left with no choice but to start building again.” We reach the bottom of the steep ahead of us and listen to the wind as it howls against a black ocean. It’s quite a climb up the precipice to Vermillion. We have only seen a glimpse of her crimson tail in all the journeys we’ve taken. Tonight, she sets the sky above us on fire with nothing but her breath. Her voice is a harrowing tale of all the men who have tried and failed to meet her. The rocks at the bottom of her cliff are like the jagged edges of a knife. One slight misstep and a man wouldn’t make it home for supper. We never worry about the climb, however. Unlike the many who came before us, we believe using your intellect is just as effective as using your sword. It was our first expedition when we found a tunnel at the base of Dragon’s Breath. A tunnel that leads to the inner workings of the cave system. It goes all the way to the top. Easy as meat pie. “We’re guilty like the rest of them, Barren. How long have we seen the cracks, but didn’t do a single thing to patch them? No, worse than that. We continue to put more weight on the very homes that are supposed to house ourselves and our loved ones.” His silence weighs as much as our armor before he gives a reply. “So, that’s it then. Humans can’t change. What do you think happens when we slay the last female dragon, Melvin?” He doesn’t have to tell me, I already know. Without her, their species will die. “I didn’t think killing a few dragons would get us here,” I say, voice somber. “People think they’re cruel and dangerous creatures. The reality is… our feelings toward them are only a reflection of our feelings toward ourselves. We’re the cruel and dangerous ones.” “Aye,” Barren agrees. “I hate when you push me into these places, Barren. When you know full well, there is no way out of them. It’s us, isn’t it?” My closest friend gives me a deep knowing look. A smile pulls at his lips. It’s the kind of exchange where words aren’t needed. Only those who are truly in sync with one another can understand the meaning behind it. “Aye,” he agrees again. I take a moment out of the silence between us to consider all that dragons bring to the world. We look at their fire as devastating, reducing the lands we know to soil once more. We name them savages and kill them instead of learning to work with their kind. When exactly did humans start to believe we are superior to everything living and growing around us? It’s quite possible we dismissed the true purpose of a dragon all together. Perhaps, they aren’t raging beasts at all, but healers. It’s only out of new soil that new growth can occur. “It’s ourselves, that’s where the change begins. Isn’t it,” I laugh. “It begins with you and me.” “You and me,” he says, crossing his arms behind his head before letting out a whistle. Many will come for Vermillion, seeking to put her head on a spike. I follow Barren into the deep recesses of the cave system before us. I follow him the same way I have many times. This time, it’s not to take a life, but to  save it. 

58c469

The fast and the furious

Trigger warning: contains sensitive language "Okay, keep calm," said Melanie, my best friend, in the seat next to me. "You won't get faster if you're angry." "No but I can show this motherf***r what happens when you mess with me." I tap rapidly my fingers on the wheel, trying to shake off the anxiety. "I mean, why does he cut in like that?" "Seriously, Maddy, we talked about this. It's called having an episode of rage. You have to at least pretend to be normal around others." "And the f***ing policeman does nothing?" I honked my horn three more times as the traffic remained at a standstill for at least ten minutes, but my noise was drowned out by the cacophony of the entire road. We were supposed to go left toward the ODEON Edinburgh chain cinema, the only cinema in the city premiering the new movie "Oppenheimer", my actual favorite movie. We were on the royal mile, where the number of cars and pedestrians could break international records and earn a spot in the Guinness World Records. Two cars were locked in a dispute about who should proceed through South Bridge, blocking the passage for the entire block. None of them wanted to give the upper hand to the other. It was one of the busiest days of the year. The fringe only comes once a year in Edinburgh and attracts a lot of tourists, clogging the roads with cars, performers and fans are flooding in the roads, and thus creating one of the heaviest traffic jams in history. For tourists, it is something to see in a lifetime but for us locals, we prefer to avoid it as far as possible. The day my best friend and I decided to get see a movie because my job has caused me too much stress lately and everyone choose that day to go out of their house? How convenient . "It's the same thing every year," I muttered as I stopped the car for the millionth time. "Relaaaaax, we're gonna be fine. It's still in twenty minutes." "Oh, come on." Another car from the right lane cut in front of us, jamming the traffic even more than it already was. Piiiimppppppp. The policeman tried as best he could to entangle the mess as two cars tried to pass through the same lane. "We're gonna be late for our movie," I complained. "Like I've said before, keep calm." As another car tried to cut my lane again, I put my gear on drive and cut his lane just the millisecond I needed to outrun him. "Oh, not this time." That little stunt caused me a heinous smirk from the driver, as if he saw my move as a challenge and was ready to accept it. "Hey, we're not going that way," exclaimed Melanie. "No," I replied bluntly, "but I just need a win for today." I glanced at the car I had just overtaken. It was filled with students, blasting music from huge speakers and wearing shirts so thin they might as well have been shirtless. Clearly, they were headed for a party or something. Sometimes I forget how wild people can get during this time of the year. The driver looked at me and I couldn't help but feel butterflies in my stomach. He had a cute smile, one that could melt my heart if I was in the right mood. I simply mouthed a mid-apologetic "sorry" toward him. My mind drifted from its daydream when Melanie spoke. "Maddy, it's not a race." "At least we're moving." In fact, the left lane finally started moving and the line of cars queuing went on one by one, clearing their way out of this maze of cars. I pulled into a silent lane, lit by few streetlamps and barely anything moving except for cars. "Now what?" asked Melanie. She slumped back in her chair, knowing fully well that when I'm in my rage stage, I couldn't be reasoned with. "Now, we find another way to the cinema. We can make it. You said it yourself, we still have twenty minutes." She grumbled in silence but stopped making comments. Instead, she scrolled through her phone as if nothing had happened. The road was dark and silent at this time of the night but at least we were moving. I couldn't wait to have my well-deserved hour of peace in a cinema. Suddenly, the roar of a fast vehicle behind me startled me and before I could fully process what was happening, it overtook me with the speed of a sports car with a turbo. It was a white Bentley with a classic design and grille that gave it a traditional look, but the Betty Boop sticker on the back made me think of a mid-life crisis. A little boy in the body of an eighty years old. "Wow," exclaimed Melanie who turned up from her phone to see what that was, "that guy must be really late." "Jerk." I didn't answer more. I didn't have the energy to deal with a reckless driver for now. I turned into the main road again. This time, the traffic was moderate. A lot of cars passing but still nothing to compare with the more than heavy one we had earlier. "Did you know that Oppenheimer was ranked higher than Barbie on IMDb?" "No..." "Yes, I'm telling you. I'm looking at it right now." But I wasn't listening to a word she said. My eyes were glued to the road. "What the –" Three cars in front of us, the white Bentley with a Betty Boop sticker was going not more than 30km/h. I couldn't believe it. The Betty Boop Bentley just outrun us, and for what? Fun? Melanie looked up once again and took two minutes to figure what I was talking about. She followed my gaze before she understood what's wrong. "Is that the jerk from earlier?" "Yes." "Jerk." "Don't worry. He's gonna taste the Maddy bite," I said in a smirk. "Are you gonna –?" "Yes." She didn't have to continue her sentence because she already knew what's coming up. I was sure if there was another safety belt she could wear, she would. Instead, she gripped tightly on the thing above the door frame she called commonly "oh-shit handle" whenever I have my rage episode. Yes, you guessed it, because it happened a lot. I pressed the accelerator, taking the speedometer from 30km/h to forty, to fifty and rapidly, I overtook two cars in one go, placing me just behind the Betty Boop Bentley. I tailgated him, leaving less than a normal waist distance from my car to his. Thank God there were no policemen on the streets. Maybe there were all busy arranging the roads in the festival but that made this battle of ours much easier. I was about to go right to overtake him, but he blocked my way to not let me pass. "Oh, you wanna play like that, huh? Well, two can play this game." He was good, but me and my Audi R8 were better. I sped and went to the opposite way to take enough place to overtake me. In front of us, a bus within twenty meters made a beacon call. I returned back in line last minute, just in time to avoid an imminent crash. "Maddie, you're gonna get us killed," Melanie scowled, her eyes looking, back to the bus that almost hit us. But I didn't listen. My heart beat faster in my chest, I could feel it about to explode. The hair on the back of my hand stood to a level I've never seen before. For the first time during this trip, I smiled. It felt like my life was coming back to me, and all the hopes I'd lost during my nine-to-five job suddenly came back. The road stretched out before us, a dark ribbon through the night, as we continued our high-speed chase. We definitely weren't heading to the cinema anymore. We reached to the highway and the number of vehicles on the road was same as nothing. As a driver, I've never taken this road because it was highly dangerous, but tonight, I was about to change history. The white Bentley maintained its lead, but I wasn't about to let it stay that way. The thrill of the chase had ignited a fire within me, and I was determined to give him a run for his money. Melanie shot me an anxious glance. She didn't touch her phone again. Her hands gripped hardly on the side of the door. "Maddy, are you sure about this? We could just let him go." "No way. He's the one who started it." The Bentley's driver seemed to relish the challenge. He expertly maneuvered through the moderate traffic, zigzagging with a confidence that both impressed and frustrated me. It was as if he had an intimate knowledge of every twist and turn of the road. He was not bad. I could even say a worthy adversary if we weren't competing against each other. But I wasn't about to give up now. The road ahead split into two lanes, and the Bentley made its move, swiftly darting to the left lane and overtaking a slower-moving vehicle. Without hesitation, I followed suit, matching his every move. We were now side by side, our cars racing in parallel. The world around me reduced to a blur of streetlights and the roar of engines. Only the road ahead of me made sense. We were now surrounding the 120km/h but it felt like nothing. I just felt light, surreal. Next to me, Melanie was also giving in to the excitement of it all. She rose from her seat and put her head out of the window, her hair brushed to the wind and her arms stretched out in a titanic way before she screamed of ecstasy to the other car. In turn, the Betty Boop driver rolled down his window and revealed several faces. Young faces. The face of boys with shirtless shirt, sunglasses and blaring speaker. They too seemed excited by the whole trip. But the driver had the cutest of smiles. It all came rushing back to me. When I cut his lane back in Royal Mile, he got furious and wanted revenge, which then lead to this impromptu race. It all made sense. I felt a little sorry for him. All of this, in the end, was my fault. He accelerated once more, attempting to outrun me with his turbo power but I continued to stay out next to him. Just like that, all the sorrow I might have disappeared and turned into rivalry again. The road ahead twisted and turned, and I saw my opportunity. With a surge of determination, I pressed the accelerator, inching ahead ever so slightly and proceed to do what my brother taught me. I disabled the traction control and used the throttle to increase the power into the rear wheels. The air was filled with the squeal of tires as I turned rapidly the steering wheel, saying I successfully proceed my drift. Before we knew it, we were head-to-head in front of Betty Boop, when I was driving in reverse and forcing him to reduce his power. From where I was, I could clearly see the driver's face now. He still wore this cute smile of his with a "not bad" but with a touch of I'm impressed. From my rearview glass, I could see an open wasteland and decided to stop there. I put my indicator on and carefully parked to the left side of the road. I could see the Betty Boop Bentley also did the same and we were once again side by side, my window inches from his. I heaved a deep sigh, my hands resting heavily on the steering wheel as I allowed the adrenaline to go down. My heart beat slowed down little by little until I couldn't hear it pounding in my ears anymore. With a quick swipe, I brushed away the sweat beading on my forehead. That was fun. Inside the Betty Boop car, animated conversations filled the air as they relished the exhilaration of the race. The driver's playful smile remained firmly in place as he turned his attention to me. "Nice job, but I can do better. Ready for round two?"

p63lij

Knight for Hire

A sword hung from the knight’s waist. He wore a brilliant suit of armor. With a mallet in hand, the knight nailed a sheet of parchment in the center of the town’s notice board. Knight For Hire Ogre Eviction- 200 Gold Pieces Werewolf Taming- 100 Gold Pieces Bridge De-Trolling- 100 Gold Pieces Dragon Slaying- 500 Gold Pieces Contact Sir Ronald The Brave No one took notice of him. The town’s folk went about their business. They’ll read it later , he thought as he mounted his noble steed. Noble might not be entirely accurate. The horse was a bit on the smaller side. But that was fine because so was the knight. He gave one last glance around and rode back out of town. Sir Ronald the Brave approached a cave a few leagues from town. Still not drawing his weapon, Ronald causally crept into the cave, enticed by the glow of firelight. Peering over a boulder, he spotted a giant green monster. The dragon filled most of the cave. With razor-sharp claws and enormous wings folded to its back, the beast was attending a slab of meat roasting over the fire. “Ronald, you’re back.” the dragon greeted. “Come on in, my boy. Did you hang our advertisement?” “Yes, I did,” replied the knight. Ronald entered the warm and cozy body of the cave, dropping his armor and weapons along the way. “Ronald, what have I told you about leaving a mess?” “Sorry Drake.” was the young knight’s sheepish answer, hanging his knightly gear on some rather nifty hooks his dragon friend provided. Without his protective suit, Ronald looked like the stereotypical nerdy eighteen-year-old. He was bespectacled and somewhat scrawny. He had the muscular build of someone who lifted only a few weights. Ronald sat in front of the cooking fire and helped himself to a plate of perfectly cooked venison and wild mushrooms. “Thank you for dinner, Drake.” The dragon beamed. Not much made the monstrous lizard happier than providing for his young friend. Drake found Ronald sixteen years ago after a band of highwaymen attacked and looted his parent's caravan. The only things left by the bandits were a few chickens and a sniffling and stumbling dark-haired little boy. Not one to let a free meal go to waste, Drake scooped up the mismatched brood and hurried away. There was something about the grime covered two-year-old that fascinated the dragon. Firstly, the snot-nosed tot didn’t seem afraid of the beast. Second, Drake never turned down the chance to learn. Dragons of today are not like dragons of yore. Drake was sophisticated and scholarly. He would prefer to study the stars or read a good book of poetry than burn a village to the ground. The problem of what to do with a toddler became a scientific study. Could a dragon raise a human child just as well, if not better than its parents would have? All these years later, the dragon was proud of the boy. Ronald had grown into a well mannered and intellectual yet somewhat messy young man. Thanks to the dragon’s tutelage, Ronald had a brilliant scientific and scholarly mind. The two analyzed the scientific breakthroughs of the day. They read and discussed all the great works of literature. They also wrote plays to perform for the shadows on the cave walls. Drake thought of Ronald as his own son. Due to his unique education and no family name, the kingdom’s universities were reluctant to take on Ronald as a student. And with the boy a bit undersized, no castle’s forces wanted him as a squire. Unwilling to slay dragons, Ronald was uncomfortable being employed by anyone who still practiced the barbaric tradition. In order to earn a living, the pair devised a plan. Portraying himself as a freelance knight, Ronald would rid the villages of their scourge, with Drake’s help, of course. If no monstrous trouble endangered the villages, Drake could provide a dragon scare. After a fierce battle, Ronald would appear victorious. The brave knight would collect his bounty, and the two would vanish with none the wiser. The next day, looking much like a stout knight, Ronald rode back into the village to see if his services were needed. Ronald checked into the local inn. A few days away from his constant companion and in the company of other humans helped the boy adjust to a future amongst real people. This was a quiet village. Far enough away from the nearest castle, they were not affected by the hustle and bustle of the kingdom’s suburb life. The land was mainly comprised of crop and grazing fields. There were no bridges with trolls. The hills and caves have been ogre free for over a decade, and the only werebeast was a werecat who happened to be the town’s rat catcher. Ronald figured he would have to call on his friend’s services to provide income. A flyover by Drake, igniting a tree or two usually did the trick. The monstrous aerial show was never intended to cause harm. No livestock or agriculture was ever harmed in the display. After a week of perusing the bookstore, eating towny food, and flirting with Lidia, the innkeeper’s clever but somewhat awkward daughter, Ronald signaled to his partner that it was time to put on a show. The performance was always the same. Drake would start out soaring high overhead. With large, lazy circles, the dragon would slowly get closer to the village. After a few hours of the menacing flyovers, Drake would roar his fierce dragon cries. By this time, he usually had the villagers’ attention. Then, as a grand show of force, Drake would ignite a tree in town. He chose a stately oak near the inn for his pyrotechnic display. The tree exploded from a well-placed fireball. Oak leaves and acorns showered the villagers, and Drake flew off to get ready. As predicted, the town’s mayor agreed with Sir Ronald the Brave’s terms to rid their lands of the threat of dragons. The bold knight, armed with sword and lance mounted on his somewhat noble steed and rode off to find the beast. “Nice show!” Ronald exclaimed, “It took only a minute for the mayor to find and hire me after your attack.” Hiding in their cave, Drake and Ronald went through one last dress rehearsal of their choreographed dragon-slaying performance. “I’ll let them know tonight that I have found your lair. Tomorrow morning I’ll be back for our showdown.” “You better make it noon.” replied Drake, “I still have to pack for our upcoming journey.” Now armed with his theatrical weaponry, Ronald hurried back to the village. “See you tomorrow, Drake.” called the knight as he galloped away. Ronald returned to town to inform the mayor that he had located the dragon. “Tomorrow, I will confront the monster. Its lair is no more than two leagues away. If I set out in the morning, I’ll be there by noon.” The mayor, not wanting to give up the ransom money without proof and excited for a show, let the knight know that he would be joining him. Many other villagers were also keen on witnessing a display of the knight’s abilities and made plans to attend the fight. To Ronald’s delight, the innkeeper and his family were included. “Tomorrow, our young protector shall ensure the safety of our village!” announced the mayor. “But tonight we party!” And party they did. In the years that Ronald and Drake have used this Knight for Hire routine, this was the wildest sendoff bash ever thrown. But as in all good things, this too ended, but not before a good luck peck on the cheek from Lidia. Ronald had difficulty sleeping that night, still buzzing with excitement from the kiss and his upcoming performance. The next morning, Ronald, a bit worn out from the festivities, rode out to Drake’s cave. The mayor and several cartfuls of villagers followed close behind. As the large crowd found a safe place to watch, the brave knight, fully armored and atop his steed, approached the mouth of the cave. In a booming theatrical voice Ronald called out to his friend. “Hey, dragon! You have threatened the village long enough! Come out and prepare to meet your end!” At this, a large fireball exploded at the mouth of the cave. The audience of villagers “OOhed” and AAhed, and Ronald’s horse reared up dramatically. Drake emerged. His scales were gleaming from a fresh coat of scale polish. Some villagers pointed, some hid, and someone screamed. Armed with his lance, Sir Ronald the Brave charged into battle. A well-placed swing of Drake’s tail separated the rider from his mount, and the horse galloped away to safety. The knight landed with a well-padded thud and airbag cushioning protecting him. Ronald was rather proud of the safety features he designed for his armor. Getting to his feet, the crowd cheered as Ronald drew his sword. “Let’s make this look good.” whispered Drake. The two combatants advanced. Blade met claw, and sparks flew. Drake had attached flints to the underside of his claws to add special effects. Knight and dragon circled each other. They exchanged thrusts and parries. Each attack was perfectly timed and well-rehearsed. Ronald was getting ready for the grand finale. “Oooh, Ronald,” Lidia sang out and blew a kiss. Turning red, the knight stumbled on his approach. Tripping over a rock, his spring-loaded sword slipped out of his hand and bounced off a nearby tree. At the same time, a pouch of fake blood on the dragon’s underside popped and let out a red geyser. “What is going on!” shouted the mayor. The audience felt angry and betrayed. There was also the matter of a dragon to take care of. The villagers grabbed what they could, arming themselves with sticks and stones. Yelling loudly, they began to charge. Ronald got to his feet and jumped between the angry mob and his best friend. “Wait! Please don’t kill him. This dragon is my friend.” the embarrassed knight shouted. Everyone froze. Ronald took off his helmet and addressed the mob. “I am sorry I lied to you. I want to introduce you to my dragon. This is Drake. Say ‘hello’ Drake.” The dragon bowed a deep and regal bow to the stunned audience. Still holding their attention, Ronald continued. “I was orphaned as a child, and it was Drake who raised me.” Ronald told his whole sad story of being left with only the chickens. He told of Drake’s patience and understanding. He went on to talk about his education in the sciences, literature, and theater under the dragon’s guidance. Ronald spoke of love and praise for his mentor and friend. His speech ended with, “I am truly sorry we deceived you. If you let us go in peace, I promise to repay you for your kindness and my stay at your inn.” Not a single eye was without tears, Drake’s included. The mayor stood silently for a minute, looking between the dragon and the young knight. Finally, he cleared his throat and addressed everyone. “As mayor, I am always looking to make our town a better place. When opportunity knocks, I answer. And today, I think we have a great opportunity for everyone here. I want to hire both of you to perform your act. Of course, we’ll need to build seating, and we can sell refreshments.” The performing combatants quickly agreed. The town celebrated, and Roland and Drake were welcomed with open arms. Plans were drawn up for stadium seating around the cave. Two bits for open seating and four for the box seats above the mouth. Two refreshment tents were constructed to sell ale and turkey legs. Eventually, the innkeeper invented the deep-fried breaded sausage on a stick, and a third tent went up. The town sent notices all over the kingdom advertising seven weekly performances. Every evening, Wednesday through Sunday, with matinee showings over the weekends. Lidia was soon added to the act as the damsel in distress. The town’s mayor also contracted with Drake as potential security if any threatening creature should show up. None ever did. Everyone lived happily ever after. Lidia and Ronald soon got married. Eventually, they decided to settle down and have kids. When Drake got too old for the performance schedule, the town hired new performers to continue the shows. Ronald and Lidia took over the inn when the innkeeper and his wife retired and moved to the next-door cottage. Missing the role of mentor and teacher, Drake founded an academy that focused on the sciences, and theater, open to humans and dragons. Ronald and Drake still met regularly to discuss and debate everything from science to the arts. 

5f39ny

Dragonhearted

Blimey, 'ere we go again. Another day, another dragon to slay. Well not on my watch! Name's Maggie—Sir Maggie to you lot—and I ain't your typical knight in shining armor. More like a knight in slightly dingy iron armor with questionable stains of mysterious origin. But I get the job done, even if me methods are a bit unorthodox. You see, I never much cared for all this hacking and slashing business. Seems a might unfair to the dragons, don't ya think? Sure, some of the blighters get a bit cheeky, hoarding treasures and terrorizing villagers and such. But they're just misunderstood creatures trying to make their way in this world, same as meself! So when the call came from the village of Little Hampsted that a fearsome dragon had taken up residence in the hills nearby, I knew this assignment would require a delicate touch. I saddled up me trusty steed Betsy (lovely girl, bit flatulent though) and made haste to the scene of the alleged crimes. After a pleasant ride through the countryside (lovely this time of year), I arrived to find Little Hampsted in a right state. My reputation had preceded me, and the villagers swarmed expectantly. "Greetings fine people!" I announced in me most gallant voice. "Now then, why don't you tell me about this dragon what's been bothering you?" The tale they spun was the usual stuff: missing livestock, singed eyebrows, small children carried off in the night—you know, standard dragon behavior. But I could tell this was no mindless beast. No, this dragon was just lonely and misunderstood. So that night, I packed a satchel with offerings of friendship: a nice ox haunch, some golden trinkets, and a bottle of 12-year-old mead. I set off for the hills whistling a jaunty tune, determined to make peace with this imposing yet innocent creature. As I climbed higher, the air grew thick with brimstone. I knew the dragon's lair must be near. Turning a corner, I spotted the mouth of a great cave. Wisps of smoke curled from within, and the rocky ground was littered with charred bones. Charming decor. "Hello!" I called out amiably. "Sir Maggie here, at your service!" A rumbling growl echoed from the shadows, and out slunk the dragon. Oh, she was a beaut! Violet scales glimmering in the moonlight, horns like polished ebony, eyes burning like fiery coals. I tell you, this magnificent creature took my breath away. Slowly, I offered up my gifts: "I've brought you some refreshments, straight from the village of Little Hampsted! They send their regards." The dragon eyed me suspiciously, smoke billowing from her nostrils. It was clear no one had shown her kindness before. My heart went out to the poor thing. "There's no need for conflict between us," I said gently. "Why don't we sit together, share some mead, and get to know one another?" After a tense moment, the tension left her body. The poor lonely dear just needed a friend! We settled in and I regaled her with tales of past adventures while she told me of her life here in the hills. Turns out she took the livestock because she was hungry, not malicious. And the eyebrows were just unfortunate collateral damage from her morning yawns! As the night wore on, I proposed an agreement: if the dragon controlled her fire-breathing urges, I'd personally deliver her a weekly supply of food straight from the royal larders. She wouldn't go hungry, the villagers would be safe, and I could stop by for tea and chats. It was a perfect solution! By dawn, the dragon and I had forged an unbreakable bond. As we bid each other farewell, tears glistened in her noble eyes. "Thank you for your kindness, Sir Maggie," she rumbled in a voice thick with emotion. "You are the first human to see me as more than a monster. I shall never forget you." Well, I won't lie to you—I got a bit choked up as well. "Think nothing of it, love," I said with a pat on her scaly leg. "Just doing me job. You just mind your manners around Little Hampsted and I'll be back in two shakes with more treats." And with that, I sauntered down the hill whistling, feeling right pleased with meself. The villagers of Little Hampsted were flabbergasted when I told them there'd be no more dragon trouble. Once they got over their shock, they were right grateful. I basked in their praise for about two seconds before setting off in search of my next adventure. Because that's the life of a misunderstood knight, innit? Always on the move, solving problems me own way, making the world a little brighter one dragon at a time. People say I'm odd, but I say there's more than one way to slay a dragon. Sometimes all it takes is a little kindness and an open heart. Remember that the next time you find yourself facing a difficult situation. Kill your enemies with compassion! And if that don't work, kill them with your sword. Either way, mind the stains—blood is a bugger to get out of iron armor. As I sauntered back into Little Hampsted, I was surprised to find the villagers had organized a parade in my honor! They hollered and cheered as I rode up on Betsy, tossing confetti and dragon-shaped pastries. "Three cheers for Sir Maggie!" shouted Friar Tuck from the local abbey. "Vanquisher of the fearsome dragon!" "Now wait just a minute, friends," I protested. "I didn't vanquish anyone. The dragon and I have come to an understanding, that's all." But the revelers were too caught up in the excitement to hear me. As the parade made its way through the village square, the smells of a great feast filled the air. An entire ox roasted over a spit, barrels of mead were rolled out, and musicians played a lively tune. It seemed the good people wanted to show their gratitude, even if I didn't slay the beast as expected. "Please, please," I implored, "there's no need for all this fuss! Just a nice cup of tea will do." But villagers will have their celebrations, won't they? I sighed and resigned myself to an evening of well-meaning but unnecessary pomp and circumstance. Sometimes misunderstandings happen, but the heart is what matters most. As we sat down to feast that night, I raised my cup high. "To new friends, wherever they may dwell!" I cheered. The villagers looked confused but cheered along anyway. They'd learn in time. For now, we'd share a meal in the spirit of community. And I'd be sure to save some tasty morsels for my new scaly mate. Can't forget about her now! Ta-ta for now! Sir Maggie, over and out.

jbq6uo

Dear Life

“You’re not ready.” The words were barked. The words were a denial. Those words hit hard and they hurt deep. “I would never be ready. Not by your reckoning anyway,” said the young lad. Turner walked away. There was nothing more to say, not as far as he was concerned. And so it went. The lad returned every evening. He was not short on determination. Turner thought him stubborn. That could be a good thing, but it was likely bad. Stubborn people found it difficult to listen. And if they did listen, then they seemed incapable of keeping it up. They opened up just long enough to get what they came for, then they went off half-cocked, like a mad bull with dysentery leaving a stinking mess behind them. A year went by. Turner only knew this because the lad told him he’d been coming for a year. The lad supplying him with this information ensured Turner’s intransigence remained in place. He was not about to relent because the lad was celebrating a year’s anniversary of his ritual visits to disturb and annoy Turner with his unreasonable request. A month later, Turner at last altered his response, “what is it that you think you want?” he asked the lad. “For you to teach me,” the lad said. Turner stood stock still and stared at the lad. Eventually the lad wilted. Then he remembered himself. “Sir,” he said. Turner half shook his head. The movement was short and curt, but the meaning was obvious; not sir. The lad looked puzzled, then he tried again. “Lord,” he said. Turner was pleased to note that the lad had not said it as a question. He raised an eyebrow. He was not, and never intended to be a lord. “Master,” said the lad. Turner nodded, “you would have me be your master? Do you understand what that would mean for you?” The lad nodded. Turner snorted, his lips blowing a partial raspberry. This was as much entertainment as he’d had in many a year. The impetuous brashness of youthful fools was a joke. He suddenly became serious, his consideration of the consequences of that particular joke sobering him instantly. “I was told that I must be trained,” volunteered the lad. “ Must? ” questioned Turner. “They say I have a gift and that it is dangerous if I do not train,” said the lad. “Do they now?” asked Turner. “They do,” confirmed the lad. “And what would they know about the subject?” Turner asked. “They know you, ” replied the lad. Turner was interested now, “who exactly is they? ” The lad smiled, then remembered himself and actually wiped the smile away with the back of his hand, “King Tommor, master.” “He sent you?” asked Turner. “Yes, master,” the lad nodded. “Why did you not say that from the off?” there was an edge of angered frustration in Turner’s voice. “He said I was not to mention it unless you asked,” the lad replied. “So you’ve been here every day for a year and didn’t think to mention that King Tommor sent you?” asked Turner. “A year and two months,” said the lad. “Pardon?” “A year and two months, master,” repeated the lad, “and he was very clear. He said I was not, under any circumstances to mention his name and that he had sent me, until you asked.” “Did he now?” said Turner. “He did,” nodded the lad, “he said that you would refuse me and make me wait and that this was as much a part of my training as any of the rest of it.” Turner’s eyes went wide, “he did what?! Why that…” Turner turned his back on the lad and afforded himself a grin and a shake of his head. Unbelievable. The temerity of Tommor to play him like this. And the lad. The lad had patiently doorstepped him for over a year and followed the instructions of a king who understood Turner better than he should. He turned back to the lad, “tell me, boy, is your king wise?” Creditably, the lad paused to think this over, “it would be unwise of me to say otherwise, but yes, he has knowledge and he uses that knowledge. He listens and he deliberates. I think he cares too. Wisdom is more than knowledge and it is caring that makes it so.” Turner nodded. The lad had obviously not been wasting the past year, “where do you sleep at night, and what have you been up to for the past year?” he asked. “The woods, master,” the lad said, “and I have been reading and exercising.” Turner passed over the matter of the lad’s lodgings without giving his reaction away at all. The woods were dangerous and the dangers they possessed were manyfold. Winter in these parts was cruel, if the cold did not kill a person then there were plenty of hungry predators that would oblige. “Reading what?” he asked the lad. The lad reached into his haversack and retrieved a leather bound book. Turner saw it for what it was. The Book of Mirg. “Where did you get that, boy?” he asked gruffly. “My grandmother gave it to me,” the lad told him. However well Turner could control himself and mask his reactions, in this case he could not. His body shuddered as a shire horse of past remembrance thundered over him, he nodded as tears welled up in his eyes, “your grandmother was Tara of the Elsh?” The lad shrugged in something like self-deprecation. The old woman had been his grandmother and he had loved her. That was all there was to it and there need be no more, “I only ever knew her as grandmother. I learnt her true name after her death.” Turner had known she was dead, of course he had. He’d felt her slip from this existence in the instance that it had happened, but this was the first time he’d heard the words and had confirmation. He nodded some more and bit his lip to damp down the well of feelings he’d tried to ignore unsuccessfully throughout his adult life. Training was one thing. Living it was a whole other game. “How does the Red Gift manifest in you, boy?” asked Turner. He asked even though asking hurt him. It hurt deeply. He would not wish the Red Gift on anyone, but then he knew that it was no gift, it was a curse. A curse that set a person apart and in their loneliness, placed upon them responsibilities and obligations that no one should ever have to shoulder. The lad did not speak, instead he raised his arms wide, and brought them together in something resembling a slow and silent clap. As his palms came together, a red aura encompassed his entire body. Faint and gentle at first, it grew in intensity until the lad was a living flame. It was all Turner could do not to kneel at the boy’s feet. Phoenix Class? This was the stuff of legends. Stories of dragons had sprung into being a thousand years ago thanks to a brother and sister with powers of this incredible magnitude. Tia and Franz possessed powers beyond imagining and quickly learnt that there was nothing and no one to stop them doing anything they wished. Without boundaries, they became animalistic. They fulfilled their urges on a whim and did so with impunity. They never once reflected upon the lives they had chosen, nor showed remorse. But then, how could they when they had not developed a conscience between them? They laid waste to the villages surrounding their birth place and created a barren kingdom where none would dare to tread. Their reign of chaos and terror ended with them. There were offspring from their unnatural union, but none of those children made it to adulthood. Tia ended each and every one of them, deeming them unworthy disappointments. Turner suspected that either those children did not have the Red Gift, or if they did, Tia and Franz saw them as too much of a threat and crushed them before they became too powerful to control. “You can stop now, boy,” Turner said, doing his best to remain calm, “I have seen enough.” And he had. He’d seen more than enough, and he knew more than he wanted to. “Well?” said the lad, now he was back in a state that was a world away from the fire he had so recently manifested. Well indeed, thought Turner. There was no way he could send the lad away now. No way in hell, and hell was what Turner feared. Hell on Earth. There was no escaping this now. To turn away from the lad would be to consign him to a fate worse than death and to see the world burn. For over a year, this lad had visited Turner each and every day and asked him to be his mentor. The truth in those times was that Turner did not want to enable anymore warriors. Not a single one. He’d seen enough of where that led. Too much had he seen. The raw material that presented itself at the outset was never suitable for the world. The Red Gift was wasted on youth, but the wisdom of age was seemingly a life away. Turner had come to realise that to teach and train a magical warrior was to facilitate death. He was encouraging starry eyed youths to become killers and soon enough, any warmth, any humanity, suffocated under the weight of the bodies of the dead. The Red Gift was a curse that consumed its host, leading them to kill again and again. Turner suspected that King Tommor knew where he was with this and that was why he’d sent the lad here. It was a test for both the lad and for Turner. At the very least, it would buy the King time, but most likely was that the King had handed the problem of the lad’s great gift to Turner to deal with. For better or worse, the lad was Turner’s problem now and there was nothing else to be done than to get on with it, however much Turner didn’t want to teach the lad. Turner drew in a deep breath, it sounded like the saddest of sighs as he let it out. It was the sound of finality. Of capitulation. A last breath before the world turned and everything changed. “Do you understand what it means to devote yourself to the mentorship of a Master of the Red Gift?” Turner asked the lad. “I do, master,” said the lad. “I doubt it,” Turner told him, a deep sadness in his eyes as he gazed at the lad, “your indenturement is permanent. It is far more severe than an apprentice’s. You give yourself over in your entirety. Do you understand why?” “Yes master,” said the lad. “Tell me,” Turner ordered. “I sacrifice my freedom and myself in service to the Red Gift…” Turner was shaking his head vehemently, “no, no, no! You do not and you will not serve the Red Gift! That is an eventuality that would damn you. The consequences of such a thing are beyond imagining!” “But I…” began the lad. “Read the words in that book, but did not understand them sufficiently,” Turner told him, “the words you read were filtered into your mind in such a way that they suited you and how you feel about The Gift. You glory in your power and you dream of what you will do with it. That power and the urges that will feed it are a great seduction.” The lad looked quizzical to a point of confusion. “You’re wondering how a person can seduce themselves,” Turner told him. The lad shrugged. “We are all conflicted. This is necessary. The inherent contrast and conflict in all things forces dialogue. We must choose and in order to choose we must think,” Turner smiled bitterly, “we don’t always think things through, instead we fall short and we feel. Feelings are not a basis for choice. And so we lie to ourselves. The biggest lies we ever tell are the ones we tell ourselves.” The lad still looked confused. “The Red Gift ups the ante and then some, boy. The Red Gift distorts the balance, not only of the possessor of The Gift, but in the world. Your vow to me. Your submission and deference. These things are necessary to begin to create balance and order. The Red Gift thrives when there is order and everything makes sense. But in its raw state, it is chaos and it consumes all before it,” Turner was watching the lad closely as he spoke, “so you understand what it is that you are on the cusp of doing?” The lad nodded. “Tell me!” bellowed Turner. “I am to become your slave, master,” said the lad sadly. Turner noted the sadness and thought it potentially good, “you hand yourself and your gift over to me so that between us we can build a place for it to exist harmoniously in this world.” “I thought you were going to train me to fight,” said the lad, “master,” he added almost insolently. Turner glowered, but stayed his hand. This was why he had vowed never to train a young magical warrior again. They were all about the fight and a romanticised notion of glory. There was no glory on the battlefield, and often, there wasn’t even a battlefield. Glory was a notion for those back home. Glory was a story told to justify the killing. Glory was the lie that secured a constant supply of children who would go blindly into a world of horror and by the time they woke up to the reality of their existence, it was too late for them. It was certainly too late for Turner, he had had his fill of the gore and suffering of war and he was haunted by the ghosts of all those he had slain and worse still, his fallen comrades. He was constantly tortured by those ghosts. They were a manifestation of his guilt and shame and he knew he would never escape them in this life, or the next. “I am,” said Turner, and he meant it, for the first and most significant fight the lad would have was with himself, “but first you must hold life dear. You must understand the sanctity of life, both yours and all life in this world of ours.” “Those sound like the words of a coward,” said the lad, “master,” he again added after the fact. “Do not try my patience, boy,” Turner’s eyes burned with a potent fury, “you walk a narrow path as it is.” The lad nodded, “I apologise, master. I am eager to learn.” “You seem eager to speak instead of listen, and that will not stand,” Turner told him. “I will hold my tongue,” said the lad. Turner accepted this, “good, now kneel and say the words if you would have me for your master.” The lad obeyed, kneeling and dropping his eyes to the ground. Turner threw him over with a strength that seemed impossible for such a small and slight man, “no! Never look down. Down is where the dark is. Down leads to hell. You kneel and you look at me. Your head may be bowed, but you never lose sight of what counts. Are we clear?” “Yes,” spat the lad as he got to his knees again. Turner struck him, sending him sprawling sideways. The lad regained his knees as Turner stared at him balefully, “yes, master.” Turner nodded, “now we will say the words,” and they did. The vow was long, and rightly so, it was a spell of binding that locked the lad to Turner and gave some of the control of the Red Gift to the master himself. That control was to a large extent illusory, the binding was a contract between the two men. The lad had to believe it and then he had to live it. Twice, as part of the vow, Turner struck the lad. Once on the right cheek so that he would remember to always walk the path of truth and finally across his left cheek so that he would remember humility and that it was his place in this world to serve, to serve with love and in truth. To serve the people and protect and nurture the fragile world around him. At the end of the vow, the lad lay prostrate before Turner, and for a moment, there was a flash of that red aura, such was the power that the lad contained. “Arise, Galdon of the Red Gift.” Turner whispered the words, but the lad heard well enough. He raised his head to look up at his Master, “you know my name?” Turner nodded, proffering his hand to help the lad up, he did not reveal how he knew his name. There was much he knew and he was in no hurry to expose his secrets. Secrets that included his true intent; to train the lad in peace and to bring him peace such that his power would never be wielded in anger. His would be a long path and there would be conflict and frustration as the young man pulled on his leash, eager to use his powers. This could not be allowed to happen, for if he were ever to forget himself and use The Gift on a whim, driven by urge instead of deep thought, then he would be lost and so much more would be lost with him. Turner would teach the boy alright, but he would not teach the boy what he wanted to learn, instead he would teach him what he needed to learn. The biggest fight of the lad’s life had begun, as had the most significant battle in Turner’s…

jj3lvi

Three

Kit Alnwick had never seen a dragon. Asher Jasken from two towns over claimed that he’d seen three. “They’re big,” he’d told her, shoving his face toward hers. “Bigger than mountains. And their eyes– Alnwick, if you could see their eyes, you’d start screaming.” At the time, she’d scoffed and told him that he was full of shit. But then Emerson had come home from the fields. “Torched the whole season’s crop.” Emerson had her hands on the edge of the table, pressed firmly against the wood. “Couldn’t even salvage an ear.” Kit shook her head. “Dragons don’t just raze fields for no reason. They’re animals, they keep to themselves–” “Animals who are bred and trained by people. This wasn’t a wild dragon, Kit. It was a weapon.” “Then why burn our fields?” Kit glanced out the window, watching as the pillars of smoke wound their way toward the sky. “It’s just corn.” Emerson sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. It had come undone from its braid, and now hung in tangled strands over her shoulders. “You know I have to ask.” “Emme, hang on–” “What did you say to Foxen Mathis?” The ringing of the windchimes fluttered through the room. Emerson turned her head away, eyes on the empty chair beside her. She closed her eyes and waited. Kit stood. “Emme, you know I wouldn’t.” Emerson sighed. “I don’t know what I know anymore. That was our food for the winter, Kit. Whoever burned it wants us starved out. And we both know that Foxen’s family would dance over our graves if someone gave them the chance.” “I wouldn’t tell Fox anything.” Kit crossed the room, grabbing Emerson’s shoulder. “And even if I did, he wouldn’t tell his uncle. This is Fox we’re talking about. He’s human sunshine– and he wants to shed the family name.” The windchimes rang again, and Emerson shrugged Kit’s hand off. “No Mathis would give up the name. It’s worth too much power. Too much protection. You understand that all it takes is one ill-hearted comment to get back to Leighton, right? Hell, you could say that you think his coat looks worn, and he’d have his dragon claw our eyes out. That’s how they guarantee that they’re untouchable. Nothing slides, not even thoughtless insults.” Kit balled her fingers into fists. “I didn’t, Emme. I didn’t say anything. I’m smarter than that, you know I am–” “I thought I did.” Emerson shoved past Kit, roughly knocking their shoulders against each other. “I’m going to the neighbor’s to see if I can bargain for mercy rations. You are going to pull your head out of your ass and fight back.” Kit felt her chest stiffen. “Emme. You can’t be serious–” “Oh, I’m more than just serious.” Emerson whirled around, her eyes wide with fury. “I was so careful. But you– you fooled around with that Mathis boy like he couldn’t take everything from us with the snap of his fingers. I knew this would happen, I saw what Leighton did to our father. Lucky you, that you were too young to remember. Nineteen years, and I let you stay ignorant. Now you need to step up.” Kit grit her teeth. “I won’t do it.” Emerson glared at her, eyes cold. “If you don’t do it, we die.” Before Kit could retort, Emerson stormed out the door and slammed it with a crack. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the house, even though the fields were a few miles out. Kit grabbed a piece of glassware from the cabinet– one of Emerson’s good mugs– and smashed it onto the floor. The pieces went everywhere, scattering across the hardwood. For a second, it felt good. For a moment, Kit stood there in the kitchen, her shoulders shaking. And then she stumbled back against the wall, slid to the floor, and let out a sob. She wasn’t sure how long she cried for. She wanted to go to Fox– to tell him how scared she was. She would starve this winter if she didn’t do what Emerson told her to. And if she didn’t starve, Emerson would surely kill her in other ways– cold shoulders, seething glares, nights spent sleeping alone in the attic. Fox would say he understood, as he always did. My uncle is like your sister in a lot of ways , he’d say. They’re both fierce and stubborn. But the difference is that your sister truly loves you. He was right, of course, even if some days Kit doubted it. Emerson was made of steel and nails. Most people needed a hammer to break through to her heart. But Kit couldn’t go to Fox. She knew he hadn’t told his uncle anything about her, she was as sure of it as she was of the blood in her veins– but she had no choice anymore. She was her family’s dragon slayer. Most children trained from age five to slay dragons. Each family had one. They had no practical purpose anymore– the training was mostly tradition. Before the dragons had migrated to the mountains, the ancestors had trained one child to be the “protector.” It was a great honor to face off with a dragon, but dragons weren’t common near the towns anymore. The only dragon that her town knew was the Mathis’ pet, and few had actually seen the beast. Kit stood on shaky legs and pulled her hands through her hair, tying it back behind her head. Emerson didn’t believe in her– fine. She’d prove herself as their father’s daughter. She’d do this one thing, and Emerson would forgive her. Fox didn’t have to know. When he found the family dragon dead the next morning, Kit would tell him that it must have been an assassin. And the Mathis family would never hurt her family again. They’d know what she could do. Emerson didn’t return, even when dusk graced the fields. Kit packed a simple bag: water, a rope, and her father’s scythe. He’d been the dragon slayer of his family, and had crafted the blade himself. It was curved at just the right angle to pierce the skin below dragon scales, and the metal was a stronger ore from the mountains that promised not to break. Kit slipped out the door just as the darkness fell. She left Emerson a simple note– I’m going to make this right – and set off. Approaching the borders of Fox’s house felt like an intrusion, but Kit shook off her nerves and scaled the wall, fumbling her hands on the bricks and flopping onto the grass on the other side. So maybe she’d slacked off with her training. She would still be fine. The grounds were lengthy, running for miles in either direction. Kit kept low and ducked her head behind bushes, but there seemed to be no one awake or wandering at this hour. Lucky, because she wasn’t exactly skilled in stealth. Fox had shown her the dragon’s barn once, though she hadn’t been allowed inside. It was a larger building on the left of the house, lined with bricks and stone. Fireproof, Fox had said, in case something spooked the dragon. Leighton hadn’t named the creature, but Fox referred to it as Three. Kit had never asked why. The barn doors were locked, so she needed to get to the smoke hatch. The climb was a humbling one. She was out of breath and only a third of the way up the building, and when she reached the smoke hatch, she shoved herself through in one clumsy push. Her hair came undone from its bun, falling in front of her face as she toppled down onto the floor. She sat up, smarting, and curled her fingers around fresh hay. She’d fallen onto a loft of hay bales, a rake leaning against the far wall, the faint scent of blood mingling in the air. She fumbled around, hands meeting something soft and wet. Kit felt her heart stutter and she jerked away, clasping a hand over her mouth to stifle a yelp. Beside her, a sheep’s corpse lay on the loft, the wool painted with crimson. The dragon’s unfinished meal. That meant it wasn’t hungry, which was good, because Kit did not want to get her face bitten off anytime soon. But that didn’t mean that it wouldn’t roast her alive, or claw out her heart, or– No matter dreaming up ways in which she could die. She had a job to do, and she had to be out of the barn by daybreak. She sat there for a moment, silent. She calmed her breaths until they were barely audible. And she waited. One moment, then two, and then. . . There. A dragon snore echoed through the barn, shaking the legs of the loft. It was louder than thunder, and it echoed, as if it was coming from different sides of the walls. Kit bit back the nausea rising in her throat. She’d never killed a dragon. She’d never been close to a dragon. She’d never laid eyes on a dragon. What was she doing here? Did she think that her fancy scythe would solve the problem for her? It was still her hand that had to administer the killing blow. No use worrying now. She crept across the loft to find a way down. As she descended the ladder, she could see it. The scales were as large as her head, and shone silver in the moonlight that streamed through the open smoke hatch. A long, winding tail was curled around one of the legs of the loft, the diamond end flicking in sleep. It was smaller than the dragons in Asher Jasken’s story, but that somehow made it worse. It had enough space to move quickly and snap her bones in two. Kit placed one foot on the ground and held her breath. Each step was a risk of waking the thing. She rounded the dragon, watching as its body rose and fell with every breath. Its claws were sharper than most swords. Did Leighton carve them himself? She couldn’t imagine the man kneeling beside this creature, delicately slicing the claws into points. Leighton was cold and ruthless, the kind of man who ran business well. Dragons were tools to him and nothing more. Kit finally reached the head, staring up at the dragon’s closed eyes. The snoring was loud enough to drown out her heartbeat, which was fluttering panickedly against her ribs. She leaned forward, inspecting the neck for shifted scales, and froze. There was another neck behind the one she was staring at. And another behind that one. Three. She’d never asked, but she should’ve. No wonder the dragon had such a peculiar name. It had three separate heads. “Kit?” Goosebumps crawled over Kit’s skin, and she turned slowly, eyes as wide as a spooked animal’s. Fox stood in the corner of the barn, wearing an apron splattered with blood. “This isn’t what it looks like,” Kit blurted, immediately throwing her hands up. “I’m just– I was just curious, you know, because I’ve never seen a dragon before, and this one was right here, and– I mean, it has three heads! That’s incredible! I’ll– I’ll leave now, I promise–” Fox’s eyes fell to her sack. The blade of the scythe was sticking out– it must have slipped half way out when she’d fallen onto the loft. “You’re going to kill him.” “No,” Kit said. “No, you know me, I wouldn’t–” She saw his face fall, and wilted. “Fox– damnit, Fox, you know how Emerson is. I don’t have any other choice.” He squared his shoulders. His eyes were glued to the scythe. “Kit, you’re not going to do it. You can’t.” She stared at him. “I have to. Are you going to stop me?” He slowly pried his eyes away to meet hers. “No. I won’t have to.” She took an unsteady breath. “I’m sorry, Fox. I’ll make it quick. It wouldn’t have to happen if your uncle hadn’t–” “My uncle didn’t burn your crop.” Fox inched toward her, wiping a hand off on his apron. The blood was fresh and mushed with wool. “Three did that himself. He got loose. My uncle said it was better that I not tell you– that you would find us weak if we lost control of our dragon. But you need to know. It was nothing but a freak accident.” Kit stilled. “That’s what I told Emerson. She didn’t believe me, but I knew. I knew you wouldn’t say something to your uncle.” “So you understand that you can’t kill Three. This wasn’t a statement. My uncle won’t hurt you again.” Silence fell. Kit bit her lip. “Emerson won’t believe that. If I don’t act, she will.” “Kit, Three’s just a dragon– he can’t help what he does–” “I’m sorry, Fox. This is the only way I know how to fix this.” Fox lurched forward, but he didn’t grab Kit’s scythe. He intertwined their hands, slicking her fingers with sheep blood. “Remember when you turned ten?” Kit blinked at him, the blood hot against her skin. “What?” “When you turned ten,” he repeated, “and you caught your first fish.” Tentatively, Kit nodded. “Emerson told me to skin it.” Fox mirrored her nod. “But you didn’t. You let it go, back into the water. Emerson slapped you over the cheek for it, but that– that was the reason I knew I could trust you. My uncle and his men, they never showed mercy. But you. . . you had no reason to let that fish go, and you let it go anyway.” Kit stared at him, tightening her grip. He smiled, slow and bright. “You taught me how to be good.” She felt the threat of tears pushing against the back of her throat. “I’m not good anymore, Fox.” He shook his head. “You are. Show me that you are.” Fox twisted his hand around and pulled out her scythe, but he didn’t throw it aside. Instead, he folded it into her palm, eyes flashing in the moonlight. He was tall, like his uncle, but he had softer eyes. The kind that a deer had. Kit took the blade, her fingers shaking. She turned toward Three, watching as the dragon slumbered on, his breath filling the air with the scent of smoke. It would be so quick to kill him. Three identical cuts under the scales, deep enough to hit the windpipe. If she was fast enough, he wouldn’t even know. It would be painless. Peaceful. Emerson would be proud. She stepped toward the dragon. He was bound by strong ropes, braided by weavers in the north. Kit sighed and closed her eyes, positioning her blade at just the right angle. And she sliced through the threads. Three jerked awake, suddenly aware of the weight lifting from his feet. He shook out a claw, eyelids flying open to reveal veiny blue eyes, the pupils black slits of absolute night. Asher Jasken was wrong. Kit didn’t scream. She nudged him on the leg, trying to stifle the voices in her head that were screaming at her to stop. “You’re free. Fly far away from here, and never come back.” He peered at her, head cocking slightly. He was going to eat her. This was what she got for kindness– devoured by a dragon in front of her closest friend. But Three slowly rose to his feet instead, stretching out his tail. He spread his wings, so wide they touched the walls of the barn, and turned his head toward the door. “Right,” Fox said, racing forward to unlock it. “You need an exit.” Once the doors were opened, Three snorted happily and strode out into the night air. He looked back at them for a moment, and Kit could’ve sworn he lowered his head as if to say Thank you. And then, as if taking a breath, he took off into the sky. They watched him until he was a pale dot against the horizon. Kit fiddled with her scythe. “How do I know he’s not going to torch another field?” “Because you were kind to him. You freed him. He understands that.” Fox glanced back at the barn. “His keepers– my uncle, mostly– whip him and scorn him. When he escaped the last time, it was with a vengeance. But he’s not angry, not after you set him wild again.” Kit grinned. “He’s that smart?” Fox shrugged. “He’s a dragon. There’s a reason they’re so hard to kill. And it’s not just the fire breath.” “Maybe for you. I trained for this.” Kit let her words run dry, staring up at the stars above. “Emerson will never forgive me.” Fox grabbed Kit’s hand. “She doesn’t have to know he survived. You can tell her you killed him. I’ll tell my uncle I woke up and he’d escaped– chewed his way through the ropes. The secret is safe as long as we keep our mouths shut.” She turned to him. “You’d lie to Emerson and your uncle for me?” He grinned. “In all fairness, I’d probably do anything for you when you’re holding a scythe like that.” Kit laughed and grabbed Fox by the straps of his apron, pushing him into the grass outside the barn. They fell together, giggling, and she brandished the knife over his face. “Aha, I’ve caught a Mathis! What shall I do with him?” “Please, have pity!” Fox whined dramatically, throwing a hand over his forehead. “My uncle will disown me if you scar my pretty face!” “Don’t worry, nothing could ruin your pretty face.” Kit flopped down next to him, pointing up at the stars. “Where do you think Three went?” He tsked. “The mountains, probably. Or a cave, somewhere. Any place far.” Kit sighed. “Do you think we’ll get to go someplace far someday?” “Yeah,” Fox said through a smile, eyes glittering under the stars. “Yeah, I do.” 

ihvgl8

Flickering Desire

Cuthbert knelt by her bed and looped the bandage three times. She winced as it tightened around her swollen ankle. “Sorry,” he mumbled, not meeting her eye. “No, it’s fine. I’m glad one of us knows what we’re doing.” He nodded, still not looking up as he focussed on his task. Outside the tent, the cicadas fizzed their nightly chorus and off in the distance, a lion roared. She wondered what that roar meant. Had they made a kill? Would they still be looking for one? She shivered, and not just because of the cold night air from the savannah creeping through the flaps of green canvas. “Don’t worry,” he said, noticing her fright. “That noise travels far at night. They are a long way away.” Now he looked up at her, his reassuring smile easing the twisted knot in her stomach. She stared into his eyes, wishing he could stay. She knew he wanted to as well. They both knew he couldn’t. “Thank you,” she said as he tied the last knot in the bandage. He stood up, took a step back and held out his hands. “Try to put some weight on it,” he said, motioning for her to rise. She did as she was told, anything for him to stay with her longer. In truth, she was enjoying the sensation of being told what to do. She smiled wryly as she stood. What kind of helpless damsel had she become in these few short days? She pushed herself up with her hands on the bed and half-hopped, half-teetered. She carefully placed her foot on the blanket beside her camp-bed. She would never admit it, barely even to herself, but the little pain she felt didn’t need her to stagger into him. But stagger she did, falling like a Hollywood dame into his chest. She even let out a little “Oh!” as she toppled. What was it about this man? It was the African bush, it had to be. The romance was intoxicating, stripping her of all inhibitions, and, so it seemed, feminist ideals. Or maybe she was just delighted to be in the presence of a man with genuine skills, survival ones, rather than corporate morons whose idea of leadership was a well-laid out powerpoint deck. Cuthbert tensed. It was hard to tell what his reaction meant. He was young, fully grown but barely older than her son currently drinking her money at university. She felt the strength in his arms, the result of long days on the river leading their little flotilla of canoes. Her hand rested for a second too long on his broad chest as she stood upright again and she imagined his dark skin under her fingers, muscled back clawed in ecstasy. God she wanted it. “You OK?” he asked, voice caught in the back of his throat as he gripped her forearms to steady her. She looked up slowly and glanced away, the most coquettish she could manage. Please let him stay. He could do whatever he wanted with her, they both deserved it. An escape from reality was what she needed, a night of lying with a real man, taking him in her arms and between her legs which throbbed with anticipation. She raised her chin again, looked at his lips and imagined them pressing onto hers. She wetted them hers in readiness. He let her go and took a small step back. She took a small one forward, testing her balance as he watched with what looked like genuine concern. “Thank you,” she said. “That feels so much better.” “Good,” he said. He turned to leave but hesitated. He didn’t want to leave, every slow gesture screamed it. The last week had led them here. A week on the river, paddling along the mighty Zambezi, gazing in wonder at the vast herds of antelope, elephant and buffalo come to drink. In the water, crocodiles and mounded pods of hippos never far away, eyes watching their every move but never coming closer. The mixture of awe and fear, the dark evenings round the campfire on riverbank or sandbar. Their little band uttered words like “life changing”, “inspiring” and “visceral”. For her part, she had never felt so far from her troubles at home. Arsehole ex-husband, loveable but fucktard son, miserable partnership at a consulting firm. Now, tonight, all she needed to make this week complete, one night of satisfaction with this beautiful man. The space between them was so short, a lifted hand and they would be touching. “It will hurt tonight. Hopefully you will be able to walk on it tomorrow. You have taken paracetamol?” She nodded, chewing her lip. The medicine wasn’t what she needed. “I feel so silly. Falling over like that.” He grinned, a boyish expression on his young man’s face. She wanted to run her fingers across his smooth cheek, his cut jawline. “Don’t be embarrassed. You aren’t the first. That noise is meant to frighten you.” And it bloody well had. They had been out on a walk in the midday heat, shimmering light hovering over the dusty brush. Counting animals they encountered, coming across a nursery of exquisite impala resting under a thorny bush. Approaching, they heard something and the antelope bolted. It was not a noise she knew. Everyone knows a lion’s roar, have mimicked it from childhood, even in England. But this other noise, a low rumble of warning, it froze her to the spot. Then, forgetting everything she’d been told, she’d turned to run. If she’d needed a reminder, for all her education and money, that she was a useless monkey in this environment, she’d been given one as she stumbled straight over a log and twisted her ankle in the process. Even now, she felt the panic rise in her chest as she recalled what she’d pictured then. Expecting a pain in her back, or the sound of snorting breath as the lion bore down on her. Nothing had come, this lion only wanting these idiot tourists to get out of the way of its hunt. Instead, Cuthbert had raced to her side, the first of the guides to react to her stupidity. Whether she’d been in danger not, he would always be a saviour in her eyes. The pause between them grew longer. This was the moment, she readied herself. She was a mature woman, there was nothing wrong with this. She would make the first move. “Well goodnight,” he said, a new panic swelling inside her as he turned to leave. “Don’t go,” she blurted out, pleading a little more desperately than she’d intended. He shook his head, opening the flap of the tent. She could see the disappointment etched on his face and knew he wished he could. It was forbidden of course. It would cost him his job if he gave into the feelings they both felt. “You need your rest, Madam. I will see you in the morning. I will be outside, making sure nothing disturbs you.” The balloon of hope, and desire, grown inside deflated in a moment. All through the long night she lay, knowing he was just beyond the walls of her tent, standing guard, keeping her safe. Every rustle, every breath of wind flapping against the fabric, her heart raced as she imagined her coming to her. Finally, the cicadas finally quietened and she fell into a deep sleep, waking many hours later with a sense of disappointment still clenching. There was still one more night left of their safari. One last chance. She wouldn’t be so coy this time. ********************************************************************************** Cuthbert sat beside the dying embers of the fire, waiting for the sun to peak above the acacias surrounding the camp. He shuddered, though not from the chill of the Zimbabwean dawn. That woman. God he hoped she didn’t make another move tonight, there was one in every group. He didn’t need a tip that bad.

hjdrt4

Jimmy the Giant

I am godless, but I still pray just in case. Every time I walk into a courtroom, I am afraid I’ll be found out to be the fraud I really am. But I am the genuine article baby. The second I appear on the record, the man I am fades into the background and a much better man shows up. I don’t know much about him. But he is a force of nature. And he is the only reliable thing in my life. So, when John McArthur asked me to show him how it was done, I honestly didn’t have anything for him. I just said, “You want to know how it’s done, kid. You want to see how the sausage is made. Come with me." Judge Almeida’s courtroom is a tornado of activity. Public defenders call out the names of their clients from the well of the court. The assistant prosecutors sit at the lefthand table or in the jury box. Sheriff’s officers and clerks walk back and forth exchanging papers and a few short words. We all stand as Judge Almeida enters from his chambers at the far righthand side of the courtroom. A bailiff bangs three times on the door to signal the Judge is coming out and says, “All rise.” Judge Almeida sees me and says, “James Osman Leary, what have you got on the calendar for today?” “Cassandra Sanchez,” I say. “Prisoner?” he asks. “Yes Judge,” I say. “Paul,” he says to my favorite sheriff’s officer, “are the female inmates up yet.” Paul nods, and the Judge says, “Bring her out.” The Judge calls the docket number for the case and then says, “Mr. Prosecutor, what are we doing here today, arraignment? Plea?” “Your honor,” I say, “If I may, James O. Leary, on behalf of Cassandra Sanchez, standing to my right. We waive a reading of the indictment, enter a plea of not guilty on all counts, and we’d like to move to dismiss the case for lack of probable cause.” “Mr. Prosecutor,” Judge Almeida says, “What is the State’s position?” “Umm,” the frumpy, disheveled female prosecutor says, shuffling papers. “State would, uhh, point Your Honor to the Arrest Report for a demonstration of probable cause. This woman beat her daughter within an inch of her life [ That’s a bit rich ]… uhh, and choked her on another occasion [ Oh, please, spoil the rod, ever hear of that —]” “Please, Mr. Leary! Don’t interrupt Ms. Kosinski while she’s speaking,” the Judge says, with a wink. Then he says, “Very well, what is your argument for dismissal counselor?” “Your honor, I read the statute. Just to be sure I had it correct—I re-read it three times . [ Pointing to the statute book, open on the table before me ]. New Jersey Statutes Title 2C, Section 12-1(3), of which Ms. Sanchez stands accused, says, and I quote: attempts by physical menace—there’s no allegation of physical menace here. Ms. Sanchez was simply disciplining her child, chasing her about the house with a mop handle—and a good thing she did. She had just found out that her thirteen-year-old daughter was dating an eighteen-year-old boy. Let’s not even get into what that implies or what the appropriate discipline there might be. Suffice it to say Judge—safe to say—I think—that if chasing your child around the house with a stick was a crime punishable by five years in State Prison—the two of us would have been raised by wolves. I can’t even tell you how many times my Mother—" “—Point taken counselor. Point taken.” Out in the hallway, I was a fraud again. With every step away from the counsel table, my confidence unraveled. John McArthur looked at me, eyes wide, seeing someone that simply did not exist. I told John McArthur, “And that’s how it’s done. Now, before we go, we need to go in the back, and I need to say a few words to Ms. Sanchez.” The two of us stroll back into the courtroom and I ask Paul, the sheriff’s officer, to let us into the back of the courtroom to the holding cells. I tell Paul, “Can Sheila come back with us, I need a Spanish translator.” In the back, the floors are white tile, the walls are painted gray brick, and the steel cell doors of the holding cells are painted with the same gray paint. Paul looks on while we talk. The diminutive Spanish woman, Cassandra Sanchez, stands behind the bars looking out at me. Sheila translates as I tell her that it is going to be alright and I am going to get a plea deal from the State and get her out in two weeks, next time we are back in court. She holds out her hand through the bars, I clasp it in mine and say, “You did nothing wrong. I am going to get you out of this.” She starts speaking in Spanish and says a few words to Sheila. Sheila turns to me and says, “She wants to know if you can get a message to her daughter.” “Sure, I say,” a bit taken aback, as her daughter’s false allegations landed her here. “She wants you to tell Linda that her mother loves her,” Sheila says. “Anything else,” I ask Sheila, even more thrown by this message. I see Cassandra shaking her head with tears in her eyes. I repeat again, “You did nothing wrong. I am going to get you out of this.” And then we are on our way. But the truth of the matter is, we’ve all done plenty wrong. None of us are getting away with any of it. And we all pretty much deserve whatever we get. * * * John McArthur is a tall kid. Maybe 6’4”. And I am 5’5” all day long. But I stand as tall as a giant, and he has the posture of a field mouse. It is a weird thing. He is a clean-cut kid. Has an innocent look to him. Honest. Principled. Rule follower. Still thinks the laws are just. Not cut out for this at all. Just hopeless. I can tell. John is tearing into a turkey hoagie, salt and vinegar chips, and a diet Coke. He has no idea what is going on with me and doesn’t know I’m not eating this early because it’ll cut into all the amphetamines in my system—so I just nurse a diet Coke and steal a few of his chips. I could quite literally be the worst person he could possibly turn to as a mentor. “So how do you know if you’d be an effective courtroom lawyer,” John asks. “It’s just one thing,” I say. “Which is?” he asks. “It doesn’t make any sense just saying it—you wouldn’t understand,” I tell him. “But what is it?” he asks. “Take their place,” I say. “I don’t get it,” John tells me. “How could you,” I say. “But explain it to me,” John says. “Suffering. It’s like the Sistine Chapel. What do Michelangelo and a prostitute have in common?” I ask. “What?” “They both do their best work on their back,” I say, slapping my knee. “Anyway, Michelangelo endured tremendous, agonizing pain to paint that ceiling—and yet it is a marvel of the modern world—to see it is to glimpse the divine. But I always ask myself, why’d he do it?” “Why?” John asks. “You’ll suffer for the thing that is true,” I tell him, “Because the gift runs the show when it’s real.” “What does that mean? I mean, I have a gift for language, I like people, but I’ve got no idea what it is you’re talking about,” John says. “If you have a gift and you are truly cursed, you’ll suffer for it—suffer for what’s true—whether you want to or not—you are just compelled to do it—until you can’t anymore. And if you don’t have it, it will make no sense to you—but, if you do have it—you’ll get it,” I tell him. “Suffer for what’s true?” John asks again. “You’ll suffer for the payoff. You’ll suffer because you know you can deliver something. And you are just as curious as everyone else how it’s going to turn out. You are along for the ride. You are in the hands of God. If it isn’t like that, my advice is don’t do it,” I say. “I want you to teach me,” John says. “Are you listening to what I’m telling you,” I say. “I want you to teach me,” he says. “Not a chance in hell kid, you gotta find somebody else,” I tell him. “But you said it—you’re the one that suffers for the thing that is true,” John says. “You got the wrong guy, kid. I’m just a fraud,” I tell him. “I don’t think so,” he says. * * * Being on cocaine, for me, is kind of like delivering an acceptance speech at the Academy Awards. “And the Oscar goes to…”. When you are on cocaine, you know it’s going to be you. Not even a question. Confidence on a morphine drip. And then you mix that with a little Adderall, or Addie, as I like to call her, and it is like standing in the middle of a library and you have perfect recall of every word on every page of every book. But the most addictive drug of all is the practice of law itself. Ever wonder what it’s like to have something everyone wants? To be the ‘hot girl’ in class or the ‘prom queen’? It’s kind of like that. Clients put their lives in your hands. Court appearances are attended with the pomp and circumstance of a presidential inauguration. The number of meetings, requests for meetings, and impromptu calls for emergencies is like a time machine where time is barreling forward relentlessly. You are in demand. You have the thing. You are the product. I imagine it is a lot like working in a newsroom. Infinite deadlines. Only, we get the calls when someone has to decide whether to take the one that brought them into the world off life support, when a single mom is ready to part with their entire life savings to keep their ne’er-do-well kid out of jail, or when a politician is falling from grace and favor and will do anything to extend their run a bit longer—get just fifteen more minutes in the spotlight—enjoy for one more moment the presumption of innocence which, after all, no one really believes in anyway. But if you want to know what the real drug is. It’s the forgiveness of sins. Jesus had it right. Forgiveness. Understanding. It’s literally the only thing anyone wants. The only real commodity any human soul can dish out. And no one can buy an ounce of it for all the money in Christendom. * * * It is all over the papers. Defense Attorney Steals $3MM From Client . Another one reads: Defense Attorney Turned Defendant , and another one says: Attorney Who Takes Drugs for Breakfast Violates Oath.  And it’s all true. Do you ever think about what it’s like to be the bad guy? To be guilty? In the deepest sense? If you are like all of my clients, you think you are the good guy. You were given a bum rap right from the beginning. The system is out to get you. Your options are limited. Excuses galore. You don’t see yourself as the mayor of Witch City—the wickedest of them all—but you are. The problem for me is, I know I am too far gone to ever be redeemed. I am under no allusions about who is wearing the white hats and who is wearing the black ones. I know what’s what. I know that none of my good deeds will cover up a jot of the evil I’ve wrought. And I know for a fact that I won’t get away with any of it. My secretary, Linda, who has been with me for twenty-three years looks like she just found out that George Washington was on board with genocide—which is a thing—but never mind about that. The look on her face quite literally breaks my heart. * * * “You ready to head to court?” I ask as John strolls in eating a sausage egg and cheese out of the wrapper. “What do you mean?” John asks me. “Didn’t you see the papers?” “I saw them,” I say. “And you are still going to court today?” John asks. “Might not be able to for much longer,” I tell him. “But why?” John asks. “Because I can. I can get Cassandra Sanchez off. Maybe five or ten others. It’s what I can do, so it’s what I’m going to do,” I tell him. “You should be preparing your own defense, fighting the charges, not worrying about Cassandra Sanchez,” John says. “There’s no point, kid. I’m guilty. That’s how this goes. When it’s time, I’ll plead out and turn in my law license,” I tell him. “You can’t be—you have to fight,” he says. “I most certainly can, and I am. Sorry to burst your bubble buddy boy, but a lot of your heroes are somebody else’s villains. That’s life,” I say. * * * We stand before Judge Almeida. Cassandra Sanchez stands to my right. Sheila, the translator, stands to her right. “Ms. Sanchez, you do understand that if you plead guilty here today to… disturbing the peace, that you will be giving up your rights, including your right to a trial by jury, your right to be presumed innocent until the State proves that you are guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, your right to confront the witnesses against you, your right to present evidence in your own defense, and your right to be judged by your peers?” Judge Almeida asks. “I do,” Cassandra says, through the translator. “Factual basis, counselor,” Judge Almeida says, looking at me. “Ms. Sanchez, on April 23rd of 2023, did you in fact chase your daughter Linda around the house with a mop handle, disturbing the peace and frightening your daughter,” I ask. “Yes,” she says. “Ms. Sanchez. Are you pleading guilty because you are in fact guilty? [Yes]. And you do understand that if you come back later and tell me that your plea of guilty was in error because you did not, in fact, understand that you were admitting to these facts, I’m not likely to believe you. [Yes]. Alright then, then I will accept your plea of guilty,” Judge Almeida says. “Thank you, your honor,” I say. “I will now pronounce sentence, and Ms. Sanchez, I advise you to abide by the civil restraints imposed. But I will pronounce the sentence, finding aggravating factors 3, 6, and 9. But I also find mitigating factors 8, 9, and 10, that—and I paraphrase—the Defendant has learned her lesson and won’t do it again—and do not believe it is necessary to incarcerate Ms. Sanchez in order to deter further criminal conduct,” Judge Almeida says. “Thank you, your honor,” I say. “Ms. Sanchez, you have a very fine attorney, very fine. And you have him to thank. This is a serious aggravated assault charge, which also constitutes child abuse, which carries a minimum term of imprisonment, but for which you are walking out of this courtroom today a free woman. Your attorney has represented your interests well,” Judge Almeida says. “Thank you, your honor,” I say. And I think that I won't get many more of these attaboys from a Judge when putting a plea on the record or concluding a sentencing hearing. My days are numbered. And can be counted on one hand. “You are free to go,” Judge Almeida says and leaves the bench. Cassandra looks at the translator, confused. Paul unlocks her handcuffs and hands her a bag of her belongings. Cassandra looks over at me, even more confused. “Sheila, tell her she is free to go,” I say. Cassandra understands and wraps her arms around me and gives me a huge hug, bursting out in tears. Smiling tears. The kind you only see at weddings and on those rare and magnificent occasions where someone who is as guilty as the day is long is forgiven their sins, and told their debt is paid in full. It is quite a thing. To see someone who is innocent walk out of a courtroom. To go from slave to free, from prisoner to citizen, from accused to blameless. It is quite a thing to have the Judge announce your time is served. It is quite a thing to be free to go. But I am not. I have not even begun to serve my time. I’m going to miss this part the most, I think, as I watch Cassandra Sanchez walk out of the courtroom a free woman.

dxmx7o

Ehecatl

I don’t know what it is about this stupid blade but every time I touch it, I can’t stop the images that cloud my vision. My whole world turns shades of white and grey while the images play out what I can only guess to be some part of a past life. It never makes any sense to me, but one thing that never fails to take my breath away are the piercing bright green eyes that shine through the dull images drawing me in and pulling me this way or that until I come back to reality completely unaware of where I am or how I got there. I’ve been lucky thus far, my conscious self-coming back in places where the trees provide a dense protection of wise shade, water lazily flows in thin veining streams, and the animals are the only eyes to be seen for miles. My mother had said this blade was the key to my future, but as I stand here staring at the shiny, sharp, object latched to the belt around my waist all I feel is apprehension and resentment that she didn’t say more. Although I look back on my time with my mother fondly, she often frustrated me with her way of making everything into some form of a riddle. I always felt there was more she wanted to say, but I guess she never felt comfortable speaking her truths aloud. She was more affectionate than most others in our village were towards me, but I don't think that says much because she really didn't have the relationship with me that I saw other women in the village having with their mothers. Truthfully, I always felt quite out of place here. Like I never really made sense in their world, and never would. That's why I always lost myself in these woods, feeling more at home on my own in the elements than where all of my family and friends resided. As I pace back and forth lost in my thoughts about life and how I ended up with this magical, yet incredibly frustrating blade, the hairs on the back of neck begin to rise, a telltale sign in this forest that something is coming and whatever it is, it’s not good. Before I can start the trek to find my way back to the village, the sky grows dark and unnerving. I arch my neck to peer up at what could cause the sudden disturbance, sure enough, there it is. A vast and endless array of the most terrifyingly beautiful black scales. An endless night sky. Ehecatl. That’s when the screaming begins. I had heard the stories of nearby villages facing the wrath of such a demon but didn’t think our time to face such a creature would come so soon. Just as it had begun, it had ended. What lay before me, what was once my home was now a pile of ash and bone. From what I could tell there wasn't a single person that had made it out. Before my mind can catch up to what my body decided to do, I was off. Wherever this creature was going, I would follow. Until my feet were bleeding and my lungs were gasping for air, I would follow. This thing, this Ehecatl, stole my life away from me in a matter of minutes and I would chase it down until I could return that very favor. By the time it had finally landed the night stars shone bright in the sky. I continued to move forward solely relying on my intuition. I let my feet lead the way up, up, up. As I made my way the path I was following on the mountain continued to narrow, I now found myself shimmying along with my back pressed up against one side and my toes still dangling over the ledge while tiny bits of rocks from the very edge plummeted down, down, down. I can’t stop. Even as rain rolls in and starts to tickle my face with tiny drops that I knew would soon be consumed by thunderous booms and striking blasts of light, I can’t stop. I hear the rumbling begin just as I start to lose my footing, I slip just over the edge and the free fall commences, I turn around as quickly as I can and reach for my blade that is strapped to my waist hoping to plunge it into the rock, but as soon as the cold metallic blade bites my fingertips, the world begins to fade as shades of grey and white begin to form and the world as I knew it begins to fade once again into nothing but a pair of piercing green eyes. I could feel whatever was coming before it had physically touched me. It was like an electric current that found it’s way to my very core. I was sure I had been struck by lightening until I felt something catch me. My vision was still clouded with images of white and grey making it impossible to tell reality from whatever visions danced before my eyes. I had to be dreaming as I was gently lowered into the soft, wet ground. Whatever had saved me had dropped me in an open field filled with nothing but overgrown grass and what appeared to be a small log cabin. As I quickly gathered my bearings the storm started to pick up so before I could think I started to run as fast as my legs would carry me to that log cabin standing on the opposite end of the clearing. Without so much as a knock I opened the door, hoping whatever I found inside would be less confusing, less intriguing than whatever had just happened to me outside. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was empty, and whilst it was small it felt incredibly inviting, as if I already knew where everything was I made my way over to the only window that this cabin had to try and figure out what had saved me, when I saw it. It wasn’t the sheer size of the beast that disturbed me. It wasn’t the way his wings looked like they could take down an entire army in one small swoop. No, it was the all too familiar, piercing green eyes that stared directly at me through the rain. As if what I was seeing wasn’t unsettling enough, I continued to watch as those piercing green eyes shrunk, and changed into a mess of lean muscle, and curly black hair as dark as the night sky. I couldn’t stop myself from walking towards the door and opening it to get a better look at whatever this was that I was seeing, but when I saw the large gash in his side spanning from his hip all the way up to the bottom of his rib cage. Without so much as a second thought I rushed out to him just as he started to fall to the ground. With his head in my hands, I ripped a piece of my cloak to apply pressure to the wound and helped him slowly sit, then stand and hopefully make it back to the cabin and out of the relentless rain. Time seemed to both fly by and stand still as I worked to try and repair the skin that had somehow gotten mangled by the elements as this man that I have been seeing for the past several months in flashes of my imagination faded in and out of consciousness. After what felt like a lifetime the bleeding began to subside and curiosity got the best of me while I studied the unconscious face of the monster in front of me. How could something so beautiful be so destructive? Why had I been seeing him in visions? What was his tie to this very blade that my mother gave me before she passed away? As I started to get lost in the thoughts that were running through my mind at an unnerving speed, I was suddenly rooted to my spot and pulled back into the moment at hand as his eyes flew open. I don’t know what drew me to him, but I leaned in slightly as I took in the sharp curves of his chin and cheek bones waiting for his lips to open and say something, anything really to explain what was happening. I knew that this man in front of me was the very creature that I was hunting down to slaughter mere hours ago, the irony of the fact that I just saved the life of the thing that killed everything I held dear to my heart does not escape me. Yet, as I looked in his eyes, I knew there was more to whatever he was, and whatever he was doing that I couldn’t help but feel pity for the lonely gleam that shone through. A small gasp escaped me as the words “You have my blade.” Rang clear as day through the silence. I jumped back not because I was scared but because the deep, raspy voice that came from him felt like something I had heard a million times before. As if reading my thought, and not having the patience to wait for me to work through whatever ideas were working their way through my brain, he slowly stood and walked his way over to me, I was sure it would be my end, but for some unknown reason I wasn’t scared. I closed my eyes and waited as I felt his fingers brush against my waist, shooting another jolt of that electric current I had felt earlier, grabbing the blade my mother had given me. I don't know why I had the sudden rush of relief flooding my body as the blade left the strap on my waist, instead finding it's home in this man's hand, but it felt like the blade had been crying out to me for so long and it had now finally found where it had been dying to go. In that moment, I knew I could not be the one to take his life. Within a matter of minutes and a few words from that unnerving voice, I had gone from hatred and anger to awe and confusion. I could not explain what compelled me to to do what I did next, but I knew it was meant to come to fruition. I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his without hesitation, before he could do anything to stop me. What happened next took my breath away as all I could see was a different version of those very same images that would play in shades of white and grey only this time they weren’t. As if some veil had dropped, I could see everything in vivid color, I could hear the voices of the images ringing loud and clear in my mind. It was no past life. Those images they were memories from a time before I lived in the village that I had called home, thinking that was where I was born and raised. I was wrong. This was wrong, but it was the truth. That place was no home to me, I had only been there a measly year and a half. The truth was beautiful and cruel. These memories, they revealed my world to me like a storybook. I didn't fit in, I didn't belong in that village because it was never truly my home. I watched and listened as my childhood, happy as can be, and my young adulthood made their way back to me and the lies those people embedded in my brain using their ancient magic were unraveled. It was like that blade and these lips that I kissed were piercing my very soul and opening it up to what my reality was and how much I truly missed it. My heart ached as I saw my life before I was taken, before I was changed, play out and dance in wonderful color. My family, my life, and him. He was no monster. He was my other half. He was the better part of myself. He wasn’t destroying the lives of the people I loved he was burning down every village of ancient witches who had stolen my life. He was searching for me. In that moment when I took a step back to peer into those endless green eyes my heart cracked a little more and I knew, I had found my way back home.

f8vegh

An Ode to A RETIRED Dragon Slayer

It was a quiet afternoon in 1936. But from the looks of things—dark clouds and all—the Dales of Central England would soon be getting a drenching!   Reginald Peachy Carnehan—retired from service in India moved back to the family residence he inherited; in the Dales of Central England.  After twenty-five years of keeping the peace in India...and a wild adventure in conquering a few smaller kingdoms—then making the mistake of letting his friend, Daniel Dravot talk him into helping to conquer the tiny kingdom of Kafiristan.  Peachy wasn’t fooled by any excuses his like long friend gave him for such a crazy endeavor. Dravot had seen the hottest female in all Central Asia...and he wanted to be a king...for the express purpose of having her as his queen. During a quarrel...or a misunderstanding...whatever it was, the future ‘queen’ lost-it...screamed...and... The latter incident ended up nearly killing Peachy...and resulted in his best friend Daniel Dravot’s head being wrapped in a towel and used as a ‘ polo ball’ . Seems the locales didn’t care much for Englishmen wanting more than a look at their women. To this day...I have no idea how I came out of it all...alive.” (With my apologies to my favorite author – R. Kipling...) On the topic of ‘wild adventures’... Peachy’s ancestry went back eons. Even back to the times when battles with Dragons were in vogue. ( Particularly in the pubs when men were known to drink until their brains exploded...or the ilk.) In fact the mantle over a huge fireplace that heated half the house—had a couple of ‘replicas’ of dragons with wings...assembled-created by a local taxidermist. A couple of his old army buddies suggested that he toss the ‘old-flea infested ‘creations into a bonfire. “Getting rid of ‘em...might help you forget about going out and doing battle with’em.”  Leaving the house, still feeling the effects of more-than-usual amounts of a variety of alcoholic beverages...he staggered out past a barn—long since used—and into a field with stones similar in size to those found at Stonehenge and lesser stone-pilgrimage-sites.  Obviously picking up from where he left off in a ‘bad dream’ Reginald continued with his rant: “Me thinks I should slay a dragon.” Reginald thought to himself... Or did I already say that...aload?” Reginald pondered. Then, to possibly bolster his drunken courage, he shouted “ME THINKS I SHOULD SLAY A DRAGON” From behind an extremely large, oblong rock came an extremely loud BELCH ...followed by a semi-sarcastic “ I gehȳrde þē ærest tīd .” Reginald's look was accompanied by: “YIKES! Where did that come from?” Silence!  Reginald glanced about...but seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he made his way to the other side of the huge rock, to have a look. Another “ YIKES!” followed...by an even louder, if that were possible...  “WHAT THE &*#$%^&!!! IS THAT? Never mind...I know...” Reginald was suddenly face to paw with an apparently live DRAGON.  And a dragon that or who (whichever is correct for dragons)...could talk.  “I must beg your pardon, Reggie ol’ bean... Do you, of all people, actually think you would be capable of slaying a dragon?” the Dragon articulated quite nicely for a dragon, Reginald considered.  The GIGANTIC DRAGON belched, then flapped his wings...followed by a second, even louder BELCH and a blast of fire, comparable to any Reginald had ever seen as a boy, coming from his father’s smithy . Reginald appeared to be considering—as best he could in his drunken state—what his chances would be against the dragon. He settled on: “Before I slay you... What should I call you? How about Falkor? It sounds a little bit like a small bird that loves to hunt for its prey. “I swatted at one, once...when it was pestering me.” “Did you kill it?” “I’m not sure. It was pestering me...and I gave it a ‘swat’... Not sure if I killed it or not. I was in Paris at Notre...something or other, whatever they call it. And the last I saw of the falcor, it was flying, out of control, through the middle trusses of the Eiffel Tower.” The dragon appeared to be smiling: “Ohh...yeah... My name... I’ve been called by a lot of names: Arman’s not my favorite, for certain. “I think my favorite is a name given me...by a Japanese warrior...just before I torched him to a crisp,” the nameless dragon said, then made a sound...barely recognizable as a laugh. “I once read about a very vicious dragon... Saphira .” Harrrumphh was the immediate response. “Much too feminine for my liking. They’ll kill ya’ with no problem, if you get on their bad side... But, nah...too feminine” “It was reported a couple of hundred years ago...that my great-great grandfather fought a dragon named Falkor.” “Who won?” the dragon inquired. “My Great-Great grandfather, of course.” “Odd...” “What’s odd?” Reginald inquired. “Well... As you know, dragons never die.” “What...?” “True...and I just saw Falkor a few months ago...over in what you earthlings' call, Denmark...or was it Sweden...one of those...funny talkin’ countries.”   Reginald yawned. “What are you doing tomorrow?” “Why... Think you’ll be any more...think you’ll be sobber?” Reginald appeared to be thinking...straining to think, but nevertheless, thinking. “No... But I never expected to run into an intelligent dragon, so why would I want to kill one?” “Oh... I’m not intelligent... You should meet my cousin Dagahra.” Reginald yawned, then gave a wave to...whatever his/her name was. Suddenly it hit him. “Do you...or do you not...have a name?” “I thought you‘d never ask. “What is it?” “How about a deal?” “What kind of deal?” “Well...Maynor... If you can guess my name, I’ll fly off to France or Germany...or maybe to Australia or New Zealand...and never both you Brits again. “Oh... You mean something like the challenge the little guy offered.” “What little guy? What offer? “I’m not sure of the pronunciation...but Rumpel something.” Maynor smiled...like he’d just won a big prize. “Rumpelstiltskin, eh?” END Old English: I gehȳrde þē ærest tīd = I heard you the first time!  

3e3h6f

How I Learned To Love The Dragon

Upon the fiery mountain of Basgul, lay a blue-scaled dragon, that presented his teeth the size of a house, his breath that wielded fire and could wipe out a city with one huff and puff to anyone who dared cross his path. But these tales were told only of men from the city, Valanti. This city had been planning for many months now how to take down the dangerous dragon, in charge of the operation is Sander Morronis. The head of the guards that defended Valanti. Sander believed that this dragon posed a great threat to the city and he told the city of one night when he was on duty that it flew past the city, its wings flapping so hard it caused the wind to push Sander down, and the dragon's teeth, shining a reflection of the cities ruin. One warrior did not believe these tales told by Sander Morronis, instead, he thought they were exaggerations or lies completely. The warrior wanted to seek this dragon out on his own. To him, the dragon didn't sound like a threat and he believed that Sander wanted to slay a peaceful beast who had no problem with anyone because of the fame and riches he would acquire. This warrior wanted to seek out the blue-scaled dragon before Sander Morronis set out on his mission to slay it. Dawn, the Warrior would almost be ready to gather his things and go out to find the beast, before looking outside and seeing that Sander's men have started on their path to Basgul Mountain, readying their weapons and armor. When seeing this, the Warrior realized that he would have to pack light and be fast. When leaving the house, the Warrior realized if he wanted to approach the dragon without appearing as a threat he would have to not carry any weapons the dragon would think would be used on him. The Warrior is now weaponless, leaving him open for Sander's men if they wished to think of him as a threat and strike him down. The Warrior packed his clothes, some bread, a bread knife, some ham, and some water. Though the Warrior also packed ale, though he does not drink. Leaving his house, The Warrior set out on his path and headed to Basgul Mountain, hoping to find its beauty. At midday of the first day, The Warrior is at the bottom of the mountain, he is closer than Sander's men but he is still far from his goal. The Warrior must seek some fire for warmth and to eat something, he has walked 2 hours without stop. The Warrior places his bag down and opens it, revealing water, food, and ale, tightly packed in the corner. He takes out the water and drinks it, getting carried away by his thirst, he almost drinks the whole thing. He then wipes the water, surrounding his lips and places the water back into the bag. He then takes out the bread and ham and sits down, relaxing for a couple of moments before he starts his path up the mountain. He takes the bread and cuts it, slowly but surely, he does not want to waste any crumbs and does not want to waste any bread for the path up is cruel. He places the bread on an oak log, facing him, and then gets the ham which he starts cutting into small perfect circles. He has his sandwich now and he is proud of it. He has a fire in front of him that is bright. Though he isn't happy for too long as he hears Sander's men march closer and closer to the foot of the mountain. He finishes his perfect sandwich, packs his bag properly, wipes the breadcrumbs from his now-warm cheeks, and then looks up and sees that he will have to travel a good few more hours if he wants to find this beauty. A good few more hours later the warrior has reached the middle of the mountain, he looks down and sees a good 50 torches alight, coming up the mountain, they are signaling war to the dragon. The Warrior can't make pitstops as he can almost hear the dragon's breaths, though they are not of fire. He has an idea to stop Sander's men coming closer, he will want time to inspect this dragon on his own and he cannot do so with the thought of 50 men's swords on the back of his mind. He also cannot inspect the dragon if the dragon thinks that he is with Sander's men. The Warrior has plans to use the ale he brought with him. He doesn't drink, but Sander's men do. As does Sander's but without a doubt, Sander's is not down with the 50 men he provided for the mission for he fears the dragon. The Warrior places the ale on the path and waits for some of Sander's men to arrive. Though there isn't enough for 50 men. The Warrior makes his way up the path a little then goes behind a tree, keeping watch on the ale that is in the middle of the road just down ahead. A good 30 minutes later or so, The Warrior sees that the men edge closer, their torches still ablaze and their minds set. But not for long... One man notices the ale, drops his torch, and straight at it, the others see the ale and run towards it too. Sander's did not provide food or drink for these men, only the briefing of the mission. The first man picks the ale up and drinks it ferociously, the drink is almost finished before the other man grabs it out of his hand and drinks it the same way. 'Hey, I was drinkin' that!' The ferocious drinker shouted. The man does not respond but finishes the ale, his eyes glow as he's finally gotten something to drink. 'Others are thirsty too!' The second ferocious drinker replied back. Though now The Warrior will let them bicker amongst themselves as he drinks his water, smiling because he prepared for Basgul Mountain. The Warrior readies himself and he sets on the path, almost up. Evening, The Warrior can hear the dragon's snores and does not wish to disturb him in his slumber for he will not want to be engulfed in flame, assuming Sander's was right, he can't risk it now. But he also can't wait for Sander's men to get there first since they will want to kill the dragon when it's most vulnerable. The Warrior sees the lair up ahead and decides that it might cost him his life but he will warn the dragon that the city of Valenti wager a war against him. The top of the mountain is not fiery but a beautiful green that attracts all nature, butterflies are seen, yellow and blue and red, all sorts of colors, and there is a stag feeding on the grass, it is healthy and smiles at The Warrior for the stag must know The Warrior brings no harm up here. The Warrior takes his steps and trots into the lair, hearing the dragon's snores, louder and louder as he approaches. He finally arrives at the Dragons Den and he can't describe the beauty but he can of the Dragon. The Dragon's blue scales are true, blue as the ocean and the summer sky, not one of terror. The dragon's wings are huge, yes but also do not seem the type to push anything down in any manner but a playful one. The Dragon sleeps soundly. The Warrior speaks. 'O Beautiful Dragon wake up, for terror is approaching this haven.' The Dragon snores. 'O Beautiful Dragon please awake, for you do not deserve to die.' The dragon snores. 'O Beautiful Dragon please awake for if you do not, the animals of this haven will perish from the terror that is coming.' The Dragon opens it's eyes, it does not care for itself but for the animals the dragon protects in the safe haven it has created. The pupils glow a bright blue similar to the color of sapphire. 'Dear Warrior, thank you for warning me of this terror that approaches. I thank you for not slaying me' The Warrior lets out a smile similar to after he created his perfect sandwich. 'I cannot slay that which is precious to life itself.' The Dragon lets out a smile and stands on its blue legs. 'You passed the test of being human, appreciate this beauty for once when it's gone you cannot appreciate it the same way.' The Warrior takes a look around and appreciates the beauty of the place including the dragon itself. 'Now tell me when do these false humans approach to attempt to destroy this place?' The Dragon shouts. 'A mere hour away at most.' The Warrior responds. The Dragon rises in the air, his wings flapping furiously as he flies out of the lair. The Warrior steps outside and sees that the dragon carries all the animals on his back all secure now, away from terror. The Blue-Scaled Dragon takes a look at The Warrior and speaks a final time to him. 'Once I close my lair, no terror can come in. Nothing can be stolen from there for it is precious. Now go live your life, thank you, Warrior of Peace.' And with that the dragon flew into the starry sky, never to be seen again. That is how The Warrior of Peace learned to love the dragon not hate it.

cal3qo

Tender Heat

Thudded on the silicate perfused road, he was squinting at the hot sunrays bubbling around and through his head and body. The heat so permeable that it was fuming the humidity out of the air. And so stirring, it had weakened Deepak's posture as he was dangling and leaning on his friend Ajay's rocky shoulder. On his left stood a series of impatient bystanders waiting to cross the road. And the road was getting charred and churned by the dashing vehicles whistling rustling past each other producing sparks in between them. There stood a woman wearing blue Salwar Kameez , ( Salwar , a soft airy cotton cloth covering from waist to ankles. Kammez is worn on top. It is a large loose shirt with sleeves reaching up to knees, popular in the Indian subcontinent), which was fluttering in the heated wind, and her hair was tied behind into an oily bun. On her back, was strapped a sleeping baby within a bag like pocket. Deepak saw the baby. He turned, to the tall Ajay with a rough beard. Deepak said, "I am feeling dizzy bro." "Help me cross the road." "Why? What happened?" Ajay asked. "This summer is killing me. I can't walk"  "Didn't you get enough sleep yesterday? Hold on to me, I will take you safely across."  Deepak exhaled, "Thanks, brother." He clasped onto Ajay's warm bulking hand. The traffic had become less turbulent. And a huge well like hot gas filled gap was formed in front of them. They all pedalled forward checking left and right and sailed together like a boat. The woman with the sleeping baby was in front of Deepak, in the center of the huddle, carefully dawdling forward like a duck. The baby was sleeping, and also avoiding the cars like an athlete, held by its mother. Deepak saw the small peaceful careless eyes of the baby, and sealed his eyes while crossing as the cars, big vehicles, and bikes stagnated near them trying to cut through the group. Eyes closed, supported on his friend's shoulder by the strap of his muscles, his legs kept on drooling onwards on their own, floating over the road's surface. The heated air was pressing on his eyes and pressing around like a buzzing helmet. The puzzle of the heat blazed vehicles formed beside, honked at them with such a noise as if heavy iron rail tracks were hurled and melted through the ears of people. For Deepak, the sound just deflected by his friend's thick shoulder and head. A motorbike with its wide handle scarily punched scratched across his friend's shirt while others almost evaded the metal devil. Ajay and the fellow members cursed at the drivers with twisted scornful faces. The baby was settled on the safe earth of the mother's back. He had successfully reached closer to the end riding on Ajay's arms. A large truck hitting the air, pushing a lot of wind forward was coming straight at them and the remaining pedestrians, to just remove through the walking inconsequential wisps of clothes. As it came near, it blared so hard, as if a train engine had just meddled over their heads, and while the woman hunched faster piggybacking in a panic, the baby's being got crisped and the honk minced its supple brain. The baby's body got thrown out of sleep and it woke up hard even unable to cry in horror. Deepak's careless submersion got blasted off along with the parts of his mind and his heart. He spotted the truck and the mother with the crying baby running in hardship. The baby was in tatters, while Ajay was jogging like a deer, dragging on Deepak's careless frame. Deepak immediately waved at the truck driver from few feet away to slow it down. And decided to run with his legs ahead with his friend on one hand, and seized the woman's hand hard and thrust them further on his own strength. The truck driver did not bother to slow down, and the woman lost balance. He caught the woman, tilted her and the child away out of the harm's way and jumped with Ajay. The metallic Monster rock just whirred and carved by their back and butt. The woman thanked him with an inseparable hug. She brought the child to her chest, encapsulating it in love smooching its forehead and with wailing cries trying to calm the child's heartbeat, she kept walking on to her destination. Deepak smiled at the child from afar to pacify it. Child's broken eyes were dotted at him and had healed considerably touched by its mother's tears by that time. The crowd dispersed on their way to the dedicated directions. "Are you okay?" Ajay asked. Deepak said, "I'm fine. I was sleeping. But if we were late by a second, we would have gone under the tyres." "That idiot looked drunk in the daytime. If I see him again, he is getting his truck thrashed and punched on the face." Ajay was chanting in rage.  He flipped the watch on his arm. "Lets go and grab our breakfast. We have to reach the office." Deepak's brain was growing again while his ear was paining in spots. They find their favourite food stall, with many of the children moistured around it and grown up men and women in office uniforms built inside clean ironed vests. "I have got so much work to do. We better eat something quick."  "Yeah," Deepak's stomach was still squirming empty and painfully because of the near accident. The food court, had a whiff of a hot insinuating jumping harsh oily spicy delicious buttery, relief giving cushion in this killing heat. The kids at the corner were licking off the syrup from the ice cream, slowly nibbling at the tips with little teeth absorbing it in their mini tummies while smiling and giggling at each other. The food stall was blistering up with Indian snacks, like Samosa , Pakodi and Chaat items, and Biscuits trapped in glass jars, while the chocolates, desserts and ice creams ready in the glacial freezer. "I'll order Bhel Puri for us," Ajay's voice was running like a fast express rail. ( Bhel Puri is an Indian snack made of puffed rice, vegetables and spices.) Men and women were serious, munching on tea, and other eateries like rabid dogs with a spoon in one hand chirping at someone while holding on tightly to their precious bags. The stall was run by a middle-aged man and a lady. The man's hands were moving like scissors to mix the ingredients in a pan, and musically fry some dishes in the oil. The woman was handing on the ultra warm delicacies to the customers serially while rapidly calculating, collecting and storing the notes and coins in the box like a moving typewriter. The man was hitting the sides of a bowl hard with a sweet ringing tone, blending boiled potatoes, coriander leaves, crispy puffed rice, lemon juice, fried vermicelli mixture, and various degrees of fervent tongue boggling Indian spices. And like a swift bee, he presented them out in two different paper plates on the side, and moved on back to fry the naughty little Pakodis (Fritters) in the oil. The woman randomly picks up the dishes and hands them over to the galloping eyes and stretched arms. While Deepak was adoring the kid with a nearly shaved head who was eagerly waiting to get his share of the ordered magic item. He was gawking at the Bhel Puri papers with enlarged blinking pupils and a curious open mouth. Ajay received his serving and he attacked the jumble of the soft and sharp Bhel Puri immediately. Deepak, still reeling in the needle like tornadoes in his head, strolls close to get the one made for him. The kid next to him was trying to jump, skip up to look for his magic food. The lady blindly spins around and sticks out the Kulfi (a cone shaped frozen Indian dairy dessert) at Deepak and pops the lonely Bhel Puri plate to her left, smoking the kid in its hot kicking aroma. The child grabs at the platter hypnotized by its vibrant beats barely managing to hold onto its nutritional weight, and looks at the Kulfi in front of Deepak tingling with ice droplets. " Kulfi , who wanted it?" Lady asked. The kid hesitatingly raised his hand. Deepak glanced at the kid, and took up the Kulfi by its flat little stick, chilled by its tender frosted breeze. And he somehow managed to hold on to the stick exiting from its bottom, with his thick chapped fingers, which was made for the kids. The buds in his nose, tongues and the injured body were reacting to the beigy creamy sight. Both the kid and Deepak were inching their hands closer to the open mouths while trying to hide from each other. Deepak smiles, "Hey kid, can I take this, please? You eat the Bhel Puri ." Both Deepak and the child were lost in a moment of silent stillness. The kid smiled in the widest grin like an apricot. "Yes, sure uncle, thank you very much," and reaped up a red enveloping bite from Bhel Puri with the spoon, which stirred and springed up his veins, body and face in a deep excitement. Deepak's face grinned into a big coconut sponge, "Well, good boy, enjoy, If you can't eat alone, share it with your friends." And he instantly put the milky conical shape of the ice bar in between his teeth, chewing and slurping off its pistachio, almond scraps, the mint, the dissolving sides made of rice flour rinsed with simmered milk, and icy dews. It drowned him and caused combustible fatty blasts in his brain, and divided the heart into both the lungs, chaneling with the caramel fluids inside. He bit the abundant sweet and sour surface with his tongue and got plummeted down on a chair palpitating, and storing its iced taste in his nerves. Ajay had erased half of his Bhel Puri , as wires of the vermicelli, rice, grains and groundnuts centered on top of his mouth, while his cheeks were swollen, like a toad loading its prey inside to engulf it as quick as possible. "Why the Kulfi ? Have a bigger meal. Its for the kids, we have to work till 6." Deepak's tongue was frozen and mummified in the milky amber. He shook his head, in a raspy voice, "No, this is everything I want," and let out gasps of cold air, consuming all the heat around him.  The kid was bundled in the middle with two other kids, scraping the Bhel Puri , the tangy sweet and spicy branches of spices flowing within and over the crisps of puffed rice and blood cutting green chillies, and ultra creamy mashed potatoes. Bhel Puri grains moved like sharpnels and breached parts of all the systems in the child's biological body. He was jolting uncontrolably, in excitement. The intricacy was too much for a child's thin tongue, and it overloaded his being. By the time, the children finish eating, their minds will have evolved into a fuller adult brain for some minutes just to survive, as a side effect. The kids were shaking their heads and vibrating in happiness. While Ajay, chomped on fast. The flavour of the Bhel Puri , just went straight to his stomach, and dispersed out of his cheeks in thin air. He kept scrolling his phone and gazing at the watch like a pendulum and threw the last few chewed up bites straight into his throat and took objects out of his wallet. "You stay here and come tomorrow. I paid for us," and Ajay checked Deepak's Kulfi , and began running out of his view. "Thanks. The manager won't present you an award for showing him your face so early." Deepak shouted. "Shut up and come fast, seriously." Deepak was satisfied, soon as he consumed the last of the condensed slices, and was harrowed, transported back to the present from his memories as a refreshed new person. The kids were still crunching the smallest of shreds in their tiny mouths and resting in its power. Deepak and the kid locked eyes and elated wide. Deepak stood up as his legs cramped up in ice, and gently dropped the stick inside the dustbin.  After wiping his hands and lips, he shifted towards the kid. "Thank you for the Kulfi , how yummy is the Bhel Puri ?" "Welcome Uncle, Its awesome, and so spicy," and laughed and drank a tumbler of water. "What is your name?" "Mani," the sound came from his milk teeth. "Will buy you something else next time, boy, take care," and rubbed his cute skull. Deepak stood up in pride and went. The sun was beating people up in its furnace, but Deepak was filtering out the harmful rays through the Kulfi's icy layer inside his skin.  He had to zap though his office gate's doors. The tall concrete cemented block was sweltering in the sun, and dust rinsing down its heat absorbed metallic pan of a surface, while people coalesced within the large windows, were walking, working in their desks in a cold capsule of an interior cared by the Air Conditioners. They are scorched by the desktop light and the piles of tabs opened on the screen, as hot and difficult as for the people dotting outside in the sun, and loomed a constant noise of friction created by the files and keyboard keys clicking like concert drums together. While more men and women in tight crisped to the thread formal clothes jogged into the office one after another within the giant automatic glass doors.  Adjacent to this tough structure named Latiom Corp in Chennai, India, a park was situated in a cold sprinkled wind, and possessed a green topped soft bedsheet of a grass, with big trees growing everywhere providing perfumed clouds of shade all over the area, even poking and leaking outside out of the compound walls. Colourful sets of children's playing spots and equipments were built on it, and the kids fondled, and rolled around like little colorful cotton pollens. Driven towards the welcoming shade, he disparted quickly towards the park ignoring the office. And leaning on the short wall, with both of his arms clasped on the top, he gleamed his eyes past every child reflected on the surfaces of the metal equipments like slides, swings, climbers and spinners. And in a state of Kulfi jammed muscles, Deepak was hanging on the short wall gleeing excitedly. Kids were skipping through in joy in school uniforms and candy dresses, rolling over the mattress of wet and warm grass. A stick rang behind him. He turned. A disabled beggar had been near him straddling his stick on the surface calling him in a poor voice, " Bhaiya (bro), Bhaiya ." Spoiled in grey hair, torn clothes, damaged skin falling off in the sun, on weak hungry legs, arms and torso holding an aluminium plate, "I haven't eaten in days, please give me some food, money sir."  "God will bless you," while his eyes were hanging surviving alone in the barest way, tortured every second in his unfortunate life and fate in poverty. Deepak took out the wallet, and swiped its folders searching for a note or two. But his hand just fell through into the empty leathers and found not even a single coin after jostling and bending to its nooks and corners. And he looked back at the beggar's diluted eyes, "I am sorry. I don't have anything to give." The poor man scratched his forehead at the stick in a regular crying disappointment and stumbled on his way, by his bad hip and to hope from anyone else. Deepak kept staring at the wallet's absent patches which had only little dirt left, whereas earlier it was fluttering with bundles of valuable notes or valuable coins. His attention was diverted back to his office. His trance was broken. He took a deep breath and exhaled even more with his head bent down and marched on towards the large gate. The gate keeper foiled up in his blue and dark uniform called, "Deepak sir, Good morning, did you lose your way today?" Deepak mumbled in a weak shout, "No." As he stepped out of the shade, he got slapped by the slabs of sun rays on his face. He winced and with a sturdy resolve trotted towards the gate dragging his shoes on the gravel. A big flock of impending kids just cracking their shoes along the ground, hit him from the front in bulk, rustling past their shoulders with childish power, and blowing up a gale force filled with laughter and teeth cackling. He got pressed back as they push at and around his giant legs with pebble like heads and jelly arms. He had to fall back in the shade of the park. Drenched him in excitement all over, changed and caught in the force and speed of the kids' energy made him run backwards. "Uncle, hey." Mani larked and waved both of his tiny arms celebrating and ran ahead with his girlfriends. Deepak ducked and hit his palms as Mani ran through. He looked at the Gatekeeper, "Ramu kaka," with the empty wallet shaking on his palms, which he slid back in the trouser "Hey, I will meet you in 10 minutes." "Did you lose something in the Park?" The guard wrinkled and asked in a loud raving voice. "Why?" He blew in and pounced on a mini Swing at the end of the park. He thrust himself up, and hurtled onto the platform of the sky with full thundering velocity, creaking and rattling the chain. He was happy again, gliding weightless, responsibilityless. The ID card wrapped on his neck jetted up in the air and got lost in the back. His wallet dropped like a rock and submerged in the grass.

vhl0i2

The Pure At Heart

Others’ stories might start with the night being dark and deary, but if you think this is where this story is heading then you are dead wrong. The night was bright and sunny. Yes, the main character, the brave warrior, I will call him, Cameron, was anything but tall and handsome. Cameron was short, and cute, skinny, wore glasses, and stuttered when he spoke. He lived in Alaska, where everything that could eat him lived. One day, Cameron went for a hike among the pines. The trail was long, curvy, uphill, and treacherous. He stopped to catch his breath. The sun was beating down on him. He took a sip of his water and as he did so, he felt that someone was watching him. Looking around himself, he saw nothing that a normal hiker might not see rocks, a waterfall, a hawk flying overhead, and two squirrels running after each other joyfully. Yet, as he turned a corner going left up a mountain, he encountered a very unpleasant surprise. A dragon sat on the path blocking Cameron’s way. She sat looking at him, deciding whether she should eat him, or play with him like he was a small toy. She decided upon neither. Instead, she watched him to see what he would do next. – Most hikers that had met Misty, the dragon, before had not lived to tell any tale about her, because she had eaten them upon first sight. There was something different, about the lad, Misty sensed. I like him. Cameron thought about running from the dragon in front of him, but he was too shocked to go anywhere. His legs had planted roots, as if he had suddenly become a tree, and his arms felt like branches, which pointed down wanting to grab the bare ground to use it as an anchor, so he would not fall over. A real live dragon, wow! He thought. I always wondered what would happen if one came to life out of one of the books I read, but I never thought it could happen. He continued to ramble in his thoughts. He thought he might encounter a bear, a snake, or say a boar, and those animals were bad enough to encounter while hiking, but a dragon? He wondered if he was hallucinating. He rubbed his eyes, opened, and closed them to make sure, but the dragon was still there. Misty blew a ring of smoke out of her nose at the young man. He clearly did not know what to make of her. After a minute or two of silence, she playfully removed the baseball cap on his head, and put it back on gently and smiled. The young man was not moving. He just continued to stare at her. Growing impatient she decided to speak. “Young man, are you lost? Do you know where you are? Cat got your tongue?” she yawned and smiled, partially, because she was really playing with him now, and because her stomach began to grumble, and she was getting hungry. The young hiker cleared his throat, “I, I, I have never met a dragon.” His cheeks grew red. “Can I touch your scales?” By now, he thought he was dreaming, so he decided to play along with the dragon. He was a bit worried about the noise he heard from her tummy, but he did have two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in his backpack. If the stranger thought about eating him he could offer those instead as an alternative. “Yes, you may touch my scales young one. What is your name? May I ask if you are traveling with anyone, an army of sorts?” Her eyelashes moved up and down. She was seriously thinking about eating him for lunch. She had not eaten breakfast this morning and so she was feeling aches in her abdomen that were unbearable. Cameron moved forward and touched her blue-green and purplish scales on her shoulder. As he did so, he said, “My name is Cameron and no, there is no army behind me.” He thought her scales would be rough, but they were the exact opposite. “Oh,” he sighed, “you are as soft as silk. Your scales remind me of this pillow I have at home on my couch. If you touch the pillow and move the sequins on it back and forth, they form different pictures. Its texture is like your scales. You are beautiful, “he smiled. Okay the young man is getting cheeky, thought the dragon. I am hungry. Do I eat him now, or should I just let him go? He looks as harmless as a fly. She opened her mouth and moved forward and was to reach down and swallow him whole when she smelled something in his backpack. “What is that wonderful smell coming out of your backpack?” she said with a bit too much eagerness. Seeing he was in trouble; Cameron’s eyes grew big. His arms came alive and threw the backpack to the ground. He unzipped it. He took out the sandwiches and laid them in front of the hungry dragon. “Here you go. I hope you like them.” If she liked them, she would let him go. At this point in his journey, he had decided that climbing the mountain today was not a promising idea. He felt weak and his own stomach was beginning to grumble. Misty had no children of her own. A sudden empathic sigh came from her throat. “You are hungry too I see. We can share. Thank you for this delightful morsel,” she said as she swallowed the sandwich whole. “Oh, that is delicious. “I would like another, if you have one,” she gave her best smile. “I am sorry. I do not have any more,” said Cameron, “But I can bring you one tomorrow, if you let me go home.” He smiled hoping the dragon would let him go. His knees were growing weaker and weaker and thought he might faint. The dragon thought about Cameron’s offer. It would be nice to have another peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Would he come back though? She decided to take a chance. “I will let you go, but you must bring me another one of these delicious morsels tomorrow.” Cameron agreed and then with a sudden burst of energy practically ran down the hill. I cannot believe I just saw a dragon. I want to believe this is real, but is it really, he thought to himself as burst into his house. His mom looked at him from the kitchen and said, “Where have you been? Take off those muddy shoes and put them by the door.” “I, I was hiking up the mountain,” Cameron exclaimed. He said nothing more. He was sure his mom would not believe him. He took off his shoes and ran up the stairs, closed the door behind him to his bedroom and then hopped on his bed. Soon, the boy was fast asleep, forgetting to even undress for bed. He was thankful to be alive. The next day, after going to church with his family, he changed his clothes and shoes and then he went into the kitchen. His family were all downstairs in the living room. He packed two peanut butter sandwiches and put them in his backpack. He went outside and went to the path that led up the mountain. Strangely enough, he was eager to see the dragon. He had not asked her name, like she had requested of him. He was not afraid to meet her again, he was more in awe of this mystical wonder. He wondered where she came from. He climbed the path once again. He loved being out in nature. He still wanted to climb to the top of the mountain, as he had wanted to the previous day, but would the dragon let him? As he turned the curve left to do so, the dragon was not there. He wondered if she had forgotten him, or had he just dreamed her into existence. He continued going upward, over large boulders. He was near the top when he saw the dragon. She was flying overhead. She spotted him. She picked him up by his backpack, and he held on to it and her tightly as she flew up to the peak of the mountain. She sat him down. “Good morning, young man. Have you brought me anything?” Misty was smiling, and surprised that Cameron had braved the path once again. She had assumed he might not want to come back, because her looks might have scared him off, if not her big claws, but no she was happy to see that it had not. Cameron smiled and said, “Yes, madam. Can I ask what your name is?” The dragon was even more delighted with her new friend. “Yes, it is Misty.” Cameron took out the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and laid them down in front of her. “I have eaten breakfast this morning, so please eat both. If you need something more to eat, then I can try to hunt down a bear for you,” he told the old dragon. Misty sniffed the delightful morsels and ate them both up. “Thank you, young one. I do love them so. No, there is no need to catch a bear for me, as I am a skilled hunter. I could get one if I wanted to. My belly gets full faster than you think.” The dragon sat down beside him. He took a chance and sat down himself. “You are not like the other hikers that have come up my mountain before you.” She eyed Cameron and smiled and began to talk again, “Aren’t you afraid, that I might eat you or tear you apart into tiny bits and pieces?” Cameron looked over at Misty, “If you were going to hurt me, you would have already done so.so. so...” Misty eyed the young brave warrior in front of her. She had never met another person like him. “Why do you stutter so then when I talk to you?” “I was born this way,” Cameron said slower, and something happened, that even he had never noticed up until that point in time. He realized that has he was less nervous, and calm, that the stutter began to go away. He had never noticed it, because he usually felt anxious when talking to others and this was the first time, he felt safe. Misty being a mystical dragon of course could read his thoughts. “We both have learned something new today. “I have met someone I can trust and so have you. Do you like books? I have a whole lair of them. There are books about history, astronomy, culture, and people that have visited this planet before my time and yours. My favorite book talks about the planet where all dragons come from and how we came to live here on earth. I do not mind you looking through the books if say you promise to bring me another peanut butter and jelly sandwich tomorrow?” Mistry grinned. “I will bring the sandwiches after school. My parents and teachers will search for me if I miss school.” Misty, being old, knew that the grownups might have a problem with the young lad spending time together with her. They did not trust as easily as children. She believed that not all adults remembered what real friendship was about, a place where you felt safe, and no one would ever dare to make one afraid. A place of honor. “Yes, I can wait until then. I will make sure I eat my breakfast tomorrow. Thank you.” They both stared at the sky, neither one of them knowing if it was late or not, as the Alaskan sky was bright and sunny most days, during the three to six months, that the sun refused to go down. After a long time, Cameron’s eyes grew tired and he knew that he must return home and so he got up and said, “I must leave now. I will come again tomorrow. I bring you the sandwich and view your marvelous library.” Misty waved at him as he left. Arriving at home, Cameron quietly went up to his bedroom unnoticed. His parents and siblings were already fast asleep. In a family of eight, Cameron felt overlooked, but he was okay with his situation. He was not comfortable with the loud parties they would attend or being around their friends. He liked being the hermit. He liked being different. Everyone around him was usually comfortable with him being somewhere in the background. Around, but not visible. Cameron fell asleep once more. On top of the mountain, a quiet breeze was blowing. Misty felt a new beginning forming in the world of humans and dragons. Dragons had mostly gone unnoticed or so she thought. In most cases where humans had noticed them, they did not live long enough to tell anyone else, mostly due to their hostile behavior toward her ancestors. Tonight, under the stars, Misty vowed she would not eat this new lad that had entered her life. She would protect him. She realized that he was someone good and with a pure heart and he deserved to survive. She flapped her wings and flew up and went to her lair hidden beneath the waterfall. The next day, Cameron woke. He went to school. He listened to his teachers and quietly ate his food at a table by himself in the lunchroom. After that, he wandered through the halls and until he went to the remaining afternoon classes. Moving through his day, until his last hour, he got on the bus and went back home. His parents were still at work. It would be late into the evening before they came home. His siblings were all downstairs watching a movie with their friends. Cameron crept outside and climbed the path to the mountain. As he passed the waterfall, he thought he saw something silky purple, green, and blue flying up and out of the water. – Misty, wow, she was a water dragon! The old girl was full of more surprises than the shows he watched on television, that is, when he watched television. Misty shook off the water from her wings, and approached her new friend, “I suppose you know now that you know where my lair is, what I have to do?” Cameron smiled, and said, “Yes, you must show me this library you have told me about.” “Yes, quite right, “Misty said back, “But the price of admission must be paid.” Cameron sat two peanut butter sandwiches in front of his new friend. It was just then that they both surprised by hearing angry voices coming from further down the path from where they stood. An army of sorts were making their way up to the mountain top. They heard, “We will slay the dragon. It will pay for taking our brother and eating him.” Misty looked at Cameron and he looked at her. Both trusted one another, and they were loyal to each other despite the brief time it had been since the first day they met. Cameron did not even wonder. He took a fake knife out of his backpack and prepared to fight to the bitter death to defend, someone he now considered family. Misty knew Cameron’s heart was true. She winked at him and said, “There is a better way.” She disappeared. Cameron freaked out and looked around himself. He felt like crying, but then he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Put the knife away. They cannot see me now. If you must go come back and see me tomorrow or the next day… As many times as you wish… and sometimes please bring my favorite treat” He heard as he heard her eat the sandwiches and then slip away. The army of his siblings stormed up the mountain. Toy bows and arrows in their hand. They saw Cameron and exclaimed, “We thought you had devoured. We know there is a dragon somewhere in this forest. Mom told us so.” “What?” said, Cameron.” I am so afraid…and he said it without a stutter. His family looked at him and wondered. Seeing no dragon, they looked at him again, “You are not stuttering. What have you been up to?” “Hiking of course,” Cameron smiled. “I am surprised you noticed that, and he ran back down the mountain.” His siblings looked confused at each other and turned around and ran back down the hill after him. “Hey, where you going? Where is the dragon? What are you hiding? - Hey, we are glad you are alive.” Cameron never did answer their questions about Misty, but he did get to see her library of books. He did go on more adventures with the dragon that involved flying invisible at night, and long talks under the moonlight when it was not so bright and sunny outside. Cameron’s friendship lasted into his old age, luckily for him his wife was a librarian, who happened to love dragons. -Misty liked her as well.

oju2d1

To Kill or Not to Kill

I was the only one who could do it. Why, you ask? Because I am the knight in shining armor. The hero of the people. The one who gets things done. So, I embarked on a journey, a quest. To deliver the castle of Mourne and save the town surrounding it from an evil dragon. The creature had made its nest there a few years ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to hunt it. After so long, though, I couldn’t afford to wait any longer. And nobody else volunteered to do it. I was the only one who could do it anyway. My travels took me through muddy roads and filthy cities all around the province. Mourne wasn’t close to home. Everybody knew me, so I had a room in the lord’s castle every time I entered a city. Every night, I was invited to dinner with the magistrates and princesses and barons and lords. Princess’s hands were offered, either subtly or obviously, every time. I gave them an evasive answer every time. This wasn’t the time. I had a dragon to kill. Every road I traveled was infested with bandits, goblins, and other foul creatures desperately trying to steal either your life or your money, most of the time both. Bandits scampered off as soon as they finally noticed the insignia on my armor, and the other threats, the less intelligent ones, were dealt with swiftly. I am the knight in shining armor, after all. The voyage left me weary, and the closer I got, the more I dreaded my arrival, what I had to do. Why did it have to be me? My last stop before Mourne was in the city of Murika. Filthy streets encircled a shining castle standing proud on a mound. I was welcomed quite readily and happily. I was on the balcony that evening, a drink in my hands, leaning against the rail. The stars were magnificent. I wondered what it would be like to fly through the sky, not for the first time in the last few years. “What are you doing alone on an evening as lovely as this one, my good knight?” My pondering was interrupted by the eldest daughter of the local baron. Beautiful, gorgeous even, if I was being honest. But I didn’t feel like talking that night. “I came here to prepare myself for tomorrow,” I said, hoping she’d let me to it. “Is that why you have not taken even a sip of your drink?” She approached the railing and laid her hands on it. I looked at the glass in my hand, dangling over the courtyard below. “I guess so.” “Is there some way I could help in your preparation?” I knew exactly what she was implying. “Not really, no.” She approached and laid a hand on my cheek, the other on my arm. “Are you sure?” I had to admit, I was almost tempted. But thoughts of the dragon kept popping inside my head, and I could not do it. “Yes, I am. I’m sorry.” She sniffed then stepped back. “Am I not attractive enough?” “Quite the contrary. But tomorrow’s ordeal keeps me from thinking of anything else. I fear I would not be able to satisfy you this night, my lady.” “I see.” She remained silent, and I could tell she was mad. “Will you come to see me again after the deed is done?” “If I survive.” “You will.” I huffed a laugh and finally took a sip of my drink. “I guess I have no choice, then.” The corner of her lips lifted a little. “Indeed.” I left the railing and took her hand in mine, bowing slightly but keeping eye contact. “It’s a promise, then. If I survive tomorrow, I will return here and visit you.” “Good.” She was smiling then. I had heard of her, of course. She was the kind of woman that always got what she wanted. She had compromised, but she’d still have what she desired of me. She had no doubt I could survive. I doubted. Millicent. A strong name for a remarkable woman. I was lucky she even noticed me. Well, I am The Folk Hero, but still. I’d have something to look forward to. “I shall take my leave, then, and await your triumphant return.” “Thank you. May your evening be as excellent as your company.” She smirked and left me alone again. I couldn’t imagine what a settled life would be like. I wouldn’t be traveling as much. That much was sure. And we’d have kids running around, too. What would I look like with a kid on my lap? Would I look out of place? I took another sip and looked down at the city. “How many times would I have to fetch them down there?” I whispered. They’d probably sneak out of the castle every day to run around in the muck of the city, like I used to do. I shook my head. I shouldn’t be thinking of things like this. Not now. What was I thinking, getting my hopes up like that? I downed the rest of the brownish liquor in my glass and turned to the bustling ballroom, chatter and clinking just a tad louder than the musicians playing in the center of the room. I had to brave the crowd to get out of here. I had to brave the encouragements and fake a bravado I didn’t have. I took a deep breath and soldiered on, plastering a smile on my face. I was up before dawn the following day. I wanted to leave before anyone would notice. I readied my horse and filled the saddlebags with food the kitchen staff gave me. Only they knew I was leaving. It was better that way. My sword was safely fastened under the saddlebags. I was ready to go. Did I want to, though? I wasn’t so sure anymore. But I didn’t have a choice. This was something only I could do, and it was something that needed to be done. But why me? The sun rose over the horizon as I passed through the city gates. Would this be the last sunrise I would ever see? The road I had to take led me through the forest and next to a beautiful lake. It almost looked like there were stars stuck on the water’s surface, aching to be free. I imagined I was one of those stars, stuck in place, unable to get out. I reached Mourne as the sun crested overhead. I stopped on the road just outside what was left standing of the city gates to eat, hitching my horse to a tree. It seemed the dragon had been thorough in his destruction of the city. I didn’t think there was anyone left alive. From where I was, half the buildings I could see were destroyed, either partly or entirely, and the others were on the verge of collapse. All of them were charred. Deep, large gouges marred most of them. And the wall hadn’t fared much better, either. Funny thing was, if I just turned around and looked away from the city, the grass was green, swaying in the wind, the trees stood tall and healthy, the sky was blue, fat clouds rolling through. It almost felt like the dragon had destroyed things and lives that would make sure it would be hunted down. Like it maybe hoped for someone to put an end to its misery. I finished my meal of cheese and bread and entered the city proper. It was eerily silent. Charred corpses littered the ground, pointing towards the gate or lying there like someone had stopped trying to flee. I made my way to the castle, climbing over debris, going around when I couldn’t. When I finally reached the front gates, one was unhinged and hanging to the side, the other was missing its upper half. I didn’t even know where it was. Then I heard the roar. It had sensed my arrival. I hurried inside and stepped out of the shadow of the gate at the same time that the dragon appeared over the castle. I stepped back and grabbed my sword as it flapped its way down into the courtyard. Its scales were a shiny red, its eyes yellow, a black slit splitting them in two. Its wings were so large they barely fit in the vast courtyard. The perfect textbook dragon. Yet I knew him. I heard the rumors about this particular dragon, but I knew him. And it knew me. His eyes flared in recognition. It laughed in the air, sending flames and sparks around it. “The Hero of the People, finally here,” it said, its voice guttural and deep. “The shining knight, in the flesh. Come to finish me off? Come to rid the world of my foul presence?” “It is something I must do.” “Oh, it’s something you must do, now, is it? Always so rightful. Always so bound by duty, this knight in shining armor.” It stomped its paw, its claws, almost as long as I was tall, scraping against the stone under it. “Are you ready, Viktor? Are you ready to kill me?” I didn’t answer. “Nothing to say? Even after all we’ve been through? Very well.” The beast reared on its hind legs and I bolted, taking refuge behind the wall beside the gate. A second later, an immense stream of flames roared past me and blasted a house to pieces. The heat alone almost singed my hair off. My armor was hot enough that I was glad for the padding underneath it, for once. When the fire stopped, I rushed inside and immediately side-stepped a strike of claws. I rolled forward, escaping a bite by a hair, and found myself underneath the dragon. I quickly whispered a command to my blade and it shone brightly. The slash went through the dragon’s scales on its hind leg and it roared in pain. “You had the perfect chance!” It bellowed. It jumped and swiped at me at the same time. I dodged, but not fast enough and I was pushed aside. I flipped over myself a few times before skidding to a halt. I’d have to do better than that if I wanted to walk out of there alive. I rose and retreated to a place in my mind where thought was almost non-existent. Only instinct drove me forward. So I dodged, ducked, and side-stepped through the flurry of claws and flames. I climbed on its leg, then on its back. The dragon roared and flapped its wings, bringing me with it in the air. I did the only thing I could and held on the spikes on its back. I didn’t even think of looking down. We could have been a thousand feet in the air or merely thirty, but at that moment, I didn’t care. I had to stop him. I did something so stupid, in retrospect, that I cringe every time I think about it. I slashed through the thin, yet surprisingly sturdy, membrane of one of the dragon’s wings. It roared in pain and started flailing, trying vainly to regain control of its fall. I looked down then. We were, very high up. I wasn’t made to be this high up. Humankind wasn’t made to be this high up. The castle below was the size of a squash, and it seemed to be getting slightly bigger by the second. We were freefalling. I could only scream as we fell faster and faster, the dragon unable to catch the wind with both wings. I closed my eyes when the castle was seconds away, holding on to the spikes with all my strength. The dragon crashed through the roof of a lone tower, then through the tower itself. We wound up through the main hall’s ceiling, tearing through the hanging banners. Then, our descent stopped abruptly as the floor of this particular room seemed strong enough to hold us. I bounced and fell to the side, a good ten feet lower than the dragon’s back. I landed on my back and lost my breath for the gods only knew how long. When I finally came to, coughing dust, the dragon wasn’t moving. I rose, groaning like an old man, and crept toward its head, happy to hear it still breathing. Its eyes were closed, though. This would be the perfect moment to kill it. But I knew him. I looked at my sword, then at the creature’s neck. I couldn’t do it. I looked around the room. The room was large enough to hold two dragons like the one beside me. There were still tables standing with plates on them and plenty of dust. Debris from the fall had flown everywhere. Falling stones had obliterated the throne that was once at the front of the room. The columns were still standing, though. I bet I could chain the dragon up to those. But I had to make it quick. I didn’t want it to wake up before I was done. I scoured the rooms close by until I found what was clearly a torture chamber. So close to the main hall, too. No matter, I had chains—a lot of them. I managed to chain up the dragon by the legs and neck to a few columns. I was about to go for the wings when it woke up. It grunted and huffed a puff of air and sparks. The chains rattled together as it tried to move. I was happy to see that they were holding. “What is this? Viktor! I know you’re there. Answer me.” “I’m here,” I said, walking up to its head. “Why am I chained up? Why am I not dead? Why won’t you kill me, Viktor? You are the knight in shining armor, are you not?” I looked down. “Yes, I am.” “Then why? Tell me why you won’t deliver me from this?” I looked into its eyes. “You know why.” “I would think that that would be reason enough to help me out of this mess.” “I could never do that to you, Dragon.” Its eyes thinned. “Why don’t you call me by my name? Are you ashamed?” “Of course not.” It smiled. “You are, are you? If you are, then finish me off. That would take the taint off of you.” My lips thinned. “It would only taint me in another way.” The dragon yanked on its chains. “I’ll force you to kill me! I swear, Viktor, my life will end by your blade. Didn’t you see the dead I left in my wake? Doesn’t that make you want to end me all the more?” “Stop saying that.” “Why, Viktor? Tell me why.” My hands balled into fists, and I ground my teeth. He yanked on the chains again. “Tell me,” he bellowed. “Because I could never kill my brother!” I finally answered. The finality of announcing that this dragon, the monster that had utterly destroyed a city and killed hundreds if not thousands, was my brother made me drop my sword and fall to my knees. “How could I ever kill my younger brother? Even if you did all of this, I could never end the life of the little brat who kept following me around when we were little, getting himself in all kinds of trouble.” We stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. “Remember when we went to the Old Lady’s Pond?” I asked him, a fond smile on my lips. “Remember how we ate almost all that pie on the windowsill and she found us? We weren’t hiding very well anyway. She chased us around the marsh, threatening to change us into frogs. She was almost on us when you told me to go, that you would hold her off. “I remember stopping short, surprised by your courage, small as you were. I decided then that I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Then father came and convinced her to let us go.” I looked at Conrad, my brother, and spied a gleam in his eyes. “I remember Father gave us quite the verbal lashing afterward,” he said. “Yes, I remember it too. ‘Princes shouldn’t be caught stealing pies on windowsills!’ He used to say stuff like that all the time.” “Of course, we kept getting ourselves in trouble.” We laughed together for the first time in a good long while. Then we grew serious. “Please kill me, Viktor. You’re the only one who can. You know how the curse works as much as I do.” I sighed, tears pooling in my eyes. “I know.” “Think not of it as killing me, but as delivering me of my sorrow. I was dead the moment the curse was cast on me.” “I know. It still hurts, Conrad.” “I know.” I took my sword and rose. I walked over to him and then sat against his neck. “Can we at least talk until morning?” He smiled. “Sure.” We talked all the way through the afternoon, then the evening, and then the night. We spoke of the past, I told him of Millicent and how I’d like to settle down, maybe. We laughed, we cried, we discussed things that were never said. There were no secrets left between us come morning. The sun rose and cast its light on both of us through the stained glass on the other side of the room. Conrad was sleeping, his snores soft and rumbling through me like a cat’s purr. I decided that while he slept was the best time. I stood before him, my sword hovering next to his eye. It would be over instantly. He would not even feel it. He fell asleep and would simply not wake up. “Goodbye, brother. I love you.”

lvze02

Another Way Around

The grit of the ground underneath him cut unto the skin of his exposed hand like a thousand little shards, but his side where he had landed felt much, much worse. The burn on his lower leg surpassed both. His helmet had long since gone, and a few of his other pieces of armor were hanging on barely from the leather being singed from the heat of the metal or even the flames themselves that had been thrown his way. It had been a miracle that the sword and shield had stayed in his hands thus far, having been thrown around so much. That luck somehow feels like it is wearing thin the more attempts he makes at doing anything to move the great, scaled beast. Its pale blue scales shimmer under the light, a few rays shining in from a few holes in the top of the damp and dark cave. Turning to look, the creature is still planted firmly on all fours with its head attentively watching him. When their eyes lock she lets out a growl and hunches low again. Tears well up and he takes a few scattered breaths. It has to be done, the knight tells himself. There's no other way. Standing, he reluctantly prepares to take another charge. Because the beast hadn’t moved, even a step. Not to retreat, or to attack him. No more than to pace in front of the back of the cave around where he assumes there is something precious to it hidden. Again and again, it stood almost like a statue, unmoving unless he got too close. At which point he was swiftly reminded what size he was compared to the massive dragon with a swat of a scaled claw or strong tail. But again and again, it did nothing to move backward or forward no matter what he tried. The knight supposes he should be thankful it hadn’t killed him. Yet. If given his way, he might have instead lured it away with something pleasant, rather than try and scare the most terrifying thing to ever fly in the sky. But he hadn’t a single idea of what could tempt a dragon. Recalling the look on the village leader's face when he agreed to do this, and his sweet wife proudly grinning as he had been sent off, he builds what he needs back up to breathe in and yell again while charging forward. The sound that ripped from his throat sounded more animal and dragon-like than human. The roar makes the whole cave tremble and this time it doesn’t use fire. With a great claw, he is swatted away with the top side. When he lands he rolls another few times before stopping. Instead of immediately getting back to his feet, he shifts to his back and groans for a minute, and attempts to breathe in again. Every movement wanted to make him scream but there was no breath to push through his throat to make the sound. And even when it was, the throbbing of the collection of his injuries silenced him. Deciding to take the grace of a dragon who seemed uninterested in pursuing him, the knight chooses to lay there a moment. There was no frightening it, or baiting it into chasing him. Looking at it closely as it is watching him with deep green eyes, he tries to make sense of it. He didn’t see anything glittering that would indicate treasure. The air had no foul odor or blood to suggest this dragon had recently had a meal it was protecting, or anything worth being so territorial but unwilling to leave the cave. That was his task. See that the dragon moves away from the village, to ensure the safety of it’s inhabitants and their livestock. It was a simple enough job if he wasn’t warned right away that it would likely mean killing the creature before it did the same to him. A prospect the man didn’t relish, even if duty compelled him to see the job done. It wasn’t what he worked so hard for a knighthood for. Hours spent with a sword, being at the beck and call of an older, more senior knight was meant to prepare him to protect people at whatever cost. Not take innocent lives, not intentionally to take lives at all. Though this was a beast and he doubted a single man, woman, or child would consider this matter so delicate as that, but from the moment he led his horse away from the crowd seeing him off, it weighed heavily on his heart. Perhaps, he thought with ironic amusement, that was why he was faced with a dragon who stubbornly refused to flee him or attack him. As he keeps staring, looking at it under the few bits of light allowed into the cave from his place on the floor he finally sees it. On the floor of the cave, two smaller sets of eyes behind the front arm of the dragon. Both are the same green as the large dragon. He sees them clearer now. One of them is a similar blue to their mother, and the second is a color that reminds him of the ocean in a storm. They look to him, then up to the adult and it sinks in. What this dragon had been protecting all along. When one makes a fearful noise and tries to climb behind the other, the knight settles his heart and makes up his mind. Slowly, he stands. The dragon raises her head too. “I want you to know, I’m sorry. But this will be better, for everyone.” He manages to get out. This time, he charges for the nest behind the dragon. He doesn’t get far before being swept by the tail and almost deafened by the roar. Just as he had planned. The dragon begins thrashing to round on him, and when rocks begin to fall he makes for the exit as she makes her own way out of the cave. His horse is furiously romping around on the slight hill at the base of the mountain, and he grabs him and lets the adrenaline carry the both of them back to the village. Riding ignites pain in every part of his body he didn’t know he could feel before, but his plan once he arrives keeps it from being too tortuous. When he sees the small houses and stone fence of the village, he begins shouting. “Everyone, leave! Leave now!” He hollers. That’s when he realizes everyone is already gathered outside, and watching the sky almost entirely silently. A man shakes his head and points up silently when his horse comes to a stop. In the distance, the dragon is flying away. Two smaller figures close behind her. At the two baby flap behind their mother, he forces the grin off his face. 

n2vkby

X marks the spot

CRr, CRRr, CRRRr, CRRRRR, CRACK, TRASH, ow, BAM, ow, BOOM, ow, THUMP—were the sounds Rekha made as she tumbled down off the tree she once climbed. After 30 sections of black, she cautiously opened her eyes to let the light in. Looking upwards, she wagered she had fallen about 5 meters. “What a klutz”, she muttered, scolding herself as she attempted to move and sit up. As she inspected her body, she could see red welts begin to form and faint bluish-purplish blemishes against her brown skin. The palms of her hands were caked in dirt and leaves, while her arms and legs were oozing blood from the micro-cuts she had acquired as she tumbled through the branches. She quickly assessed her injuries and decided that she had not broken anything and that it was time to stand. Using the tree that nearly took her out, she propped herself up. “All this to catch a view”, she reflected as she stood up and closed her eyes imagining a more peaceful reality of being able to view the mountains against the setting sun from a secure tree branch. As she brushed the leaves off the back of her pants and picked up her backpack, she heard leaves rustling and twigs snapping around her. Spooked by the idea of being surrounded by hungry animals and impending nightfall, she knew that it was time to go. She pulled her phone out her pocket and reviewed the map. Realizing that she had only wandered three minutes off the trail, she set off towards it. While still in the brush, she began to make out the shapes of two individuals dressed in silver jumpsuits—how unusual for an Autumn hike, she mused. Their clothes looked like they were from the future or maybe even from another planet. “What could they be up to?”, Rekha pondered. Knowing that she was intruding on something, her curiosity had gotten the better of her as she continued to spy on her new silvery companions. As she slowly walked toward the two – men? women? -- she wasn’t sure yet-- she began to make out details of a silver backpack on the floor between them. She stopped when she saw them pulling out a pill shaped item. She couldn’t quite make out what it was from this distance. The two set the item down and began to dig a hole right under the largest tree for miles. Their movement seemed methodical as though they had done this exact same thing, in this exact spot, before. This tree was at least twelve meters in circumference and was noted as a site to see in her trail guide—"Dougie the Great” as it was colloquially known. She had heard things about this tree but was not able to appreciate how large it really was until today. Surely, it was at least eighty meters tall! Towering over all the other trees—Rekha was in awe. “Back to these crazy folks”, she thought as she glanced over to the base of the tree. As they continued to dig, Rekha listened in and heard the following exchange between the two: “It’s that time of year again Neiam!”, announced Ary. “X marks the spot, Ary”, Neiam confirmed. “I love that we have a chance to be a part of history”. Neiam continued, as he dug. “I wonder who will stumble upon this?” Ary questioned, as she helped him move the dirt out of the way. “Someone who’s mind can suspend disbelief and give in to their imagination, I hope!” – Neiam exclaimed as he paused and put the shovel down. “Ok, the hole looks deep enough. Ready to drop it in?” “Bombs away!” Ary shouted as she dropped the pill looking item down the hole. “It’s getting dark, time to get outta here” Neiam hurriedly spoke as he began to cover up the hole. In silence, the pair completed the job and stood up. Rekha gasped for air, not realizing that she was holding her breath in anticipation of the strangers’ next move. She starred in disbelief as the pair disappeared behind fog that seemed to come out of nowhere. As quickly as the fog descended onto the forest floor, it was gone—as were the silvery pair. Rekha’s mind could hardly keep up! “Now what? Do I just head home? But the strangers are anticipating someone finding the item, no?”, she pondered. “Do I dig it up and find out what’s inside? I mean, I have the biggest imagination there is! Surely, I would be a good candidate to open the item!” She continued. “But it is getting so dark outside and what if I can’t find the trail and am stuck out here all night!” Rekha’s imagination was getting out of hand as fear and indecision began to take hold. “OK, OK—I either leave now or dig up the item and open it up. I mean, it shouldn’t take that long to see what is inside of it, right?” She said aloud with trepidation. Letting intuition and the shovel in her backpack lead the way, she headed towards Dougie the Great. Once she arrived at the base of the tree, she looked around and saw an abundance of colourful flowers, mushrooms and ferns—it looked almost magical! Especially in comparison to the bases of the neighbouring trees beside Dougie the Great. “I wonder how old this tree is?” She contemplated. As she took out her shovel and began to dig, Rekha remembered an old tale she had heard in town. It was that a cup of tea from a single pine needle from Dougie the Great could cure any ailment. In fact, she had known of several town folk who previously hiked up here whilst sick and came back happier and healthier than ever. Rekha felt good standing near Dougie the Great… great even! And even more so excited to open the item up and see what treasures awaited her inside. Fueled by eagerness, Rekha was able to dig up the item in just a few minutes. As she sat the item down, she inspected what appeared to be a capsule. Smooth to the touch, an inscription on the side read “X marks the spot—your deepest desires can be found here”. She recognized this shape from her childhood. It was a time capsule. Rekha remembered making one of these and burying it in her backyard when she was 10—back in the late 90s. She filled it up with her sister’s holographic necklace, a Backstreet Boy cassette, her favourite Fear Street book, a few POGs, a slap bracelet, a troll doll, boxes of Popeye Candy Sticks, a Tamagotchi, a Yak Bak with a welcome recording, and a letter to the new owner discussing the significance of each of her prized possessions. As her thoughts transported her to her time capsule, her hands grazed the edges of a touch screen on the exterior of the capsule as she tried to find an opening. She touched it and it suddenly lit up. [Simply set the year, place, and time, and off you go!], it read. “Off you go. What does that mean?” She muttered. Little did Rekha know; she was about to find out. Since she was reminiscing about her childhood, she decided to put in the year, place, and approximate time she buried her own time capsule—give or take a couple hours. Rekha closed her eyes and waited, expecting the worst and hoping for the best. The first thing she noticed was the smell of the fresh fir trees disappeared and her nostrils were accosted by the smell of freshly cut grass. “That’s strange”, she thought. Next, she began to feel increasingly warmer as the seconds passed—"it feels like summer”, she noted as she began removing her jacket. She also felt the rays of the sun on her body as though the sun was coming back up and the forest trees that once provided her with shade had vanished. She opened her eyes and was amazed to see that she was no longer in the woods. She was in fact at her childhood home that she had not seen in at least 20 years. She starred in utter disbelief as she touched the grass of her old backyard with her fingertips. She ran to the front to see if their bright pink garage was indeed there. It was. Everything was just as it had been when she had buried her time capsule all those years ago. “I’m in the past! I’m in the past!!” She shrieked, as a kid on his BMX bike stared at her as he rode by. She ran back to her backyard and picked up the time travelling capsule and put it in her backpack just in case. Her mind was running at a million miles per hour as she tried to grapple with her time travelling reality. She knew what she needed to do next and took out her shovel. She began digging to find her own childhood time capsule. After a few minutes of digging, she found the freshly buried time capsule. Taking a seat on the grassy floor of her childhood backyard, she rummaged through the contents of the time capsule to remove her sister’s old holographic necklace. She paused for a moment as a wave of sadness washed over her when she held the necklace. She put the rest of the items back.  The back door of her childhood home slowly opened revealing her older sister and the child version of herself. As Rekha stared at them, they quickly saw her and stared back. Quick on her feet, Rekha apologized and said that her son had thrown a ball over the fence. The two children were studying her and looked at each other, clearly communicating with their eyes, before looking back at Rekha. “OK” Naila, Rekha’s older sister said. “But please Miss, always come ring the doorbell first so my parents don’t freak out” Naila cautioned. Her eyes were kind and very familiar. It brought tears to Rekha’s eyes. As she looked away, taking in the voice of her older sister, she wiped her eyes and turned back—facing the kids. “I couldn’t find the ball. It must be in someone else’s yard. Sorry again kids” Rekha quipped, deciding to leave. She had heard tales of not upsetting the time space- continuum, but this situation really seemed to break those rules. Not sure of where to go or how to get back to present day, she turned away from the children ready to walk away when she felt Naila’s tiny hand on her leg. “Miss, you look sad. Are you ok?” Naila asked. “I’m just very happy”. Rekha replied. “Happy?” Child Rekha questioned. “You both remind me of my dear sister and I.” Rekha announced lovingly as her eyes began to tear up again. “We were as close as you two were, but unfortunately that is not the case anymore as she is up in the sky now.” Rekha continued. “So sorry Miss. I love the sky. I bet she is enjoying her time up there.” Naila stated, nodding her head confidently. “We have to go now” Child Rekha chimed in. “Goodbye Miss”. Smelling Naila’s CK One perfume in the air as they hurried off, Rekha remembered the events of this day. Something she had blocked out because the pain was overwhelming. Today was the day that a car crashed into her parent’s car—instantly killing Naila and leaving Child Rekha in a coma for weeks. Rekha recovered, however blocked the rest of the events including her sister’s death from her memory… until now. She reached for her chest as she began to feel a physical pain when the memories of the crash came flooding back. She often daydreamed about seeing or hearing her sister again. In fact, it was a deep desire of hers. Maybe this was why her thoughts led her to this particular moment in time. With tears streaming down her face, Rekha took the time capsule out and programmed it to go back to the future. Rekha began to smell the pine needles of the Douglas Fir again; nightfall was once again imminent, and her feet were now firmly planted on the dirt at the base of the magical Dougie the Great. She opened her palm and found the holographic necklace that Naila and her had buried years ago. Her fingers found the string of the necklace and put it on signifying her deepest desire fulfilled—meeting her sister again for one final time. As she searched for the time capsule, she realized that it had disappeared. Her desire now being fulfilled. X truly did mark the spot.

b3taux

Something Ventured Something Gained

Something Ventured Something Gained Martin Rogers, a television producer and impresario, was not actually friend of mine but our paths had crossed. I’d heard of the parties he threw at his centuries old estate in Massachusetts. My friend, Kate had once been his guest and said they weren’t to be missed. ‘I won’t tell you about them, Elizabeth, instead I’ll arrange for you to get an invite and you can make up your own mind.’ True to her word, an invitation arrived the following week. The envelope had a wax seal with the letters MR on top of a duelling pistol, very Martin Rogers. Dear Elizabeth. You are invited to a hair raising Costume and Cocktail party at the country home of Martin Rogers. Bring your imagination, curiosity and spirit and I promise you a frighteningly good time. Martin Rogers Brimstone Manor Salem MA I thought it a strange invitation, but then Martin was known for his quirky, ostentatious ways. I asked myself why he would have chosen Salem as his ’country home’. There were so many nicer places out of Boston. One haunted with witches didn’t appeal to me. All the same, I was curious. I’d talk to Kate. ‘Roger’s into witches, and he sees the humour in the name.’ I was taken aback at the thought of witchcraft, but nothing that man did would surprise me. ‘He really is, Elizabeth, but don’t let it put you off you’ll have a great time.’ I decided to accept the invitation but felt a bit spooked and wondered if I should ask this witch loving show-off if I could bring a friend. It would be nice to have Kate with me. ‘There’s no need for that,’ Kate re-assured me, ‘there’ll be plenty of others there.’ I believe Ryan Stephens is going. You know him?’ Of course I knew Ryan, we went back some years and my heart still leapt when I heard his name. Kate must have read my mind. ‘You might rekindle an old friendship?’ I didn’t answer her directly; instead I shook my head. But he’d be there and that was enough. I sent my reply and within two days a letter came with directions for how to get to Roger Martin’s place. ‘Upon your arrival at Salem main station, a carriage will await you. Dress theme? Let your imagination run wild.’ I laughed at Roger’s theatrics. But that didn’t make it any easier for me to work out what to wear to the ‘hair-raising night’ that was promised. In the end, I decided that Glinda, the ‘witch of the north’ from The Wizard of Oz, would not only be acceptable to me but was easily found in costume shops. I was happy with what I saw in the mirror before I left to catch the train from Boston South station. ‘Look, Mama, there’s Glinda the witch,’ a little girl cried in delight when she sat down opposite me. A smile lit up her face. I found myself waving my wand in her direction, and then pulled it back in embarrassment when two teenage girls began to snigger. I wished I’d brought something bigger than an evening bag so I could stash it away before I drew more attention to myself. It was early evening when the train pulled into Salem. The night was clear and the emerging myriad of stars promised a lovely evening. I looked up to the sky and inhaled deeply. ‘Out for a little walk … in the moonlight, are we?” I jumped at the sound of a male voice coming from behind me. ‘Sorry to frighten you, Miss, but are you attending Mr Roger Martin’s party?’ a Count Dracula asked. My first instinct was to reproach him for scaring me as he did. However, I thought I’d try out one of the several Glinda lines I’d committed to memory. "You have no power here! Begone! Before somebody drops a house on you, too!" The man laughed, and then offered me his hand. ‘I’m Sam, I guess you are going to the party?’ I told him I was. ‘Well then, let me accompany you to your carriage,’ he said as he stood aside to let me through the station doorway onto the street. There was indeed a carriage complete with coachman dressed in black suit and top hat. Sam helped me inside. As I got my bearings, I looked straight into the eyes of Wicked Witch of the West. ‘Good evening, Glinda, Roger will be pleased.’ We waited a while for a fourth travelling companion, ‘Vlad The Impaler’. Vlad and Dracula exchanged gruesome stories. Horrifying stories actually. Sam must have sensed my discomfort. ‘Is this your first time, Glinda?’ I nodded. ‘It’s tradition to get into your character as soon as you leave the station. Witchy over there will attest to that.’ ‘Yes, Dracula,’ she replied,’ but go easy, the young lady isn’t used to our ways.’ A shiver threatened to knock the wind out of my sails. The hand I’d placed on my chest felt about to explode, and I was horrified to feel a stream of water rushing down both sides of my face. If this was what the evening would be like, I wished I could turn the carriage around and head back to the station. Sam apologised and we made small talk. We were soon driving along a winding track towards our destination. I wasn’t ready for what loomed large as we drove through a forest of huge gnarled trees that hung over the carriage, like talons. The house appeared so run down that the outer walls were on a lean, vines held up the front façade. ‘Don’t let looks deceive you,’ Sam said, ‘quirky Roger has had the house made to lean like it does, inside it is quite stable.’ I startled at the sound of bats, flying in unison in front of us as if on cue. I looked down and realised I had grabbed Sam’s hand. I pulled mine away quickly.  He turned away, a smile on his face, as if he hadn’t noticed. The carriage pulled up outside the large, imposing house and the coachman jumped down and came to the side of the carriage to open the door. As I looked into his face I noticed that his two front teeth had been chiselled into a point and one had what looked like a diamond shining in the by now brilliant moonlight. He took my hand and as he did I saw that his nails were painted black. With that and his long greasy locks he looked the part. Roger Martin was at the top of the front steps to greet us. ‘Ah, Elizabeth or should I say Glinda, it’s so good of you to come,’ he waved the other three inside, ‘let me show you around before the moon fades.’ It would have been rude of me to decline his invitation so I took his arm and we went back down the steps and to one side of the house. ‘I’m sorry there is no yellow brick road for you, but come and see what I have in store.’ ‘Mind your step,’ he said as I slipped on large, mossy stones that formed a path to the back of the house. Fortunately, the sound of chatter inside the house helped me to endure the slimy cobwebs and persistent bat screeching. Roger didn’t seem to think anything of it, he rattled on about the ‘improvements’ he’d made to the house since he’d taken it over from his father. ‘It’s a world apart from my Boston apartment and that’s how I like it,’ he said as he pushed away wandering vines and took me across the yard to the pool area where a group of ‘revellers’ were in full swing, literally, as they carried lanterns and danced around a roaring fire chanting in some sort of witchcraft ritual. Whether it was because of the cold or out of sheer terror I was scared about what the night would bring. I began to shiver uncontrollably, losing my wand as I did so. Roger bent down and picked up the thin piece of stick that I’d covered in pink ribbon and placed a star on the end. He laughed. ‘Well we’ve never had a pink wand here before, not really our genre if you get my gist.’ I felt humiliated. ‘I think I’d like to go inside, Roger.’ We turned towards the house. As we passed another group of invitees, I noticed Vlad and the Witch joining in what appeared to be a game of ring - a – rosy. I hurried Roger along. ‘It’s always wonderful at full moon,’ Roger said oblivious to my terror. I waited for a dog to howl but that didn’t happen. Then I jumped at the sight of a huge black Rottweiler blocking my way up the back steps. ‘Come on, Lucifer, let the lady through,’ Roger urged, ‘go get your bone.’ With that the dog, took off and apart from nearly knocking me back down the steps, left gooey slobber down the front of my dress. The night was going from bad to very bad. We went inside to what appeared a fairly normal interior. I needed some space so I asked Roger to show me to the bathroom. As he did he indicated towards a doorway halfway down a long hall. ‘I’ll meet you in through there, Glinda,’ he said as we parted. As soon as I got through the bathroom door I leant against the wall and breathed heavily. It was a very elegant bathroom with a chaise lounge in one corner and gold tap fittings. I flopped onto the chair and waited for my heart to stop pounding. Once I’d regained my composure, I fixed my makeup and hair and gingerly opened the door. The hallway had very high ceilings with ornate architraves and what I supposed were very expensive paintings dotted along the walls. I hesitated in front of one, trying to bide a little more time before I had to face who knows what. I’d taken long enough so I set off towards the doorway into what turned out to be the living room. I entered. I was taken aback as not one person in that room was dressed in costume. I scanned the room for Ryan Stephens. He was over in a far corner talking to a group of women. He saw me, nodded and turned his back on me. My eyes dropped, I felt humiliated. Perhaps Roger had seen it all because he came across and took my hand. He was a gentleman, I had to give him that. He cleared his throat. ‘Everyone, I’d like you to meet Elizabeth Hansen, or Glinda if you’d prefer.’ A general muttering of ‘hello Glinda’, ‘evening Elizabeth’ and the likes ensued. He took me across to a group of about five people one of whom was Sam, now resplendent in black tie and tails. If the others in the group were surprised to see me in costume they didn’t show it. ‘You look like you need this,’ Sam said as he took a glass of champagne from the tray offered him and handed it to me, ‘sorry if I’ve confused you, Elizabeth, my Dracula costume is just that. I wear it when I go to the station to pick up guests. Dad likes it that way.’ Dad? Was he talking about Roger? He certainly was because within a matter of minutes Roger made a grand entrance, also dressed in black tie and tails. He came over to us. ‘Ah, I see you two have found each other,’ he said as he patted Sam on the back, 'now how about we all go into dinner?’ A butler opened two large, heavy oak doors to reveal a grand dining room. Heavy red velvet curtains were pulled back from floor to ceiling windows that opened out onto a resplendent balcony. It overlooked a side of the house that had nothing at all in common with what Roger had walked me through earlier on. A showpiece walnut table set so elaborately as if in one of Roger’s television productions, took centre place. Each seat had a place name, but Sam seemed to know where mine was. He ushered me to a place next to him. I hadn’t had time to fully take in the grandeur of the room before Sam was pointing out his father’s impressive art works lining the walls for the length of the room. Abstract pieces by Kandinsky and Miro sat side by side with a Picasso and a Frida Kahlo. Sam watched me staring at them wide eyed. ‘So you like art, Elizabeth? Those belonged to my grandfather, heaven knows Dad and I could never afford such works but we have a few nice pieces of our own that I’d be happy to show you after dinner.’ I agreed that was a lovely idea but I was aware of the time slipping by and we hadn’t started eating. The last train back to Boston left at ten-thirty, just one hour and thirty minutes away. ‘Don’t worry about that, Elizabeth, our man can drive you back.’ It was as if this had all been stage-managed. Perhaps Roger had planned all along for Sam and me to get together. I was confused. ‘Sam, what is actually happening here? There’s things going on outside, it was frightening, but look at all this, it’s hard to take in.’  ‘You know what dad’s like. Anything for a laugh, it’s all theatre, Elizabeth. Those people outside are from the village. Dad lets them use a section if the property for their celebrations. Tonight is The Witches Circle; there are other nights during the year. As a sign of respect, Dad and I dress up, it works both ways, Dad gets a chance to indulge himself without the press butting in and the witches have a perfect place to celebrate. If I took you into the other side of the house you’d be amazed. I suppose you could say that the three rooms on that side are a museum to witchcraft. Dad opens it on special occasions but I try to stay out of it as much as possible. I looked at my watch; it was nine forty-five. ‘I’d really like to catch the ten-thirty train, Sam.’ ‘You don’t want our man to take you? It would be a pity, Elizabeth because I haven’t had a chance to show you around. It’s lovely out on the balcony under the full moon. Won’t you have another champagne?’ I started to protest then stopped. I had missed my chance with Ryan Stephens, and the thought of sipping champagne with Sam Rogers allayed any fears I had about witches and bats and Lucifer the Rottweiler. It was turning out to be a thoroughly pleasant evening.

gmf9h2

Whispers of the Eternal Symphony: The Dance of the Dragon and the Warrior

Once upon a time, in a realm laden with enchantments, lived a gallant warrior named Seraphim. Seraphim was an icon of valor, armored in celestial metal that shimmered under the sun’s radiant gaze. He was revered for his virtuous heart, one that throbbed with boundless compassion. The villagers admired Seraphim as their protector, but the warrior was facing an ethical conundrum. The peace of the valley was being threatened by the presence of a dragon named Zephyros, and the villagers demanded the dragon's demise. Zephyros, the Dragon of the Whispering Winds, was a majestic beast whose scales sparkled like the twilight stars. His wings, vast and resplendent, embraced the skies, casting shadows upon the land below. But Zephyros was not an embodiment of malevolence as dragons are often depicted. He was a guardian of the ancient secrets of the winds, a keeper of balance and harmony between the realms. The village, however, had been steeped in fear, for dragons have long been pictured as harbingers of destruction in the tapestries of their lore. Seraphim, however, looked beyond the myths. His heart yearned for a harmony that echoed through every being’s soul, every creature’s essence. Thus, Seraphim embarked on a journey to the caverns high above where Zephyros dwelt, not with the intention to slay, but to converse. The path was strewn with obstacles, tangled vines whispering tales of the old, rocks narrating the chronicles of the mountain. Seraphim’s resolve was unyielding as he reached the summit, the azure gaze of Zephyros meeting his. "O Zephyros, Guardian of Winds, I come not with a blade soaked in malice, but with a heart swollen with hope," Seraphim's voice resounded through the caverns, echoing his sincere plea. "The people live in dread, imprisoned by the shadows of misconceptions. Grant me the boon of parley, that we may weave a tapestry of peace between our realms." Zephyros, understanding the purity pulsating within Seraphim’s soul, descended from his celestial perch. His voice, a symphony of winds whispering through the canyons, spoke, "Seraphim, Warrior of Virtue, thy heart sings a melody of unity. Let the whispers of the winds entwine with thy hope, and let us draft a symphony of coexistence." And so, the dialogue between the dragon and the warrior commenced, the winds carrying their words to the unseen corners of the world. The truths were shared, the bonds were formed, and a newfound understanding blossomed. Seraphim learned of Zephyros' sacred duty to maintain the balance of the realms, of his desire to shelter the world from a chaos unseen. After days of contemplation and conversation, Seraphim returned to the village, his heart brimming with the newfound wisdom and his spirit intertwined with the essence of the winds. He shared the truths of Zephyros with his people, speaking of the dragon’s benevolent nature and his vital role in sustaining the cosmic equilibrium. The villagers, seeing the sincerity in Seraphim’s eyes and feeling the whispers of the winds caressing their souls, shed the shackles of their ancient fears. They embraced the existence of Zephyros as the guardian of their realm, and a concordance was formed between the human and the dragon, painting the skies with the hues of harmony. Zephyros would often grace the skies above the village, his wings whispering tales of unity to the winds, and Seraphim, the Warrior of Virtue, would stand beside him as a brother, a companion in safeguarding the realms from the shadows lurking in the unseen. The realm blossomed under the guardianship of the dragon and the warrior, and the stories of their friendship became the new tapestries of lore, speaking to the future generations of the symphony of unity that echoes through the winds, through the lands, through every beating heart. The newfound harmony between Zephyros and the realm below soon became a beacon of hope, casting its gentle glow upon the neighboring lands shrouded in timeless feuds and ancient animosities. The winds, now whispering the hymns of unity, sailed across the landscapes, whispering to the hearts yearning for peace. With each passing moon, emissaries and wanderers from distant lands traversed the mountains to witness the harmonious dance between the dragon and the realms. Seraphim, with Zephyros by his side, shared the ancient secrets and the timeless wisdom the winds have whispered through the eons. They spoke of understanding, of looking beyond the fears that have been woven through the generations, of embracing the different essences that make the tapestry of the world so intricate, so beautiful. The wisdom shared was not just about coexistence, but it also dwelt on the symbiotic balance between all beings and elements. Zephyros spoke of how the winds carried the breath of the earth, of how every creature, every leaf, and every drop of water contributed to the eternal dance of balance and harmony. Seraphim shared tales of valor that were not steeped in battles and bloodshed but in the courage to embrace love and understanding. He spoke of the valor in extending one’s hand in friendship to the unknown, of the battles fought not with swords and shields but with compassion and kindness. As the essence of this newfound harmony spread, realms far and wide began to shed the layers of animosity and fear that have cloaked their souls for eons. Dragons and humans, creatures of the shadows and beings of the light, all began to walk the paths of understanding, forging bonds that were unbreakable by the tides of time. However, the shadows lurking in the unseen were restless. They fed on the chaos and the fears, and the harmony blossoming through the realms was a poison eroding their existence. The shadows whispered to the hearts still harboring the remnants of fear, igniting the embers of doubt and mistrust. Seraphim and Zephyros, sensing the murmurs of the shadows, united the beings of the realms in a council under the whispering winds. The council was a confluence of essences, a symposium of souls seeking to protect the harmony they have all embraced. In this congregation of spirits and beings, the language of the heart was spoken, a language that reverberated through every soul, transcending the barriers of words and expressions. The congregation decided to combat the shadows not with animosity but with the eternal light of unity and understanding. Together, beings of every realm intertwined their essences, weaving a tapestry of light radiant with the love and unity of all existences. The shadows, facing this amalgamation of eternal lights, found themselves fading into the oblivion, their whispers drowned in the symphony of harmonious winds. The realms continued to blossom under the guardianship of every being that has embraced the essence of unity. Seraphim and Zephyros, traveling through the tapestries of existence, continued to share the hymns of the whispering winds, their tales becoming the eternal echoes resonating through every heart and every soul. This tale of unity and harmony became the beacon guiding the future generations, a timeless reminder that true valor is found not in conquering and destruction but in love, understanding, and the eternal dance of coexistence. And the realms, bathed in the eternal light, continued to dance in the symphony of the winds, whispering the tales of the dragon and the warrior to the stars above. In the fullness of time, the realms flourished under the eternal embrace of unity and understanding. Seraphim, the Warrior of Virtue, grew old, his armor now a vessel of countless tales and timeless wisdom. Zephyros, the timeless Guardian of Winds, remained by his side, the bonds they forged an unbreakable chain linking the realms to an eternal dance of harmony. One day, under the canopy of whispering leaves and beneath the gaze of the eternal stars, Seraphim, with his last breaths, turned his gaze to his celestial companion. "Zephyros, my brother of the winds, our journey has been a dance of lights through the realms of existence. My time is nigh, but our symphony shall continue to echo through the whispers of the winds, through every beating heart." Zephyros, his azure gaze shimmering with the lights of unspoken emotions, nodded. "Seraphim, thy essence shall dance with the winds, becoming the eternal whisperer of unity and love. Our symphony shall continue to paint the skies with the hues of harmony, guiding the realms to the eternal embrace of coexistence." And with a final smile, Seraphim closed his eyes, his essence becoming one with the winds, intertwining with the symphony they have woven through the eons. Zephyros, the guardian, spread his wings wide, embracing the skies, carrying the essence of Seraphim through the realms, whispering the tales of unity to the world below. The lands below blossomed, the echoes of Seraphim and Zephyros becoming the eternal lullabies sung to the children of the realms. The beings of every land continued to walk the paths of harmony, the shadows of the unseen forever drowned in the radiant light of unity and understanding. Zephyros, with the essence of Seraphim eternally intertwined with his, soared through the boundless skies, his wings whispering the hymns of harmony to the stars above and the lands below. The tapestry of existence, radiant with the lights of countless beings, continued to dance in the eternal symphony of the winds, a timeless dance of unity, love, and coexistence. And thus, the realms lived eternally under the embrace of the whispering winds, the tales of a warrior and a dragon becoming the eternal stars guiding the journey of every heart seeking the true essence of valor, understanding, and harmony. The whispering winds continued to weave the stories of the celestial dance between Seraphim and Zephyros, a beacon of eternal hope in the boundless tapestry of existence.

964tvy

The Strange Travellings of the Archangel

This story contains brief descriptions of gore, as well as implied suicide. Journal entry, August fifth, 1712. It has now been, according to my count, three days since that mighty and terrible tempest descended upon us on our voyage eastward across the Atlantic, being already pursued by the relentless Captain Jericho. The storm threw us off our course and inflicted great damage upon the Archangel. With what little skeleton remained of our once great beauty, we drifted until the break of the new dawn, pulling upon the shore of an uncharted island. Of the crew, seven died in the unyielding violence of the storm. Charles, Winston, John, Henry, Alexander, Geoffrey and Noah. Those who remained were myself, The Captain, Peter, Harold, Ezra, Steven and Richard. The island, upon first seeing it, was like most islands of the area, the shore giving way to vast swathes of tree and forest, the scope and measurements of which we are still unsure. Of our loot, a little over half was lost in the chaos of the storm to the depths of the sea. Of our food, even less. About twenty-three percent remained, an educated man would wager. Ezra, ever the God fearing man, claimed that our thieving and murderous ways have brought this upon us, proclaiming this for a long while until The Captain told him to be quiet. Of our duties, they were assigned by the thinking of The Captain as is follows: Ezra and Steven in charge of hunting and food scavenging, Ezra once being a fisherman, and Steven having always taken a fancy to his tall tales and rare wise proverbs. Myself and Peter in charge of mapping the land, I assume due to our superior intelligence compared to other crewmates, myself being a former scholar, and part of an esteemed and educated family (though I have long since forged my own path), and Peter being, even more so than myself perhaps, the most intelligent member of the crew, though he is a former slave. Harold and Richard were assigned to do whatever they can to repair the ship, both being former shipwrights. The Captain was in charge of overseeing our duties, and keeping track of the food. End of journal entry. Journal entry, August sixth, 1712. Myself and Peter have mapped out a small portion of the island, the land bigger than we anticipated. The forest are vast, with many caves, and high hills and slopes that border on mountains. How a land of this size had not yet been mapped is a mystery to us. Harold and Richard toil all day on the ship, but make little progress. Ezra and Steven have so far been yielding good fruit from their labors, providing at the end of the day a haul of fish and fruit. Even though he doesn't say it, I suspect Ezra having done most of the scavenging, Steven still in a haze from the death of his brother, Noah, in the storm. I say this not out of judgment, as Steven is one of our best crewmates, despite his young age. Tonight, as we sleep, I hear him cry. End of journal entry. Journal entry, August seventh, 1712. We awoke early, due to the screaming of Ezra and Richard. When asked about what happened, they couldn't quite answer, as if in some type of fugue state. All both of them could finally muster is that they had terrible nightmares. The days activities continued on mostly without trouble. Myself and Peter mapped out an extensively larger portion of the island, the complex ecosystem surprising us. We find much vegetation that is uncommon for the area. We conversed briefly, about if this is native, or perhaps someone introduced foreign species here, and about how this would be perfect for habitation yet strangely no people seem to have settled here. We also make note that we have not yet encountered an animal. Though it is not part of our assigned duties, myself and Peter brought some fruits which we stumbled across back to camp. Ezra and Steven's haul was good, but not as sizable as yesterday. Harold and Richard made little progress on the boat. As we eat that night, the tide seems closer than usual. End of journal entry. Journal entry, August eighth, 1712. We awoke early once more, Ezra and Richard screaming from nightmares, the severity of which seems more intense this time. Ezra speaks incoherently, about a great and terrible doom. We start our duties early. All of us, throughout the morning, realize the shoreline has been pushed further in, with some of the boat being overtaken by the water. This is strange, and after much discussion, no one comes away satisfied with an answer. As me and Peter prep for our venture back out, Harold asks The Captain if he can come with us for the day, and how his intelligence will be of great use. The Captain replies that everyone has their assigned duties, and that it would leave Richard by himself. Harold asks if Peter can work with Richard for the day, and he'll accompany me. The Captain shakes his head, saying Peter is too vital for the mapping to halt for even a day. Though Harold concedes, I sense that he is unhappy with his decision, and possibly of the stock The Captain puts in Peter. Though, I'd rather not let my mind engage in idle gossip about my fellow crewmates. Me and Peter map more of the area, and come to even greater realizations. After coming to the top of a large hill, the largest we've encountered so far, we get a greater view of the land. It is vast, myself and Peter just barely able to glimpse the edge of it. We converse, and agree this is the biggest island either of us have ever ventured to. The majority of the island seems to be composed of vast swathes of dense tropical forest. We spot streams and rivers afar off, overjoyed to have found a water source, even though the trek would be a day's walking. We made our way back to camp, telling The Captain and crew about our findings. The Captain says we'll move tomorrow, a little before dawn. Harold asks about the Archangel, The Captain saying to forget it, the tide is coming in too fast and it will soon be overtaken regardless. We eat Ezra and Steven's haul, lesser than yesterday. It seems the fish are dwindling. I go to bed early to make sure I am well rested for the journey tomorrow. End of journal entry. Journal entry, August ninth, 1712. We awoke early once again, Ezra and Richard both screaming, with the inclusion of The Captain this time. The Captain ignored it, telling everyone to prepare for the trek. Ezra appeared to be in a fog. The tide had come in even more, no more than fifteen feet between us and the ocean. We quickly packed our belongings and began our venture into the island. The Captain carried most of our loot himself, walking hunched. Though most of us argued against it, The Captain insisted, saying it'll be disrespectful to both our fallen comrades, and enemies we've slayed if we abandoned it. The journey was silent, with not much conversing to be had, save the occasional exchange between me and Peter as we talked about which direction to go. Though we appear to be most likely alone, everyman had a gun in his hand, and a sword in their belt. Me being no exception. Along the way, Steven spotted a bird of some kind in the treetops, the first animal we've seen, and killed it, the loud bang of the gun almost jarring after the tranquility of the island. By nightfall we reach a stream, setting camp. The water is clean, and good. Richard cooks the bird and we eat it, then go to bed for the night. End of journal entry. Journal entry, August tenth, 1712. We awoke in the middle of our sleep, Steven and Richard vomiting profusely, the contents of which seem to be food, but mostly blood. Other than that, everyone seems slightly sickly, and we converse about the cleanliness of the water. Harold suggests we turn back, to which The Captain agrees. We walk for little under an hour, the sun still not risen, and see that the tide has come even further in, to a seemingly absurd degree. We wonder if perhaps the water contained diseases of some sort, and we are not fully of sober mind. We turn back, descending further inwards. Myself and Peter take a detour, walking up a slight incline and taking survey of the area. More swathes of vast, thick forest, the middle section so dense the trees form almost some type of canopy. Peter gets my attention, noticing footprints of some kind a little from where we're standing. They are strange, and we are unable to connect them to a species. They appear almost human, but also akin to a large beast of some sort. We make note of possible predators, and rejoin the group, informing them of our findings. We continue with the trek, not entirely sure of our aim, but feeling the canopy will provide good reprieve from the harshness of the sun. Whether from ill water, or severe heat I know not which, but the colors of the forest seem more vibrant the further we progress, appearing to be almost lively. The air appears strange too, sometimes as if in vibration. Feeling increasingly ill, and after much protest from the crew (including myself) The Captain allows us to break for a short period. The Captain passes around the last of our liquid supply, a half drunken bottle of rum he stole weeks earlier from a Caribbean merchant ship. We fell asleep, by my count having slept for three to four hours based on the position of the sun, which now hung high in the sky. When we awoke, we discovered Ezra had gone missing. We shouted his name for a good while, then The Captain instructed us to pack and prepare to depart again, saying Ezra's luggage is gone and he appears to have left willingly. We continued with the trek, feeling none the better from our rest, and everyman's mind most likely uneased by the sudden departure of Ezra. After an hour, myself and Peter noticed the treetops growing in density, the intensity of the sun now somewhat lower. We continued, hoping to reach the middle of the canopy by nightfall. We came across another stream, and against our better judgment, but aided on by increasing weariness and fever, we drunk from it. The water was, at least in taste, good. Almost as if having a flavor, but an unknown one that my tongue has not yet learned. After every man had drunken his fill, we resumed the trek. A little further down the stream, we spotted Ezra dead, slumped up against a tree. His body was pale, incredibly so, as if he had been dead for quite some time. Upon examination, we found no trace of any outwardly bodily harm or signs of struggle. We wondered if Ezra had killed himself, but alas there were no markings indicating such. The Captain pulled him away from the stump, taking him to a small bed of vegetation and bushes, lying him in it. No one said a prayer, as none of us bar Ezra were particularly religious men, but we did stand in silence for a brief moment. The Captain removed the jewelry from Ezra's body, and when rebuked by Steven, said that his prizes are better with us than in a land where such things have no use. We resumed the Journey. The rest of the journey was mostly smooth, save for a brief, verbal disagreement between Harold and Peter. A little after we resumed the trek since the discovery of Ezra's body, Peter recommended we take another direction that he believed would lead us to the thick of the canopy quicker. We converse briefly, and I concur. The Captain says we'll follow Peter's direction, and Harold responds that he thinks we ought to stay on the path we've been heading. The Captain only responds no, further reiterating we'll follow Peter. Before nightfall we reach the thick of the forest, and it is beautiful. The colors so sharp, they resemble almost a painting. The air so rich it borders on euphoric . I am incredibly tired. We fall asleep. End of journal entry. Journal entry, August eleventh, 1712. I had my first nightmare, the contents of which became somewhat unclear upon waking up, as if trying to glimpse something through muddy water. I was an older man, watching the birth of my son. The labor was violent, my wife who's face I didn't know losing much blood. When the boy came out, she died. As she lie dead, vines and branches begun to sprout from the walls and floors, overtaking the room. I then woke up. We awoke early. So early the sun should not yet be fully risen but positioned high in the sky regardless. The sunlight, though protected and cooled by the canopy, was so intense it bathed the forest in almost a golden glow, the colors of the forest even more vibrant. Though we felt refreshed, the sickness in us also seemed to worsen, myself and Richard vomiting shortly after awaking. Shortly after we awoke, we noticed both Peter, Steven and Harold had gone. I feel a certain anxiety begin to stir deep within in my stomach. For the first time since we've become stranded, I glimpse fear and uncertainty behind The Captain's eyes. He tells us to pack our things, and continue further in, telling us to keep a close eye out for Peter, Steven and Harold along the way. Richard retorts that we've already reached a suitable area, and there's no reason to continue any further, arguing we should instead head back for the ship and see if the tides had withdrawn. The Captain simply replies no, and we continue our trek. Though we have experienced thus far strange and troubling events, the disappearance of Peter upsets me greatly. We continue for a long while, well over the course of a day, yet the sun not lowering. Several hours in, we are shocked by the sudden appearance of Harold, who's clothes are bloodied, and he behaves as if in a panic. The Captain questions him on his, as well as Peter and Steven's disappearance, Harold replying that they were taken by a beast. The Captain doesn't respond, only resuming the trek. After a little while, even though it appears as if daylight, we stop and set camp for the night. I lie with my eyes open. Journal entry, August twelfth, 1712. I awoke early, the scene a ghastly one. Harold lie dead on his mat, his abdomen tore open and innards spilled. A little aways from him lie Richard, in the same condition. The Captain sat slumped against a tree, his clothes bloodied and eyes wide, a sword in his hand. Fear overcame me, and I fell into a panic. After a moment, The Captain told me he had awoke early to kill Harold, believing he had secretly killed Peter, and possibly Steven after if he witnessed the act. When he awoke however, a demon had slayed him, and Richard after. When it was through with its terrible violence, it approached The Captain , hunched and foul, and spoke in strange tongues to him. Shocked, and unsure of what to make of this, I tell The Captain to pack his things and prepare for the trek back to the Archangel. He agrees, and we pack our things and begin the voyage back. We walk in silence, by my count for about seven hours. The weariness, and overall strange and upsetting events, weigh us, and we decide to make camp for the night. Journal entry, August thirteenth, 1712. I awoke in the middle of the night, thought it appeared as if high day, to The Captain dead, like Harold and Richard his abdomen gored open. I stood up, in shock, and in fear and terrible dread, the type most men shall never feel. I hear a faint flute playing from the distance, its tune growing more mighty and terrible. Through the thick of the bushes, and denseness of the trees, emerged a strange and horrifying sight. Clothed in nothing, and having nothing save for the flute he held, a towering figure emerged, appearing to be half man and half goat. In his eyes reflected a golden water, appearing to be in movement as if the waters of a ocean. He approaches me, and I cower down in terror. I look over to the stream bedsides us, my reflection the only one present. As I stand, petrified, he lifts his hand to me, bringing a finger to my face and running it down, the claw drawing blood. Journal entry, date unknown. I write this in between bouts of severe confusion and pain, waking up briefly only to pass out with severe fever. In addition to the pain, my mind is strange, my thoughts losing coherence. My bones ache, and they grow in peculiar form, holding my pen proving to be more difficult. End of journal entry. Ermes lies bedsides the stream, his body larger and covered in fur, his eyes yellow and claws jutting from tore fingers. He reaches for his pen, but looks at it with unfamiliar eyes, dropping it. He stands up, looking at his reflection in the water. A strange, uplifting tune begins to play, and the forest itself opens up as if but a curtain, a more, greater vast wilderness beyond it. Animals of all ilk fill the land, some strange, as if the result of a mind dreaming. Ermes passes through, entering the infinite woods.

lypuwd

All That Glitters

Alexander St. Clare was a normal boy by all accounts. Although orphaned at a young age, he had grown up in the care of many of the local townspeople. He was a model apprentice for the blacksmith and dreamed of one day owning his own tavern on the outskirts of town. Alexander may not have been the most popular amongst the town kids, and preferred the company of a good book to most, but in the town of Marais he was content. Until news of the dragon came. No one knew where it had come from, or even what it looked like. The rumors spread through Marais that a soldier from the king’s guard had happened upon it in the Northern Forest and was so frightened he could not offer a description. Without an accurate portrayal of the creature, fear was spreading quickly. Townspeople began to draw up their own posters of the dragon, and within a week dragon drawings abounded all over Marais. Then came the royal decree from the palace. King Robert sent out a proclamation that a warrior would be chosen at random from Marais to defeat the dragon of the Northern Forest. It had been said that none in the king’s guard or the Marais army were willing or able to slay the creature, and King Robert was growing tired. With the townspeople clamoring over what was to be done, he knew it was only a matter of time before a riot. Or worse, an attempted coup. Next to every poster of the dragon appeared King Robert’s posters, announcing that there would be a selection in the town square of the chosen warrior at noon. Alexander first saw it outside the blacksmith’s shop as a guard was affixing it to the post. “Be in the square at noon today, boy. That’s a royal order, not a request.” The guard said, tipping his head at Alexander. “Sir, I’m no warrior. I’m just an apprentice, and I have no skill with a sword.” Alexander replied, putting down his hammer. “What could I possibly do to slay a dragon?” “Be there at noon, boy. That’s all.” Alexander was taken aback by the energy of the crowd in the town square. Men, women, and children were gathered and tense. It was eerily quiet, save for the fluttering of the posters in the wind. A stage was erected in the center of the crowd, and from where Alexander was standing, he could see King Robert and his guardsmen atop it. The air was still until the king began to speak. “People of Marais, we are gathered here to choose the victor to defeat the terrible dragon plaguing our land. All eligible men and boys have been collected and a name will be drawn now. Whoever is chosen must endeavor to save us from the beast.” The King stood and with him knelt his guardsmen. The townspeople held their breath, although Alexander felt his heart stop as well. “Marais, your warrior shall be…..Alexander St. Clare!” King Robert roared, and the people of Marais erupted into cheers. Alexander was frozen still, his mouth open in disbelief. It couldn't be him, it must be a mistake. Alexander was not a warrior, he didn’t want to be. He wanted to be an apprentice and own a tavern, a quiet life with nothing dangerous to worry about. But a dragon was definitely dangerous. “Alexander, the King is calling for you!” A woman nudged him forward and Alexander found himself trudging through the crowd. King Robert stood at the end of the stage, and Alexander suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “Alexander St. Clare?” The crowd went silent again, and waited with bated breath to hear the boy’s response. Alexander gulped and felt the knot in his stomach grow larger. “Yes, your majesty.” He choked out, and the King turned to the guardsman at his right. Alexander could see that the man was holding a long silver sword and he knew where this was heading. The sword was clearly meant for him. “On behalf of Marais, I thank you for your commitment to serving this town. The sword is yours, as is whatever other accouterments you may need for your mission. But the mission must be completed at all costs.” The King glowered and Alexander knew that all he could do now was accept the so-called gifts. “Thank you, your majesty. I will do my best to make Marais proud.” Alexander took the sword as the townspeople clamored for their savior. But Alexander knew better than to believe that himself. He was no warrior, no savior at all. He was just Alexander. The following morning, Alexander rose with the dawn. After the gathering in the town square, he had run straight through the grateful crowd and thrown up in the alley behind the bakery. Alexander was a bundle of nerves, and the weight of the heavy silver sword strapped to his belt did not improve the matter. All he could imagine was bone melting fire and razor sharp teeth, which proved to be the common theme of all his nightmares that same night. Without so much as a wink of sleep, Alexander donned the armor loaned to him by the blacksmith and the royal sword. In the light of the sun, it glinted like a diamond and for a moment almost convinced Alexander that there was a modicum of hope for his mission. And then Alexander remembered who he was, and that he had never swung a sword in his life. “Courage, Alexander.” He whispered to nobody, as he stepped out into the empty streets. Alexander was thankful that no one else in Marais was awake at this hour, and that he could slip out of town unseen and without any fanfare. He would need the journey to the Northern Forest to be quiet and reflective, if he was going to be able to convince himself that he could make it out alive. As he trekked through the copse of trees along the border, Alexander noticed that the foliage was starting to get thinner and thinner. Although he hadn’t been this deep in the forest since he was a little boy, Alexander knew that this was abnormal. It appeared as if the leaves and branches were wilting. Not by fire, but by… “Gems?” The leaves were wilting and breaking under the weight of what looked like tiny gemstones. To Alexander’s eyes, there were hundreds of them. The trees were practically balking with shiny, beautiful stones. When he touched a nearby leaf, they felt like a shimmery dusting to the forest floor. Alexander had never seen so much beauty in the same place. But where was it coming from? And where was the dragon? A few steps more confirmed his theory. The affected trees and limbs were like a trail, leading further into the depths of the forest. Alexander gripped the sword at his side and continued on, his ears trained on every sound. To his relief, the only audible sounds were the crunching of the leaves beneath his feet. But Alexander knew that was not a good omen. Where were all the animals? As soon as he had the thought, Alexander heard a noise. Not a bird, or a small animal. And certainly not a bear. The sound was foreign to him, and Alexander felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck. Every bone in his body told him to turn and run. He could steal away in the night and leave Marais for good. If the King’s army came looking for him, it would be a better death than fate at the mercy of a dragon. A hush fell over the forest. Just as Alexander decided to flee and abandon his mission, the trees around him began to quiver. The earth below him began to quake, and the leaves began to droop from the force. Footsteps, massive footsteps. There was nowhere to run, Alexander knew it was too late. A furtive glance confirmed the location of a bush to his right, and the reluctant warrior knew what to do. As quickly as he could, Alexander dove into the bush which he soon discovered was a mulberry bush. At least if I have to wait it out, I won’t starve to death. From the corner of his eye, Alexander saw it. There by the trees in front of him was the dragon. For all the posters hung up in Marais, Alexander could see none had done the creature justice. The dragon was enormous, at least 50 feet tall and with a wingspan unequal to anything Alexander could dream of. But what was most eye-catching were the dragons scales. The creature was almost iridescent, its scales colored like deep purple oil slicks. The dragon glowed in the sunlight, so brilliantly that Alexander was mesmerized. He had never seen a beast so fearsome but also as beautiful. Alexander watched from his hiding spot as the dragon sat down and shook like a dog in the rain. As soon as it moved, he noticed something peculiar. The scales were shaking and dropping the same culprit of the leaf blight he had seen earlier. Thousands of tiny little gemstones. “What kind of dragon sheds gems?” The dragon shuddered and let out a little huff as it settled into a ball on the ground. Its eyes began to close, and Alexander realized the creature was falling asleep. He watched its scales flicker like a kaleidoscope, and suddenly Alexander found himself climbing out of the bush. What am I doing? The dragon didn’t stir, except to adjust itself but Alexander froze in his tracks regardless. This could very likely become his last movement if it was to wake. But something about the creature compelled him to keep going. Perhaps it was the scales, or the smattering of gems on the ground. Or perhaps it was because this dragon didn’t appear to be fire-breathing at all. With as much agility as he could muster, Alexander approached the dragon. He could hear its soft breathing, and Alexander brushed his sword as if to make sure it was still there. The creature stirred slightly and opened its left eye. As soon as they both took notice of each other’s presence, the guards went up. “Oh God!” Alexander cried, jumping back and unsheathing his sword. The dragon snuffed and growled, and when it opened its jaw Alexander caught sight of a surprising lack of fangs. Its mouth was instead full of diamonds, in an impressive array of carats. If Alexander hadn’t been so frightened, he would have taken a closer look. “Please, don’t hurt me! I don’t want to hurt you!” Alexander held the sword out in front of him, and the dragon leapt back with a loud thud. With its jump, it dislodged another large dusting of gemstones from its scales. Unhinging its jaw, the dragon blew out a collection of differently sized rubies that fell at Alexander’s feet. “So you’re not a fire-breathing dragon! You just blow gems!” He gasped, sheathing his sword once more. The dragon appeared to huff and shut its maw again, and to Alexander’s surprise it seemed to shrink away in terror. It bowed its head and shuffled back a few feet, cowering slightly. Alexander suddenly felt sympathetic, for without fire the dragon was near harmless. Even its diamond teeth were blunted. This dragon was just a large helpless creature. “Oh, you’re frightened aren’t you? I didn’t mean to scare you.” Alexander said in a hushed voice, dropping his sword to the ground. The dragon watched in confusion, moving its head to track Alexander’s movements. It was observing cautiously, as if trying to assess his next move. The boy knew that if he was to survive and possibly tame this dragon, he would have to prove that he was no threat. “Look, I never wanted to disturb you. I’m just the blacksmith’s apprentice! I like tea and rainy afternoons. I’m no warrior, and I’m hardly a dragon slayer. And excuse my saying so, but you hardly appear to be a dragon. At least not the dangerous kind that is.” Alexander slowly sat on the ground and the dragon huffed sharply. It sounded as though he found the last comment offensive, and the failed dragon slayer wondered if the creature could understand him. “Can you understand what I’m saying?” He whispered, and the dragon puffed and slightly nodded its head. Alexander’s eyes grew wide in amazement, and he suddenly gasped. The dragon narrowed its eyes in annoyance and rested its head on the ground. It can’t be! A magical dragon that understands humans? Well, stranger things have happened, I suppose. But what do I do now? I can’t kill it, I didn’t want to in the first place. But if it understands me, maybe I can reason with it. “If you can understand me, thump your tail!” Alexander said, and the dragon did just that. With a slow flick of its tail, the ground shook beneath them. This action dislodged more of the gemstone dust which fell like snowflakes to the ground. So the dragon was able to understand him after all! Alexander pondered his next move. “I was sent by the King to kill you, but I don’t want to do that. Like I said, I’m no warrior. I'm just a boy with a sword. And you aren’t a bad dragon are you? You’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time. If you leave they won’t hurt you! And I promise that I won’t either! Just leave and don’t return, it’s not safe for you here!” The boy stood up slowly and walked towards the dragon. The sudden movement seemed to slightly alarm the creature, but it waited until Alexander stood right in front of its maw. With no sword and nothing to defend himself, Alexander knew he had to trust the beast was good. “Please, get out of this land. Before they come for you too. I’ll have to run away but you have wings and you can fly! Don’t stay here where they’ll find you.” He whispered, reaching out to touch the dragon’s mouth. Instead of biting off his hand and mauling him to death like Alexander half-expected, the dragon almost cooed and nuzzled into him. It huffed a little and then shook its head in understanding. The boy sighed in relief and moved to pet the dragon further. “Good dragon, go somewhere safe. If we split up they won’t find us.” Alexander sighed and turned back to collect the silver sword when he heard a huff and felt himself flying through the air. With a gentle thud, he found himself on the back of the dragon. “Whoa! What’s going on?” Alexander cried as the dragon shook like a cat and dislodged a big stone onto the ground. He watched as the creature reached down with its jaws to pick it up, and subsequently dropped it into Alexander’s waiting hands. One look confirmed his theory. The dragon had coughed out a massive ruby. “My God! This just came out of your mouth!” Alexander held the ruby up to the light and saw it reflect beautifully across the forest floor. This was the most flawless looking gemstone he had ever seen, and there was no telling what its value truly was. All Alexander knew was that this was the most valuable thing he had ever touched. Before Alexander could decide what to do, the dragon’s wings began to flap. Without warning, it pushed upward with its legs and launched both of them into the air. Alexander screamed and held on for dear life, clutching the ruby to his chest. The ground below began to shrink as they flew higher and higher, and the town of Marais became a speck in the distance. “Wait, please! Where are you taking me?” Alexander shouted over the wind, as the dragon began to fly south. The ruby felt nice and weighty against his chest, and the creature used its left wing to point towards something near the skyline. A town glimmered in the distance, and Alexander had a feeling he and the dragon were about to embark on another involuntary adventure. With the ruby in his hand, Alexander looked back on the town of Marais growing smaller behind them. Well I suppose a ruby will make a nice tavern down payment.

d24wfr

Waking up Poor

All the treasures this land offers lie below the burning sands, hoarded by yellow dragons. In Sakasanda, it is the enormity of the bareness that is awesome—that poverty can be so abundant. It is not even sunup and Scor comes running into my room. “Momma, momma, are you going to market?” Scor asks. “What do you want?” I say, turning back over and pulling the sheets over my head. “Fig jam, dragon’s blood pudding, and sweet sausage. And funnel cakes,” she says, pulling up a corner and whispering her list under the top sheet. Her red hair and ruddy, freckled cheeks shine in the first rays. “Oh, is that all.” She stomps and clenches her fists and smacks them into her thighs. “Momma, I’m hungry.” “I know mutt, but remember, we write the bad times in the sand—” “—and the good times in stone,” she says, “I know, momma, I know.” You know it is bad when you dream of food. With the drought, and no husband, we’ve been having a rough time. But so has everyone else. What kind of mother can’t feed her own daughter? And what kind of farming village can’t bring life to a single sprout? There hasn’t been any rain in Sakasanda since the last of the green dragons migrated north to the Indrian Sea. Just my luck that as soon as I arrive, the place dries up and dies. I fled Litica and the Indrian Sea after Oz went away, to escape my creditors. Really, I’d hoped to make good on my debts and fantasized about my return. But every morning since I woke up poor. I throw Scor the last handful of hard, crusty peasant bread as I grab my sword belt, my robe, and my staff and head into town. “Momma—momma,” Scor says. “Yes, scooter?” I say. “Don’t take any dragon assignments,” she says, looking at my blackened left arm, from which I got my name. “Eat your bread,” I say, slamming the door. * * * If the litmus test for a society is how they treat their unemployed, then Sakasanda has gone completely to the dogs. “Next. Char ,” Huck, the labor secretary grunts, getting my name right for once. “Present. What are the assignments?” I ask. “I hope you’ve got some sand in you,” Huck says. “You know I do. What are the assignments?” “Red dragons exterminator—short-term hire—pays well. Or pigsty maintenance. Permanent. Low wages. Which will it be?” “Red dragons it is,” I tell Huck and hand him my token. “Very well. Go to the back to receive your assignment and any gear,” he says, “next.” Foreclosures, evictions, and assigned work all take place in the postal building. It is one of the largest buildings in town and is almost like a bazaar or marketplace. Tatsu greets me with a hug. Tatsu has a round, wizened face and wears a red head wrap. Her skin is caramel, and her eyes blaze yellow as the midday sun, with flecks of white calcite shooting from her pupils like shocks of lightning. I have disturbed her from conning some local shoppers with three-card monte and taking “donations” in her role as a Temple volunteer. Tatsu is a raconteur and a wolf after the coin. But she also has more knowledge of dragons than anyone else in Sakasanda. Some say she herself is a shapeshifting yellow dragon—a ruler of nature itself. “You’ll be needing a bamboo crook encased in clay and a few bags of retardant,” Tatsu says, handing me my supplies. “Will you go through with it this time?” “It’s sad that they punish me, because of what he did,” I say. “We do live in a land of dragons. It’s just what work is on offer. No?” Tatsu asks. “Or it is my penance because Oz refused to kill the yellow dragon—a life sentence—where I will spend the rest of my life paying back his commission—which we haven’t seen a penny of, while he rots in a jail cell in Litia.” “It’s only been a year, Char Char. And you know better than to think he could actually kill a yellow dragon,” she says. “It has been a year. A year of waking up poor,” I say. “You know, Oz is one of only maybe five people living on this earth that have ever seen a yellow dragon and lived to talk about it,” Tatsu says. “How many rolls of peasant bread is that going to buy me at the market,” I say. “Still writing your blessings in the sand and your sorrows in marble, I see,” Tatsu says. “We are starving,” I tell her. “The dragons are starving too,” Tatsu says, “And you are starting to sound like Oz, now get going.” * * * In the brown fields of Tara Nook, the red dragons slink into the fold, licking their black lips with forked tongues. There are about eight of them. These tiny assassins are a little bigger than mountain lions, but they sure pack a punch. And they have a taste for sheep. They’ll go through a herd of sheep in a weekend if left unchecked. A few of the sheep bleat and grunt, and one toward the perimeter screams like a human. I hold out my hooked shepherd's crook, unsheathe my sword, and begin to walk the perimeter, keeping the sheep behind me. A nasty little bugger with black circles around his eyes hisses at me and bares its teeth. In my satchel, I have my secret weapon. The one thing that red dragons can’t stand. I undo the drawstring and pour the contents of my satchel into the field. Two dozen Jerboah long-eared hopping mice tumble out and begin chirping and hopping on two legs like kangaroos, zigzagging in all directions. The dragons shriek in disgust and head for the hills. Red dragons are deathly afraid of Jerboah. Some think it is because of their dull eyesight. Others think it is because they carry deadly pathogens that can infect the lizards. The shepherd runs out from his hovel. “Be gone you accurs-ed de-mons! That’ll teach you bastards to run off with my sheep,” he says. “My wages for the day,” I say, holding out my charred left hand. “Ay, there you are,” he says handing me a purse full of coins, which if I stretch it can score us food and supplies for a week. “Now, what is the plan for the extermination?” He asks. “I’m still working that out.” “Come now, I didn’t put out this commission to scare the buggers off—I need the infestation dealt with once and for all,” he says. “Do you know how many red dragons are back in that nest?” I ask. “I don’t know, ten or twelve?” he asks. “Try, three or four dozen,” I say. “I’ll see you back here tomorrow,” I say, “keep the torches lit and make sure the night’s watchman doesn’t doze off. Here is a bag of Jerboah in case of emergency.” * * * Scor comes running down the aisle and latches herself onto my leg. “Dragons, mom? I thought you said no dragons.” “I’m sorry scooter,” I say. “Dragon’s blood pudding?” Tatsu asks. We all sit down at a bench outside of the Dragon’s Beard Tavern and Tatsu orders three bowls of dragon’s blood pudding. “So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Tatsu asks. “I need to find a way to catch those red dragons and lead them away from Tara Nook,” I say. “There’s only one thing that has power over red dragons,” she says, eating a spoonful of dragon’s blood pudding. “I would need to trade a yellow dragon’s egg. I would need to pass the test of the Golden Warrior” I say. “You can’t momma, you can’t, you can’t,” Scor starts crying. “Don’t be coy with me,” Tatsu says, her eyes crackling with sparks of lightning, “You already have an egg. Now, you just need to find a lair to return it to. And that’s where I come in.” I look into Scor’s eyes. I would never risk leaving her. But she needs food, and she needs a father. And I am a trained warrior. If anyone can pass the challenge of the Golden Warrior, if anyone can measure up, surely I must be among their number. * * * Back at home, I retrieve the golden egg from a locked chest and stow it in my satchel. Scor looks at me bug-eyed and says, “I don’t understand why you are doing this, momma.” “Oh, sweety. Do you remember when the boy had fallen into the well? After the drought had begun? What did you do?” “I tied a rope and went down in after him,” she says. “Exactly,” I tell her. “Because you were small enough. Because no one else could bring him back,” I say. “But momma—there weren’t any dragons in the well,” she says. “The hell there weren’t,” I say. “It’s just like that scooter, we are all stuck in the well now—all of us—and I’m the only one that is small enough to go down in there,” I say. “I don’t understand, mama? You’re not small, you’re big,” Scor says. “You know that the yellow dragon spoke to papa in the cave? You know that papa passed the test, right,” I say. “But you could die,” Scor says. “Or I could set everything right,” I tell her. “But I don’t want you to go—you could die,” she says. “I know, little one—but, if I can set everything right—isn’t that worth dying for?” I ask. She runs back to her room. I hear rustling and then she comes running back out and brings me out a small harp in a case. “What is this, scooter?” I ask. “Dad said to give you this if you ever went dragon hunting,” Scor says. “What else did he tell you?” I ask. * * * Tatsu and I head out into the dark of night. We have to use all of the money I earned to rent camels from a Bedouin named Sekko whom Tatsu knows from the bazaar. He leads us out to the cave by Tara Nook. All the while, Tatsu is saying to him, “Sekko, you must tell no one what we are doing,” and all the while he is promising, saying, “no need to raise sand—your money is enough to guarantee my silence.” Our camels wet their lips and mew their jaws as if they could drink the dust. They crow and grunt and break the night into a symphony of otherworldly movements. Night flows over the sands like a river of deep purple lapping at the edge of a pier. At the horizon line, a thin haze of sand and dust paints a shoreline of deep oranges. Thin smoky clouds float above the dim alpenglow like flotsam in the currents. The moon stands over the desert and casts night shadows. Those deep pools of blackwater collect in the beds of the dunes. The Milky Way runs across the sky like a great bouquet of glistening jewels adorning a wedding arbor that towers above the heavens themselves. And row after row of twinkling stars look on like wedding guests seated in pews whose wet eyes sparkle with tears pulled down by the image of the bride in all her glory. The cave glows from within. It crackles with energy and flame. It calls me in with a pull that can only be described as love. I know that what I want lies within, and the answers that I need are just past the threshold. Tatsu says, “The yellow dragons are guardians. They live thousands of years. Elusive hermits. They speak words that fork lightning—" “—A mind that can penetrate your very thoughts—” I say. “—Like the soul of the desert itself, they rule over all other dragons and all other creatures that make the sands their home. Like the soul of the desert itself, they can cover or hide any secret and command any toll,” Tatsu concludes. “Then why did the green dragons leave?” Sekko asks. “And why are the red dragons stealing everyone’s sheep and goats?” Tatsu asks. “If the green dragons are responsible for rain, storms, and the harvest cycles, and if red dragons reap chaos, scavenge and plunder the land like an infestation or a punishment for sin, then what is the nature of these yellow dragons?” I ask. “Ahh, my young warrior. What is the code?” Tatsu says. “I am not a noble,” I say. “And what is nobility?” Tatsu asks. “The prime command—he is noble who is the protector of the vulnerable,” I say. “The yellow dragon is also the golden dragon. And so, any warrior who faces the dragon must pass the test of the Golden Warrior,” Tatsu says. “If Oz passed the test, I will pass it as well,” I tell her. “Know what you will be facing. The Golden Warrior must survive three tests, as with all gold: Gold is scratched with a touchstone to see if it is solid all the way through. Gold is dunked in the cleansing water and weighed, to see if it is substantial. Finally, Gold is measured in the assaying fire. What burns away is impure. Any dross in the molten mixture is a disqualifying blemish,” Tatsu says. “I am ready,” I say. “You’ve got sand in you, alright,” Tatsu says, her eyes crackling with energy as if lightning will leap from her eyes. I drop my sword belt, leave my shepherd’s crook, and head in to face the dragon in nothing but my robes. All I bring with me is Scor’s harp. * * * The cave is totally dark. I can hear the yellow dragon breathing. Moving. Approaching. I walk forward toward the center of the cave and stand in the dark, waiting. I hear a shriek and an echo. “Charrr… Charrr… Charrr,” the voice echoes. Through the blackness, a claw reaches out and cuts into my shoulder. I feel my blood leak through my white robe and drip down my arm, covering my fingers in a layer of sticky red glue, turning my blackened arm red in the process. “Do you think you can stand before me on your own merits?” the creature asks. “I stand here because my people are starving,” I say. “Your people? The ones that have poisoned the soil, hunted the red dragons, and tyrannized their own kind through a system of voluntary enslavement?” the creature says. “Those are not my people,” I say. The creature’s talons wrap around my body and pull me forward into a great pool of water, it thrusts me into the murky blackness and holds me under, my arms akimbo. I can feel the flames of its breath stirring the surface. I wait to lose consciousness. Then, I am pulled out and placed back on my feet. “And if you cannot merit favor on the strength of your deeds and cannot count honor among your kind, then are you sure that you will be counted pure by the clarifying fire?” he says. “I would not be here if my deeds were just or if my people were honorable. I am here for Scor and for Oz. And for all that are starving in these lands. If these are not pure reasons, then I don’t think any would be found to be so,” I say. I hear the dragon draw its breath, but I say, “wait!” “A change of heart?” he asks. “Never,” I say, and produce Scor’s harp. I set it on the ground before me. Then, I say, “now!” And with that the dragon’s breath engulfs me. * * * The sky breaks forth with a rumble. The rains flow in long steady torrents like a mother’s tears. An endless well of sadness. A cooling mist of grief. A longing of the earth that pulls all of the life-giving bounty into its womb. The yellow dragon calls in the night—he calls the call of the red dragon. As I emerge from the cave, holding my harp’s case to my side and basking in a golden light, I see Tatsu. “You’ve done well, Char—my child,” she says. We watch as the red dragons appear from the crags of the cliffs by Tara Nook and slink forth, returning back to the cave of their master. “Every day I wake up poor,” I say to Tatsu. “But tomorrow we will not be,” Tatsu says. “And that is why tomorrow is the day we leave to get Oz. We will stop at Tara Nook, collect the commission—” “—Wait, how will we collect without dragon’s blood?” Tatsu asks. I open the case where the harp had been, revealing a golden urn. “Dragon’s blood?” she asks. And I nod. * * * It only seems like moments before we are at my door. Scor runs out and throws herself around my waist. “Momma, momma, you’re alright.” “Scor, honey, get your things ready. At first light we are going to set your father free,” I say. “But momma, we have nothing for the journey,” she says. “Tomorrow, we wake up rich,” I say.

e24mcf

Two Ways to Win

Two Ways to Win Penrose donned his armor, the polished metal sparkling in the early morning. After a night of lost sleep and sore elbows, it had better be sparkling. It wasn’t every day that you had the opportunity to become a knight of the realm. That most prestigious position was only afforded to a precious few. The title would change his life forever and move him far beyond the ranks of his traditional family status. Five years of practice, exams, preliminary rounds, and mandatory service. All that was left was one final challenge. Granted, it was a big one, but Penrose was confident. Training with a master swordsman had to be enough, didn’t it?            Plate by heavy plate, Penrose buckled himself in. Armor wasn’t strictly necessary, or even helpful in some cases, but he found that the first step toward achieving status was to present it. He took a look in his mirror, a small pitiful thing, but good enough to catch a sliver of his reflection.            “You look regal, Pen.”            Pen jumped, his armor clanging with the motion and spun around. Albert, a man who aspired to a full pint of ale and not much else was leaning in the doorway. “You really shouldn’t sneak up on a knight.”             “I’ll let you know if I see one.”            Penrose stewed, but only for a moment. “You’re a right bastard.” He held out a hand.            Albert clasped it with both of his. “A right bastard who’s come to cheer you on. Christ, that armor must be heavy.”            Penrose released Albert’s hand. “Admittedly, yes, but it’ll do the trick.”            Albert nodded. “You certainly look the part. Best get moving, there’s already a crowd outside.”            Penrose took a last look at his humble room. There wasn’t going to be much to miss. He had packed the previous evening in preparation. All told, his life filled a pathetic knapsack. It didn’t matter, one way or another, he wasn’t coming back. He took a deep breath and followed Albert out the door and into the mud-strewn streets. The din was immediate. Packs of commoners were pushing through, winding their way toward the tournament grounds. Banners were held, makeshift horns were blown, hell, even the livestock seemed to be moving in the same general direction. The final trial brought the realm together.            For years, Penrose had dreamt of this day. As a child, he wanted nothing more than a knighthood, and his mother wanted nothing more than to tell him it wasn’t possible. He wished the old bag was still around to see him, but sadly, she had been crushed by a plow years earlier. Penrose felt bad for the plow, it had only been doing its job, but his father had burned it for a witch all the same. Farmers, stupid people .            There was a rapping on the outside of his helmet. “You alive in there, Pen? Must be hot.”            Penrose took a breath and centered himself in the moment. It would do no good to be distracted during the bout. “Yes, just… taking it all in.”            “Aye, probably cooking in this heat too. Bad day for heavy armor if you ask me. Sure you don’t want to go home and change?”            Penrose smacked him in the back, playful, but painful with his gauntleted palm. “If you’re here to support, support, but I’ll have none of this questioning. My head needs to remain clear.” He felt like a roast chicken in his armor, sweating and ready to be served.            “Alright, your lordship.” Albert made a mock bow.            Penrose did not rise to the barb. A knight of the realm was straight-faced and proper. Besides, he would not be consorting with the likes of Albert for much longer. “Have you heard any rumors as to what the final trial is?” Every bout was different, but they all had one thing in common, mythical beasts. Albert was a pen worker, keeping the creatures fed and goading them to violence when necessary. It was shit work, paid worse, but it was consistent. Class systems tended to create a constant stream of commoners trying to move up the ranks.            “You know I can’t work the pen when a friend is in the trial. Rules and all.”            “But you do hear things.”            Albert grinned. “I do indeed. I can’t tell you what it is, but I can tell you, much like today, it’s going to be hot.”            “No…”            “Oh aye, scorching even.”            Penrose felt a chill run up his spine. The hint was simple enough, but… “There hasn’t been a dragon in the trials for a decade.”            Albert threw up his hands. “Who said anything about a dragon?”            They walked the rest of the way to the tournament grounds in silence, Albert chuckling to himself, and Penrose quietly wondering if he had made a terrible mistake. Of course, he had trained to fight dragons, but only against dummies. Dragons hadn’t been a threat since The Great War. Albert was probably pulling his leg. The low people were prone to their jests.            When they approached the stadium, Penrose spotted a large sign for ‘Initiates’. “This is where we part ways, my friend.”            Albert turned to face him. “It has been fun, hasn’t it?”            “It has.”            He moved from foot to foot. “Listen, you know you don’t have to do this, right?”            There it is. “I know you feel that way, Albert, but this is all I have.”            Albert frowned. “Oh, is it then? Well, good luck.” He turned on his heel and walked toward the main entrance muttering something that sounded foul.            Penrose paused. Was life so bad? An image of returning to the farm to work with his plow-burning father rose unbidden and clear. Yes, life was that bad. Mind made up, he clanked his way toward the initiate’s sign. A knight stood next to it, polished gold armor practically a beacon. As Penrose approached, the knight held out a hand. “You certainly look the part, but I’m going to need your name.”            “Penrose, soon to be Sir Penrose.” He put as much confidence in to the words as he could muster.            The knight lifted a list that unfurled nearly to his knees. “Penrose. Well, we’ll see about that. You’re on the list, and lucky you, you’re one of the first, won’t spend all day baking in that armor like some of us. Head back and wait with the others, we’ll call your name.” He motioned toward a dirt path that led behind the grandstands.            Being early on the list was a boon provided to few. The knights of the realm only opened two positions a year, and if early competitors completed the trial, the rest were sent home. Penrose gave the knight a small salute and made his way around the edge of the stadium. The idea of waiting somewhere that provided even a modicum of shade was enough to quicken his step. As he walked thoughts of status and evenings guarding the castle walls filled his head. Distractions, but pleasant ones, so he allowed them. Eventually, the path descended beneath the backside of the wooden grandstands. Once in the shade of the structure, Penrose got his first good look at his fellow competitors. They were standing around a small, mud-strewn holding area. A boy, hardly older than fourteen was sharpening a wooden sword with a pocket knife. Off in another corner were three men that barely fit into their armor. They were laughing with one another, but Penrose could see the fear behind the jest. Others were simply leaning, eyes closed in prayer or concentration. How did they pass the trials?            In an attempt to be gallant, Penrose gave the rest of his competitors a wave.            None responded in kind, but an old man stood from a shadowy corner and hobbled over to him. “You certainly look the part.”            “Thank you. You…”            “Look like shite. I know. But this staff has a few tricks. We’ll see if it helps.” The man rolled up the edges of his robe and struck a stance that might have been intended for intimidation.            “I’m sure it will.” Penrose thought the man would be mincemeat before long, but no sense in dashing his confidence. Wanting a way out of the conversation, he made his way to a rickety bench and sat down with a loud thunk. The other competitors were staring, so Penrose closed his eyes, breathed, and waited for the sound of his name. To his unpleasant surprise, the older man came and set next to him. He didn’t say anything, but the wheezy sound of his labored breathing was enough to keep Penrose on edge and far from relaxed.            The morning passed, hot and longer than expected. Despite being one of the earlier names on the list, the last trial was an affair, with opening speeches, acts, and other such entertainment. Penrose listened. He had seen them all before, and in the dark confines of his helmet, he could almost imagine them again. The thunder of hoofbeats shook the stadium as riders did their laps, performing death-defying feats. A troupe of jesters created a mock battle commemorating The Battle of Two Bunkers. He couldn’t make out the queen’s speech, but he knew she had given one based on the rapturous applause that followed a poignant silence.            Hours later, another knight came and called the first name. “John Phillips.”            The young boy stood and carried his wooden sword toward the exit. There was a murmur of ‘good luck, lad’ from the other competitors, but it was clear none of them expected to see the boy again.            “Poor kid, doomed,” muttered the old man beside Penrose.            “He might make it.”            “If they’ve brought in a vampire during daylight, maybe. But my guess, the second we hear that crowd cheer, he’s already dead.”            “I’ll pray for him.” Penrose clasped his hands, the perfect image of a good, penitent knight.            “Ah, God, yes, let’s hope he’s listening for once.” The old man spat.            And how did you pass your religious rights I wonder…            From above, the crowd roared with excitement. Drums beat frantically. Then, there was a shocked ‘Ooooh’, followed by silence.            “I see God has once again taken the day off,” muttered the old man.            Penrose stewed, happy the helmet would hide his own anger.            Suddenly, he felt the old man’s hand wrapping around his own. “Look, you’re next, I can’t explain how I know it, but I know it.” “You saw the list.” “No, third sight, must be. You’re next. Before you go, know this, there is more than one way to win the trial. Remember the knight’s promise, protect the weak and serve the realm.”            “More than one way to—”            “Penrose,” called a voice from the door.            “Trust me,” hissed the old man, grinning in a way that said he should most definitely not be trusted.            Penrose stood, checking over his armor a final time. Everything was as it should be. He followed the knight at the door and into a narrow corridor beneath the grandstands.            “Alright, rules are simple. They will announce you, they will announce the creature, and you will fight to the death.” The knight sounded bored.            Simple enough, but the old man’s words echoed in his mind. “Is there another way to win the trial?”            The knight stopped, thought about it for a second. “No.”            Well, that’s that. Before Penrose had more time to think, they were at the gate. Golden sunlight streamed through an open door. Beyond, trumpets blared. This was the moment. He sucked in a breath and puffed out his chest.            “For your consideration, farmer by birth, commoner by station, PENROSE!” roared a distant voice.            The knight stepped aside and motioned for Penrose to move through. He did. The applause was deafening. Every cheer, clap, and whoop gave him the heart he needed to continue. Whatever fear or doubt had lingered in the back of his mind was gone. Penrose would be a commoner no more, he would slay the beast, and be done with it. The great dirt circle of the tournament grounds spread out before him, onlookers on every bench, eyes in every corner. He tried to ignore the trail of blood that led out of the center of the ring and focused on finding Albert instead. There were far too many people. Oh well. He stepped into the center and drew his great sword, shiny, unused, but sharp from a hundred nights under a patient whetstone.            The crowd roared. A distant announcer hushed them with outstretched palms. “But a challenger is only so good as the challenge itself. From the hinterlands, found deep within a cave by our most spirited magus, I give you a fearsome, dwarven dragon!”            The stadium hushed as an iron crate was brought through a tall gate into the far side of the arena. Penrose squinted. The crate wasn’t large, and looking through the bars, he couldn’t see much of anything. Still, the attendants were taking whatever was in the box seriously. They slid a series of large iron pins out of the sides, ran back to where they had come, and slammed the gate shut. The box’s iron door fell forward, revealing the monstrosity inside. Only… it wasn’t a monstrosity.            Sitting in the box, no more than two feet in length was a plump green dragon, less than a year old. It was curled up in a corner, tail wrapped over its eyes and breathing softly.            “Let the trial begin!” shouted the announcer. The crowd cheered, Penrose steadied himself, but the dragon did not move. He advanced, keeping a wary eye. As he drew closer, he could see that he was correct, this was no dwarven dragon – dwarf maybe, but nothing to write songs about. It was just a babe, hardly worthy of a tavern story and certainly not worthy of a trial. In a certain light, it was almost cute. Maybe some day it would be fearsome, but not this day. There is more than one way to win the trial… The words echoed in his head. A knight of the realm protects the weak… Penrose’s head spun. All the while, the dragon slept. It would be in poor taste to run a sleeping baby through. That was common sense. Protect the weak. Maybe the old man hadn’t been lying. Perhaps this baby dragon was a test. The crowd had grown silent in his hesitation with a few tentative jeers beginning to crop up from the onlookers. Decisions had to be made. Penrose thought to what he knew of knights, all he had read, all he had studied, and sheathed his sword. “I would like to ask mercy on behalf of this poor creature!” The announcer, puzzled, hustled over to the side of the queen. She tilted her head, considering the request and then spoke back to him. Once more, the announcer rushed forward. “No, I’m afraid it must be to the death.” “Respectfully, it is a mere babe.” Penrose would kill the creature if he had to, but persistence was knight’s work. “It’ll get bigger,” shouted someone from the audience. “Fair point, it will get bigger,” offered the announcer. “It’s half asleep!” shouted Penrose to the crowd. “If it wakes up, it could burn the village!” called a woman from the crowd. “I live in the village!” yelled another. Penrose turned to the queen, exasperated. “Would you have me stick my blade through a creature that can’t even be bothered to—” The arena grew suddenly hot. Penrose looked at his feet, confused to see flames licking up from the soles of his boots. A wave of nausea swept over him, followed quickly by immeasurable and unyielding pain. He screamed and turned back toward the dragon. Babe or not, the creature was out of its box and breathing a steady stream of green flame through its tiny jaws. Penrose rolled, trying to put the flame out, but it only spread as the dragon turned its head gently back and forth, roasting him with barely any effort. “W-Wha—” Penrose tried, but faltered as his armor melted before him, closing his tiny view of the world. Pain was followed shortly by numbness. The old man played me. There was no anger, or much of anything for that matter. All he felt was heavy. His last thought as the light left the world was that he understood very much how the family plow had felt.

y8lvtc

The Lizard Boy

In a very small house. In a very small village. On a very small hill. A very small boy found a very small lizard. He loved this lizard with all of his heart. He loved how it skittered about on his hand and up his arms. He loved how it flicked its tongue out and sat on his shoulder. The lizard did not tease the boy for his size or push him to the ground. It simply sat and listened as it chewed on whatever bug it had acquired for lunch. He would wander through the village square with his lizard on his shoulder, spewing his latest musings of the day into its blank stare. Every day he walked around the square and soon everyone knew of the strange lizard boy. They would gather around him and point and laugh but the boy did not care. He had his lizard and so he was happy. Unfortunately for the boy, novelty often breeds fear. The boy’s parents were called before the village elders and asked about his strange activity. They were both as confused as the rest of them and could only apologize for raising such an abnormal child. It was decided then and there that the boy would be forced to give up his lizard before his strange behavior created a stain on the village’s reputation. They all immediately set off for the square where they knew the boy would be but they found nothing. They searched for hours but the boy was nowhere to be found. His parents cried and called out for him but by then he was too far away to hear them. He had heard them plotting and so, with only a small bag and a pocket full of coins, he set off with his lizard to see the world. They walked through cities and villages, fields and mountains. The boy grew tall and his lizard grew wings. The road was hard and the people were often mean but the boy would just look at his lizard and smile because he knew that he had the best friend in the world. They wandered for years until they came to the other side of the world. They stood on a beach and looked out at a vast ocean. The boy is now a young man, tall and strong, and his lizard is now a young dragon, as large as a house. The dragon looked down at his friend and sighed with tears in his eyes. The man looked up in surprise, as this was the first time he had ever seen his friend sad. “Why do you look like that?” the man asked. “I am too big to sit on your shoulders,” the dragon sighed. “In fact, I believe I am too big for the ground as well.” The dragon opened its enormous wings and bowed its head to the man, who climbed up onto it’s shoulders. It beat its wings once and rocketed up into the sky with such speed that the man thought he would be crushed into its back. He clung tight to the scales as the dragon soared through the clouds, enveloping them both in wisps of grey darkness before it erupted into a crystal clear sky. The wings tucked in and the man’s stomach flipped. They dropped down to the cloud tops and settled into a glide. It felt as though they were skimming the surface of an ocean of cotton and the sky above was as blue as the water below. The man sat up and yelled with joy. The dragon still wept. They returned to the ground and the man sat upon his dragon looking out at the ocean, fully content with his life. The dragon bowed its head and ushered the man to dismount. It stared into his eyes and spoke without words. “I can not remain with you,” the dragon said. “Why not?” the man replied, taken aback. “I need to find my own kind,” the dragon said. “I want a home and a mate. I want to grow old with hatchlings and I want to be apart from the humans that I know will never want me.” “But what about me?” the man asked, tearfully. “You are my only friend, the world doesn’t want me either.” “They only push you away because of me. You belong with your kind as much as I belong with mine. I have kept you from living a life. You left your home and abandoned your parents. I can see you aging and yet I still feel as young as when we left. Your time is so much more precious.” The dragon rested its head on the ground in front of the man and he reached out to touch it’s cheek. “I don’t want you to go,” the man said. “I know,” the dragon replied, as it opened its wings once more and flew up into the sky. The man sat down on the beach and cried. He cried for hours until the sun dropped down behind the water and the moon rose up from the waves in its place. The cold settled in around him and he made his way into the woods where he made a fire and laid down to sleep. He dreamed of flying through the clouds and living in caves. He dreamed of traveling with his friend and of the hatred they received. He dreamed of scowls and taunts. Dark thoughts filled his head and he woke up in a cloud of spite. He shook the feeling off and thought of the clouds again. A smile returned to his face but his eyes were still sad and his heart was still heavy. He did not know where to go so he chose a direction and walked until he reached a small village. The village was small and quaint with little houses and a square. The people were milling about, laughing and smiling, as they began their morning chores. The man walked among them, prepared for the pointing and whispers. He gazed around and realized with a start that no one was paying him any mind. A woman walked by and smiled warmly at him. A farmer with a cart nodded respectfully as he squeezed through the narrow street. He noticed movement to his right and turned to see a small child waving at him from their father’s shoulders. He gave a small wave back and retreated into an alleyway. He gazed out from the shadows at the crowds of people and smiled, his heart lightening just a bit. His hands clenched and with a deep breath, he straightened himself upright and marched into the crowd. As the years went by the man continued his journey with renewed vigor and a new purpose. But even though he tried his hardest the years of solitude had taken their toll and he still struggled to make friends. One day, when he was at his lowest, a captain of the guard approached him and offered him a job. His time in the wild had made him strong and with training, he became a ferocious fighter. Word spread of his talents and soon he had a battalion of soldiers under his command. He still had few friends but now he had respect. The people who would have laughed at him before now bowed at his feet. The small seed of spite grew into a raging fire of anger. His axe knew no mercy and every invader quaked at the mention of The Captain. Songs were written of his deeds and kings paid him incredible amounts of gold to fight with them. His victories brought him power and land and soon he was a king himself. He laid down his axe and took a wife who bore him three children. Time softened his heart and made him forget the anger. He used his knowledge of the world to rule and his subjects thought of him as the wisest man in the kingdom. The children taught him innocence and his wife showed him love. The people now called him The King and he felt truly happy for the first time since that day by the ocean. It was midday on the longest, hottest day of summer when a poor farmer approached the throne. His face was covered in soot and his clothing blackened by flames. He fell in despair before the king and told him a tale of fire and destruction. A terrifying beast had swept through the northern hills and burned acres of crops. It descended from the sky in a flurry of teeth, scales, and flames. The people had tried to fight back but the monster ignored their arrows and spears. Hundreds of sheep had been taken and the farmers would surely starve in the winter. The King sat up for a moment at the mention of scales and teeth, certain in his heart that this was his old friend. He calmed himself as best he could, the people could never know his past. “That is terrible news,” the King said. “I want any families who have lost crops and livestock to come to the castle immediately and I will provide them rooms and food until they are ready to return. Do you know where this beast has gone? I will muster the army and destroy it.” “Oh thank you, my king,” the farmer cried. “We sent our fastest rider to follow the beast. It has taken shelter in the highest mountain to the north.” The King thanked the farmer and quickly left to speak with his wife. He told her about his childhood and the lizard friend that he had lost. His eyes filled with tears as he told her about the emptiness in his heart that his friend’s absence had left. She took his hand in hers and promised to keep his secret. She told all of her handmaidens that the king was unwell and not to be disturbed. They placed guards at their bedroom door and told them to let none but the queen enter. The King then left under the cover of darkness and set off to the northern mountains. He traveled through the wild and slept under the stars. It reminded him of his youth and he could almost feel his friend next to him in the dark. Several days later he found himself looking up at the tallest mountain in the land. It was a terrible peak of jagged rocks and crushing winds. The climb was long and hard. The wind whipped around him and his bones stiffened in the cold but the thought of his friend pushed him upwards. When he felt that he could go no further he crested a snow drift and came face to face with the mouth of an enormous cave. He hurried inside without much thought, lighting a torch as he went. His vision grew with the flame and a horrifying sight greeted him. Bones. The cave was carpeted in bones of all sizes. He recognized the skulls of rodents and sheep, cows and mules. Each step he took crunched and echoed down the endless chamber. He trembled with fear and thought that perhaps he had made a mistake, his old friend would never live in a place so dreadful. A soft rumbling from the back of the cave snapped him back to attention. The deep, thunderous roll of footsteps too large to be believed came closer and closer. His torchlight failed about twenty feet ahead and just beyond that, hovering in the inky blackness, were two small flames. They bounced and swayed in unison, growing larger by the second. They were still far back in the dark when the snout and blood-soaked teeth emerged into the light. Rows upon rows of teeth still dripping with blood, as long as a bastard sword and twice as sharp. The jaws curled back into a hideous smile and the two small flames crackled out from either side, ready to be unleashed. The King now felt like a man once more, as small as a leaf in the woods. “Who are you?” the dragon spoke into the king’s mind. “And what brings an old man to the entrance of my home?” “I believe that I am an old friend,” the king said. “And I hope that you still remember traveling the world with a very small boy who loved a lizard with all of his heart.” “I have been tricked by men before,” the dragon said. “I did know that boy once but he was known by many. And I left him. I do not know if he is alive or well.” “He is very well,” the king said with tears in his eyes. “He has killed and destroyed, he has known hatred and loss. He has felt empty and alone, abandoned by his only friend. But he also found love. And he learned to listen and be kind. He has filled his heart with joy and grown wise in many things but he is still missing something.” The king slowly raised his hand to touch the dragon’s cheek. “He misses his friend who once showed him the space above the clouds, over the ocean, where no man has gone before or since.” “I did not think I would ever see you again,” the dragon replied. The fire at the corners of his mouth died down and he brought his head close to the king. “I am sorry that my leaving caused you so much pain. But I am also happy beyond words that you have a good life.” He then reared back and studied the king. “You look unwell, are you sick?” “Oh no,” the king laughed. “I am just old, my friend. I think you’ll find that the years have been quite kind to me if I do say so myself. We can not all age as gracefully as dragons.” “I suppose that is true,” the dragon mused. “I am terribly sorry about the mess.” He swept his tail and the piles of bones scattered into the back of the cave. “It is not fit for visitors but perfectly acceptable for dragons.” It curled up around the king and settled it’s head down next to his. “Now tell me, friend, tell me the tale of your life. We have a lot of catching up to do.” They both laughed and talked long into the night. The king told the dragon about his days as a soldier and how he became a king. He told him about his family and the kingdom that he loved more than anything. The dragon told him about his mate and five children who were waiting for him far away in the East. They talked until the king felt his eyes grow heavy and he fell asleep with his head on the dragon's arm. For that night they were not a dragon and a king, they were a boy and his lizard once more. Morning came and the dragon woke to find the king staring out of the cave with a troubled look in his eyes. “Why do you look so concerned?” the dragon asked. “My people have suffered from your hunting.” the king replied. “I snuck away to speak to you but they will not survive if you take more of their livestock. They will expect me to send the army to hunt you down.” “I will hunt somewhere else,” the dragon replied. “There is a land across the ocean where no human lives. My children are now strong enough for the journey. The food I have gathered is for them.” He plucked a small scale from his side and gave it to the king. "Bring this to your people as proof that you have killed me. They will be forever grateful I assume." “Thank you, my dearest friend,” the king sighed. “I am glad that I got to see you again.” He looked up into the dragon's eyes which were as large as him. “May we fly, one last time?” The dragon bowed its head and the king climbed up, now much slower than all those years ago. He sat atop his old friend's back once more and looked out, not over an ocean, but his kingdom. The land sprawled out before him and just barely visible in the distance he could see the sparkling silver sliver of the ocean. The dragon kicked off and the two friends soared into the sky once more. Two very small beings in a very large world, sailing through a very big sky.

fur4bo

The daughter of the North Dragon.

The daughter of the North Dragon. I looked out over the burned shell of a town that the North Dragon had destroyed. I hoped most of the people had evacuated but the reports had told me otherwise. I heard stories of bodies lining the streets, children, women, livestock all murdered by the unrelenting claw of the North Dragon. The trek up the mountain had been long and hard, much more than I had ever trained for. I had been told the dragon resided in a cave at the summit of the mountain; why a town would be made under the shadow of a dragon's mountain I did not know. I swung my heavy blade, carving out a path through the foliage. I had to be there soon, I could smell smoke and something else, something acrid and metallic. The sound of my leather boots on the leaves beneath my feet blocked out the screams until I was all too close. I picked my feet up faster and sprinted in my heavy armor. I burst onto a scene I had not been prepared for: the dragon, the North Dragon, larger than the tallest tree in the forest, blew smoke and fire onto the screaming forms of knights. There had to be almost seven bodies that I could see, already burned and melted into the ground. But the last few were still fighting. I saw spears thrown and arrows shot, defected easily off the thick hide of the dragon. No one could get close enough to stab it through the heart as we had been trained. To my ever-growing shame and fear I found myself cowering behind a rock, waiting for the slaughter to end. And it did end, eventually, the scream stopped, and the heat shut off. The smell never left, it burned my throat and my nose as I sucked in shallow breaths. I peered out from behind the stone, my fellow knights dead around me. I had been sent on a solo mission, why were they here too? I was meant to ambush the dragon and slay it on my own while it slept. My legs shook as I approached the bodies. Their insignias did not match my own, I understood now. These were not my fellow knights but they were knights nonetheless. Young knights and this dragon had brutally murdered them. My rage boiled hotter than the fire the dragon spewed; I would avenge these knights. But not now, I would wait, wait for night to fall on the mountain, for darkness to cover my vengeance. The waiting was possibly the worst part of the night, knights don’t wait, princesses in towers wait. I sat against the rock I had hidden behind, staring at the bodies as I waited for the light reflecting off their blood to dim. The smell of their death still lingered after the sun and dipped beneath the horizon. I wondered if the smell of the dead was blocking out my smell, I prayed the dragon did not know I was there. I stepped slowly around the bodies, keeping my eyes on the cave entrance, not wishing to see the worst of the carnage. The cave entrance was haloed in burnt greens and shattered stone, arrows and spears littered the ground around it. I stepped inside and a cool, damp wind washed over me, calming the dry heat that lingered on my skin. The cave was long and winding, sharp stones lined the walls but the ones where the dragon had walked had been smoothed down. A faint dripping sound filled my ears as I advanced. There were many small tunnels and ravines that the dragon couldn’t possibly fit through, it must reside deep in the cave, perhaps there was a large cavern with smooth walls and floors where I could store its riches and sleep. Clink, my hand flew to the hilt of my sword at the noise but it had only been a coin I had kicked across the cave. In fact, there were many coins strewn across the cave floor, glittering in the low light. I stopped to pocket a few, they were all gold and many of them were from very long ago, they would go for quite a lot in this time. I paused however when I heard breathing, heavy slow breathing, coming from in front of me. The cave was dark and the light had lessened the more I had ventured in; it was so much so that I hadn’t even seen the dragon until I found myself standing right before it. My eyes were fixed on the ground but the dragon's heavy breathing betrayed it. I put the coin I had been holding back on the ground and looked up. A small crack in the ceiling allowed a small amount of light to illuminate the form in front of me. The North Dragon looked even larger up close, I had thought the ceiling was only a few feet above my head but now I saw just how large of a space I was in. I felt like a dwarf next to the dragon, among the piles of gold I had mistook for sparkling boulders. I wondered as I stood, how would such a large dragon collect such small coins and gems. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and stepped closer to the dragon. I could see the long form of its neck and chest, where its heart would be. Then the head must be… I whipped my head to the left and stared at the closed eyelids of the beast; its head was only a few yards from me. I bent down to remove my leather boots, not wanting to wake the dragon with my heavy footsteps. Stepping closer I could now make out the soft small scales of its chest, the weak spot that I would pierce my blade through. I looked back at the head to make sure it still slept. With my reassurance, I raised my heavy sword above my head and was knocked to the floor by a small beast. When I got my bearings I realized that the tinny fists that pummelled into my armor were not beast at all; it was human. A little girl no bigger than my younger sister threw her hands at my helmet in a weak attempt at a punch. I sat up and picked her off me. She weighed no less than a sack of flour although her squirming body was hard to hold. She growled and yelled no words or thoughts but I somehow understood what she was saying. This girl was protecting her mother, her mother the North Dragon. I couldn’t fight this little girl much less the dragon now that - with the little girls screaming - it had surely awoken. I set the girl on the ground and ran, leaving my sword behind in my hurry. I dove behind a pile of gold and listened. The dragon was up, it was awake. its nose sniffed the air trying to locate me. The little girl growled, the sound bouncing off the cave walls. I couldn’t leave her here, right? She would never truly be safe with such an awful beast. I had to slay this dragon and take her with me. I drew my bow, perhaps if I managed to shoot the sleepy dragon in its eye I could get an advantage. I stepped out from the pile and aimed, the eye was as big as the targets we had practiced shooting men with. I let my arrow fly and it hit. The dragon roared in pain and anger, thumping its giant tail on the ground and snapping its jaws. While it was distracted I dove for the girl, wrapping her up in my arms. I ran with her to hide behind another mound of gold. She kicked and screamed but I held her close; she must know I was helping her right? The dragon's claw swiped through the pile I was using for cover, scattering coins about. It stood before me, poised for a fight, teeth exposed, but it did nothing. It didn’t pounce or try to burn me, it just stood its ground. Its eyes weren't on me, they were on the girl. The two cried out for each other, the beast’s cries vaguely human, the girl's cries vaguely beast. I watched the two howl and a memory struck me. My mother's cries rang through my head as I crammed my lanky fifteen-year-old body under the table as my mother had told me. What I now know as pillagers had broken the door down and were fighting with my mother. They had apprehended my baby sister and were holding my mother back from her. The fury in my mother's eyes was something I had never seen and never did see again; it was only for that brief moment before I had fled from my hiding place and freed her. At the time I was so occupied with keeping the one I had tackled from getting up that I didn’t see what my mother did to the other one. Later in the line of bodies, I saw a man with his eyes clawed out and a throat as purple as the king's robe. I tried to believe that wasn’t my mother's doing but by the way she stared at his body I knew better. I remember how carefully she had held my sister after that day. The panic that swam in her eyes when she didn’t know where she was at any given moment. How she would sweep her up into her arms when she found her, kiss her tiny forehead, and whisper loving words into the wispy hair that crowned her head. My mother and sister's cries still ring through my nightmares to this day but hearing them in my waking hours sent the feelings of that day flooding back through my mind. I stared into the eye I hadn’t shot and saw the fury and pain I had seen in my mother's eyes that day. I let the little girl go; when I placed her feet back on the rough cave ground she did not wait a moment before running over to her mother. The dragon swept the girl up in her tail, nuzzling her hair with her muzzle. The North Dragon had forgotten about me for a moment, long enough to curl around her daughter, long enough for me to back slowly out of the cave and down the winding halls I had so confidently walked through before. I wasn’t sure what I would tell my king; I had failed my duties to the thrown. But as I looked up into the night sky I knew my mother was looking back at me and that was honor enough for me. 

pjc1ku

Grimbold the Great

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a powerful warrior named Grimbold Ironfist. He was tall and strong and he never lost a battle. Known throughout the land as a fierce and skilled fighter, many kingdoms had sought Grimbold's services in their battles with the dreaded fearful dragon, Scorch. But Grimbold had a secret: he didn’t want to kill the dragon. It wasn’t that he was a coward, or that he was afraid of the dragon or of the battle. No, Grimbold was simply a peaceful soul, who didn’t believe in killing unless absolutely necessary. He had fought in many battles before, but he had always tried to find ways to resolve conflicts peacefully, rather than resorting to violence. So, when the kingdom of the Northern Realms asked for his help in defeating Scorch, Grimbold hesitated. He knew the dragon was terrorizing the countryside, burning villages and crops, and slaying anyone who stood in its way. But he also knew that Scorch was a beautiful, magnificent creature, and that it would be a shame to kill it. Grimbold thought and thought about it. Finally, he decided to accept the quest, but there was one condition: he would not kill the dragon, he would convince it to live peacefully. The king of the Northern Realms laughed and laughed when he heard this. Then, he sobered and bellowed, “How do you think, for even one minute, that you can stop a dragon from being a dragon!? It’s in his nature to destroy. It’s in his nature to kill and steal the treasures of the land. How can you hope to change that?! Sir Grimbold shrugged and then he noted, “Perhaps he’s never known any other way, Sire. I'm willing to bet that no one has ever, ever told him there's a better way to live – a way filled with peace and harmony.” The king threw his hands up into the air. “Very well,” said he. “If you can stop this beast from destroying our realm and slaying our citizens, the reward will be yours, regardless of your methods. I hope you survive this folly! ” Sir Grimbold bowed. “As do I, Sire. Thank you. I shall do my utmost to convince the beast to change his ways.” He set off on his journey on his valiant steed, armed with his trusty sword and with a bag full of vegetables behind his saddle. As he traveled through the countryside, Grimbold encountered many people who were terrified of Scorch. They begged him to kill the dragon, and offered him great rewards if he did. But Grimbold remained steadfast in his resolve. Finally, after many days of travel and travail, Grimbold arrived at the dragon’s lair. Scorch was enormous, with scales as black as coal and eyes that glowed like embers. It roared with fury as Grimbold approached and smoke poured from his great nostrils. “Who dares to disturb my lair?” Scorch boomed. “Do you think to steal my treasure, foolish one? ” The warrior stood tall, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I am Grimbold Ironfist,” he said. “I’ve come to talk to you, not to fight.” Scorch was taken aback. No one had ever come to talk to it before. It had always been attacked, or they had tried to attack. They never succeeded. It was intrigued. “Very well,” Scorch said. “I’ll hear what you have to say. But be warned, human, I am a mighty dragon, and I’ll not be easily swayed. Speak.” Grimbold took a deep breath. “I understand that, great Scorch,” he said. “But I believe there’s a way for us to coexist peacefully. You’ve been terrorizing the countryside, burning villages and crops, and slaying innocent people. But I know that you don’t have to do these things. You are a magnificent creature, with great power and wisdom. Surely there’s a better way for you to use your gifts, one that may benefit everyone.” Scorch was very surprised! No one had ever spoken to it like that before. It had always been seen as a frightening monster, a beast that must be defeated. But Grimbold saw it as a noble creature, worthy of respect. “I’ve always been alone,” Scorch said, its voice softer than before. “I have no family, no friends. I’ve been driven from my home, time and time again, by humans who seek to kill me. I have no choice but to fight back.” Grimbold nodded. “I understand,” he said. “But there are other ways to live, Scorch. Ways that don’t involve hurting others. I know that you’re intelligent, and that you have a good heart. I believe that we can find a way for you to live in peace and comfort, without harming anyone.” Scorch was silent for a long time, considering Grimbold’s words. And then, to Grimbold’s surprise, it nodded. “I would consider a plan like that.” “You’re right, Grimbold Ironfist,” Scorch said. “I’ve been alone for a long, long time. I’m tired of fighting, tired of being a monster. I’ll come with you, and we’ll find a way for me to live in peace.” Grimbold was overjoyed. He had never expected Scorch to agree so easily. Together, they set off on a journey to find a place where Scorch could live in peace, without harming anyone. As they traveled, they became unlikely friends. Scorch taught Grimbold about the art of dragon-fire cooking, and Grimbold taught Scorch about the joys of vegetable gardening. They talked and laughed and joked, and Grimbold even convinced Scorch to try some of his favorite vegetarian dishes, which Scorch declared were delightfully delicious! After many days of travel, they came to a beautiful peaceful valley, surrounded by towering mountains and filled with lush green forests. It was the perfect place for Scorch to live in peace. Grimbold and Scorch spent many days building a home for the dragon, using the wood from the forest and the stones from the mountains. They worked together, side by side, and their friendship grew stronger with each passing day. Finally, the home was finished, and Scorch moved in. Grimbold stayed with him, teaching him how to grow his own vegetables and tend to his garden. As the days passed, Scorch became a master gardener, and his garden was filled with the most beautiful and exotic plants and flowers. He also became a skilled cook, and his vegetarian dishes became renowned throughout the land. People came from far and wide to visit Scorch and Grimbold, to learn from them and to marvel at their friendship. They were an unlikely pair, a dragon and a warrior, but they had found a way to live in peace and harmony. Years passed, and finally Grimbold grew old. He knew that his time on this earth was coming to an end, and he was at peace with that. He had lived a good life, and he had made a difference in the world. One day, as he sat in Scorch’s garden, surrounded by the beauty of nature, Grimbold called Scorch to his side. “My dear friend,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “I am tired, and I know that my time is almost up. But before I go, I want you to promise me something.” Scorch looked at him with tears in his glimmering eyes. “Anything, Grimbold,” he said. “You have long been my friend, my teacher, my everything. What do you want me to promise?” Grimbold smiled weakly. “I want you to simply promise me that you will continue to live in peace, Scorch. That you will never go back to your old ways, and that you will always remember the lessons I have taught you.” Scorch nodded, his voice choked with emotion. “I promise, Grimbold. I’ll never forget you, and I’ll always live in peace.” Grimbold smiled again, and then he closed his eyes and his spirit passed on. Scorch buried him in his garden, surrounded by the flowers and plants that they had grown together. After Grimbold’s passing, Scorch was heartbroken. He missed his friend dearly, but he knew that Grimbold would have wanted him to continue living in peace and spreading their message of harmony between humans and dragons and all creatures. One day, as Scorch was tending to his flowers, he had an idea. He remembered how much Grimbold had loved his dragon-fire cooking, and he thought, "Why not open a restaurant and share this delicious cuisine with the world?” Scorch knew that it would be a lot of work, but he was determined to make it happen. He spent months planning and preparing, and finally, the day arrived when he was ready to open the doors to “Scorch’s Dragon-Fire Vegetarian Kitchen.” The restaurant was a huge success! People came from all over to taste Scorch’s delicious dishes, and the restaurant quickly became famous for its unique and flavorful cuisine. Scorch was thrilled to see how much joy his food was bringing to people, and he knew that Grimbold would have been proud. As the years passed, Scorch’s restaurant became a beloved institution in the kingdom. People continued to come from far and wide to taste his dragon-fire cooking, and the restaurant became a symbol of hope and harmony between humans and dragons. One day, a group of travelers came to the restaurant, seeking Scorch’s help. They told him of a powerful dragon named Soot who was terrorizing their kingdom, burning villages and crops, and slaying anyone who stood in its way. They begged Scorch to come with them and teach this dragon the art of dragon-fire cooking, so that it too could learn to live in peace. Scorch was hesitant at first, but he knew that this was an opportunity to make a real difference in the world. He packed his bags, said goodbye to his loyal customers, and set off on a journey to find the powerful dragon, Soot. When he finally found the dragon, he was taken aback. It was enormous, with scales as black as coal and eyes that glowed like embers and smoke poured from his great nostrils. But Scorch was not afraid. He remembered Grimbold’s words, “You have the power to change the world, Scorch,” and he knew that this was his chance. Scorch approached the dragon, his heart pounding in his chest. “Hello,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “My name is Scorch, and I have come to teach you the art of dragon-fire cooking.” Soot, the dragon, was shocked. No one had ever approached it with such courage and kindness before. It was intrigued, and it agreed to let Scorch teach it. For weeks, Scorch worked with Soot, teaching it how to cook with its fire. They made delicious dishes together, and the dragon learned how to control its flames. It was an incredible transformation, and Scorch was overjoyed to see the change in the dragon. As he was about to leave, the dragon thanked Scorch for teaching it. “You have shown me a new way of living, Scorch,” it said. “I will never forget you, and I will always live in peace.” Scorch smiled, feeling a sense of pride and accomplishment. He knew that he had made a real difference in the world, and he knew that Grimbold would have been proud. And so, Scorch returned to his home in the peaceful valley, to his restaurant and to his loyal customers. He continued to cook and share his love of dragon-fire cooking with the world, and his legacy lived on. The world was a better place because of Scorch and Grimbold, and their message of peace and harmony between humans and dragons would never be forgotten. Scorch lived on for many years, for a dragon’s life is long, and he remained a symbol of hope and peace in a world that often seemed filled with hate and violence. He lived a long and happy life, always remembering the lessons that Grimbold had taught him. And when he finally passed on, his spirit joined Grimbold’s in the afterlife, and they lived on together, forever, in a place of peace and harmony.

hgf09e

Bjorn and Echo

Bjorn has to watch his footing closely while keeping his head on a swivel. Deadman’s Forest is not where he wanted to be, but that is where the beast landed. He struck its wing with an arrow from his bow as it was heading back to its cave in Mount Stonebeard. Bjorn was hoping to bring the dragon down before he reached the forest beneath the mountains, but the creature flapped on, however awkward, until it tired out halfway over the forest.  In the forest no light shines through the densely intertwined branches of the canopy above. Below, the way is thick with shrubbery and fern, moss and root, stone, insects of various kinds and sizes, snakes that can end your life with one bite or squeeze it out of you slowly, wild cats that can take down horses, packs of wolves, and worst of all, bear. Bjorn has three scars across his dead left eye and bite marks on his neck from his encounter with a bear two years ago. He doesn’t want another. Bjorn isn’t a tall man, or at least not the tallest in his clan, but probably the widest by a good margin. His shoulders are about the wingspan of an eagle and his chest is like two boulders, his arms as big as an average man’s head. He is a hairy man who prefers to go without a shirt. He has a beard tied into a single braid and a bald head. Bjorn carries with him a round wooden shield and metal war hammer along with a dagger sinched in his belt, leaving his bow and arrows with the horse at the edge of the forest. Bjorn had been visiting with the old shepherd, Ayebard, on the outskirts of the village when the dragon swept in on the sheep, grabbing one for its dinner. Bjorn had never seen a dragon before, only heard tales told by men in the Great Hall of Fires where men’s tales of triumph around horns of mead tend to be a little embellished. The creature he saw was not the size of a king’s castle. He would say from nose to tail it was the size of a lion, which he thought was plenty big. Its wingspan, however, was the width of twelve men. Bjorn imagined it perched on its talons, upright with its wings spread and could see how men could so easily exaggerate its imposing size. Bjorn hears a rumble of a growl and a hiss. He proceeds with caution, not knowing what lies beyond the brush. He makes his way around to get a better view. He spies what can only be described as half lizard, half bird. It had talons and wings like a bird, dark green scales that almost looked black in the darkness of the forest, and its tail was like a lizard's. Under its wings it had arms with little clawed hands like a bat, and its eyes were bright yellow and shaped like a cat's. “I know you’re there, human,” a deep voice says. “Have you come to finish what you started?” “Aye, demon. Send you back to hell I will.” “I do not know what demons are or where hell is, but questions I have of you before you try to end me.” “Is this some devil’s trick? I come forth and you consume me with fire from your mouth?” “If I breathed fire, I would have done consumed you and been done with you already. I know where you are at. I can smell you. Why do you assume I breathe fire?” “All who have faced a dragon to live and tell the tale say they breathe fire through their mouths.” “Hmm, our breath is considerably hot. We use it to cook our food before eating. I assume it could be uncomfortable for humans. Our scales are resistant. I never gave it much thought.” “So, are you a young dragon? Is that why you are so small and cannot breathe fire?” “No, I’ve been alive for three-hundred-seventeen cycles of seasons and I’m of average size, not that there are many to compare myself too anymore. As I explained to you, we simply do not breathe fire.” “Since you know where I’m at, I’m going to stay here for the time being. Go ahead with your questions,” Bjorn says leaning against a tree and letting his hammer rest. “Why do your people hunt us?” “It all started when you dragons crossed our borders and started eating our property – goats, sheep, cattle, and pigs.” “What are borders?” “They’re imaginary lines we draw on maps to keep people from trespassing on other people’s land.” “We are not people. We do not know invisible lines and we don’t know property.” “Property is what a human owns, what belongs to him. Humans own animals and breed them for food so they don’t have to rely on hunting to feed their large numbers. When you take our animals, we either starve or we start hunting all the wild animals, and it takes a lot of wild animals to feed us. Honestly, there are not enough wild animals.” “Are deer and fish your property?” “No. Now I have a question. Why has your kind attacked people in the past?” “Your kind kept killing us off. We had to send a message to leave us alone, but it made matters worse. Now we only come down from the mountain to feed.” Have you ever heard all about someone, rumors and gossip painting pictures that hang in the museum of your mind as indicators of what that someone will be like when you meet them. Then when you meet them for the first time, they are nothing how you imagined. That’s what’s going through Bjorn’s mind as he considers his next action. “What now, human? Need I remind you that even though my wing is injured, my legs work fine, yet left you unharmed the entire time we spoke.” “Aye, and I you.” While Bjorn is considering helping his natural born enemy, a wolf howls from just across the clearing where the dragon lies. Two, three, four more wolves answer within the same proximity. Bjorn picks up his hammer and pushes his way through the underbrush. “Who would have thought I’d go down fighting with a dragon instead of against,” he says as he approaches the winged serpent. “Let me pull that arrow out, maybe you’ll be more useful.” The wolves have scent of the dragon’s blood. They smell weakness. Slowly, they emerge from the shadows of the forest; teeth bared. The wolves have them circled from north to south, circling to the east, spreading to cover the west and any chance of escape. The first wolf darts towards Bjorn who takes a heavy swing with his hammer, but the animal darts back. Another one does the same to the dragon but is knocked off its feet by a slap from the dragon’s tail. Another grabs the dragon by his wing, pulling him down sideways. Bjorn knocks the wolf away with his shield and tries striking it with his hammer but misses. Another wolf lunges onto the dragon’s back, clawing as it slides back to the ground. The dragon lets out a furious roar and breathes its breath on an attacking wolf, singing its fur. Bjorn, with hammer in hand, brings it straight down on the head of the wolf who attacked the back of the dragon, leaving it dead. Another wolf lunges at the dragon’s throat, but the dragon catches it out of thin air, the wolf’s bones crunching like twigs under a man’s foot in the dragon's mouth. The three remaining wolves, one slightly burned, scatter into the forest. “I’m glad you were here human. I could not have fought off those wolves alone.” “Aye, and I get to walk out of here alone and with it getting dark. What of you? Can you fly?” “Now that the arrow is loose, I should have no problems.” “Aye, I am Bjorn, Son of Hjorn. Might you have a name dragon?” “I have not heard it for some time, but it is Echo.” “Echo, we have two wolves. Let us feast on one to celebrate victory and friendship, a truce between you and I, and on every full moon, I will bring a ram from our property to share with you as a symbol of our friendship.” Bjorn guts and skins one of the wolves for Echo to roast. The two conversate over their meal sharing many stories of adventure, learning that they aren’t all that different, for we all have those little things that make us different, but they shouldn’t stand in the way of recognizing the things that make us the same.

jve4og

Malinda

Magic was the way most folk described Malinda, but that was the least thing about her. She was cruel, spiteful, beautiful, kind, selfish, generous, capricious, brilliant, and the person I loved most in my life. I started working for her when I was five years old. She lived in a house outside of town that had big flower boxes spilling over with blooms, even in midwinter. She was the only healer for thirty miles- I call her healer because that’s what the local folk called her; she told me once her training had been as a sorcerer. My mother had died while birthing me and my father was a drunkard and hit me a lot about how there was never any food in the house. When I brought home bread that I had stolen from the inn, he ate the whole loaf in front of me to teach me a lesson about stealing. I learned that it didn’t much matter who stole first; what mattered was who stole last. Malinda wore purple gowns that showed the top of her bosom. The gowns were made of stiff silk and rustled like the empty husks snakes leave around the woods when winter ends. I’m Tol, I said when she opened the door to me; too quickly I said it, like I was defending myself. Actually for a boy of five you’re on the runty side, she said. Come in. Her house was much larger inside than out. I was wearing pants too short that showed my ankles and rode down on my backside. How? I asked when I saw the ceiling yawning high above me. I would have sworn to it being only regular height outside. Malinda just laughed and her perfect lips opened against a set of white teeth and a pink tongue. She didn’t answer me, and I knew she wouldn’t. I understood her immediately, like I hadn’t understood my Pa, or my school mates, or my own self. I don’t take on apprentices, she said. She rose into the air- fully off the ground- and placed a book on a shelf that lined the upper floor wall. I didn’t say anything. This was expressly the purpose for which I had come, sent by the county magistrate to replace Malinda when she left. I puzzled about this and continued in my puzzled silence too long for speech. It seemed to me that if I stayed quiet long enough, it might be that she would forget I was there and I could secretly observe her and learn magic by association. You’re very quiet, aren’t you? she said. As if to prove how right she was I continued to make no sound. I don’t like loud children, she added. (I seemed to agree.) Children never have anything interesting to say. (I knew I didn’t.) She was still floating at the top of the house pulling books off shelves and inattentively flipping through them before tossing them over her left shoulder where they hovered like eager hangers on. After a long moment of my standing quite still and silent as if an unrepentant traitor before the gallows, she descended in front of me. Her skirts billowed out like a pond flower. Can you read? she demanded. Yes, I said. Read this. I looked at the page. The letters weren’t letters at all but meaningless squiggles and slashes. These aren’t words, I said. Yes they are. Read them. I- I can’t. Ha! She snapped the book closed. I got angry then, and clenched my small fists. I can read Common Script! I shouted. It came out more of a mutter. Malinda turned her eyes on me and I wanted to suck the words back into my mouth and swallow them. Wielding magic is not about how many spells you know or how many potions you can brew. She raised her head on her neck, haughty like a swan. Magic, she said, is a resource. To master magic, you must master logic. I stood abashed. She swept around the floor as she spoke, gesticulating aggressively with her hands. Magic and logic demand precision. Your enemies will try and trick you. I just tricked you. I asked you if you could read- I didn’t say which script- I just showed you an advanced spell book written in Ancient Draconic. You should have asked me- which script? after I asked you if you could read. I worked my mouth around but couldn’t think of a good retort. What spell was it? I asked finally. She looked at me. I think my question surprised her but she acted like it hadn’t; like anything I said or did was incapable of rendering her surprised; that she had probably never experienced a moment’s hesitation in her life. It’s a spell of unlife, she said. I had never heard of healers causing unlife. It seemed counter to the profession. *** I came every day for two weeks. Some days I would knock and then sit on her stoop until I was too hungry to be still. If she did let me inside, she wouldn’t direct any words to me. She would say things aloud as if to herself, things like: it would be very convenient if those tubers had no eyes or fronds; washing cauldrons is something an apprentice would do if I had one. After practicing my speech for three days I finally asked. Why don’t you want to teach me magic? She answered instantly. Because I’m extremely busy, she said. She was lying on the cushioned seat with one forearm resting on her brow and one foot bouncing dreamily as it hung off the side. She had been lying there all morning. I wondered how she found the time to be extremely busy in addition to all the book reading and lying around. *** When I came to Malinda’s with a bruise on my cheek she narrowed her eyes and asked how I came by it. I told her my father had thrown a piece of kindling at me and when I ducked it he threw a punch instead. She didn’t make any reaction but asked if this happened often and I shrugged. A day or so later she wrapped herself up in a mink lined cloak and hood and swept out the door before I could knock. I’m going into the village, she said. Clean the cauldrons. She returned a few hours later in a changed mood. I saw your father, she said. I said nothing and continued to scrub dried vermin innards from the cauldron in my hands. He wanted an augury, she continued. I paused. What was the omen? I asked Unfavoring. I’m afraid your father is going to find himself in quite a grave situation very soon. They buried him three days later. When I told her the news she said oh? well you’ll need a place to live. I agreed. You can live here. I said where at? and she snapped her middle finger and thumb without looking up from a book she was reading and said: top of the stairs, third door. What about the facilities? I asked. She snapped again and turned the page. Done, she said. What about a private study? She lifted her eyes to me and I said: never mind. I trotted up the stairs. *** Once when I was working on transcribing runic script into draconic in the study a man walked out of the mirror. Hey, just got your message, he was calling out. I have to be back tomorrow morning but we definitely have time for a couple decent f- hey, fella. Who’re you? I had jolted upright and ink was dripping off the nib of my quill. I didn’t speak. I was ten. Malinda strode into the room then, putting a balm on her hands and neck. More than a couple I hope, she said. She stopped near the desk and glanced between us. Dreven, Tol. He’s my- helper. Ah, got yourself a whipping boy. The question is: which one of you is doing the whipping? The man winked at me. Don’t be crude, Malinda said. Unfortunately it looks like he’s got a leaky quill, the man added. Don’t worry lad, you’ll grow out of it, he said. Malinda gave the man a bored glare and I felt my face get hot even though I wasn’t sure why. I wiped the ink off my pants and muttered something about going to gather suncaps and stayed in the woods for several hours, even though I found enough suncaps right away. For several months Dreven made appearances. When he visited I often heard thuds and scrapes of objects like Malinda was rearranging the furniture. I thought it was peculiar she wouldn’t use a levitation spell and she only got this redecorating urge late at night. I studied the tomes until I found a silence enchantment and it became my most used spell. I alternately worshiped and despised Dreven. He often brought me little trinkets like a compass that pointed towards the nearest alehouse and a scroll that was enchanted to recreate the images in my head like a moving painting. But Malinda laughed a lot when he was around and gave him her rare smiles that had no sneer in them at all. For that I burned with jealous hatred. Once I woke up late in the night. My silence enchantment had worn off and I heard raised voices and things breaking elsewhere in the house. After that night I didn’t see Dreven again and Malinda wore brown dresses like empty grain sacks and didn’t comb her hair. She barely left her room except to hand me bottles of potions and ointments that I delivered to the village folk. I came home one night after making a delivery to a young mother who suffered from ceaseless bleeding. Malinda was in the great room hunched in a cushioned armchair gazing into the fire with a blank look. I told her the woman looked pale and sick. Malinda told me she would probably die. I asked if we could make her a potion of coagulation, and Malinda said it would make her throw clots and die a different way. I suggested several things and Malinda turned them all down. She didn’t seem to care about anything then, except sleeping. I got angry and said she wasn’t a good healer because she didn’t care about the sick at all, she only cared about herself. She looked at me and said: yes, you’re right. And then she stood up slowly and walked up the stairs. She walked- like she was too weary even to cast a levitation spell. I stayed up all night looking through books on bleeding diseases. I made my own tinctures- simple things even a hedge witch could make that did next to nothing- and brought them to Emeline. She and her little baby were alone. Her husband had died in the queen’s war. I wanted to help her to live. I didn’t know why, but I thought if I could save her, I could make Malinda herself again. Look, I said a few days later. There. I pointed. Malinda glanced at the book page. She was in bed. She had called me in when I knocked. The room was all dark. I can’t do that, Malinda said. I haven’t done anything like that in too long. I’ll kill her. Malinda, I said. I never used her name. I always said Mistress or nothing. Tol. You can’t make good things happen in the world through force of will. Please. She gave a long sigh and didn’t speak for so long I thought she had fallen asleep. Fine. Bring my texts on post-natal hemorrhaging and the scrolls for knitting organ flesh. And we’ll need buckets and buckets of blood. *** Marion the midwife had taken baby Greta. Malinda and Emeline and I were in a room I had never been in before, a stone room that was lit in orange and red by a huge fireplace. Emeline lay on a cushioned elevated table. She looked lifeless. Malinda was wearing a black gown that went up to her chin. There were sharp metal instruments on a table near her elbow. I was afraid. It began. Malinda worked quickly, cutting through the flesh of Emeline’s abdomen with a blade so sharp the skin seemed not to know to bleed. Malinda handed me the knife and said the name of another instrument. She didn’t look away from the body of Emeline, she held out her hand and accepted what I put into it without question. I had never seen her like that before, and I thought she was like a goddess. Open books hovered near Malinda’s head displaying illustrations of bodies with no skin. Drops of blood that appeared in the cavity of Emeline’s body rose and placed themselves into a basin. The hovering needle stitched together flesh as Malinda moved her fingers in precise patterns and whispered. She proceeded with intense concentration, sealing off veins with a lick of flame from her fingertip, pouring potion over the raw flesh to keep infection away. With her brow furrowed and her neck bent she would ask me to hold the mirror beneath Emeline’s nose to ensure she still breathed. We worked for hours. I couldn’t tell the time of day because there were no windows in the room, but my body kept the time in the dryness of my eyes and stiffness of my spine. I knew something was wrong when Malinda put down the instruments and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She leaned on the table for a long moment. We need to start sealing her up, she said. What? No response. Did you heal her? No. The uterus is perforated. I’m going to rest and then give her a final few hours with her daughter. She turned away. No, I said. Wait. Can you remove it? She kept walking. It’s too difficult. I’d have to seal the other organs off. I might puncture the spleen trying to extract it. She had reached the doors. Her hands were slicked with blood. But she’ll die anyway. Can’t you just try? What do you think I am Tol? She didn’t look at me as she spoke. her head was bent and her hands grasped the door handles limply. When she spoke her voice was low and changed with some emotion. You especially should know that I’m not omnipotent. I’m not a god. I cannot save everyone. She paused and her shoulders were drawn up tight and protectively. I am only a woman. Things like this haunt a person. I don’t need another dead mother in my dreams. Killing her and letting her die are the same, I said. She opened the doors and walked through them. What if it were you? I begged, chasing after her. I’d prefer death, she said. What if it were me? She continued down the hallway into her room and closed the door. I went into the room with Emeline and wept. I was standing and holding the young mother’s cold hand when I heard her come back. She didn’t speak to me. Her hands were clean. She uncovered the young woman and began again. I felt a thousand of my lives pass in those next hours. Malinda’s brows were knit and her nostrils were flared. I doubt she blinked more than a dozen times in two hours. As she worked I prayed to the Mother and Maiden and Crone to spare this woman. Even as I prayed I knew if Emeline lived it would only be Malinda’s mind and will which saved her. When she placed the small crimson mass in the tray in my hands I saw her grimace, but it was not resigned, it was determined, and I knew what she had done. *** Emeline and Greta walked to the house once a week for a year after that to bring us bread and jam. We drank tea by the fire, all of us, and Malinda would tell us stories, real stories, of her life. She wore purple silk again and made her hair into elegant shapes. Greta began to babble and then walk and then she was my age when I had begun my apprenticeship and I loved her like my own sister. I turned sixteen the month before Malinda left. I cried in my room and I knew she could sense my sadness. She told me I was her boy, always, and she was proud of the healer I was. I told her I wasn’t ready. She said I was better trained than she was when she began healing. I told her I didn’t know how to go on without her. She embraced me and whispered into my ear and then she disappeared into the mirror. She had told me before she left to take on an apprentice.

wj5r49

Surviving the Apocalypse

The group ventured deeper into the decaying city. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the horrors lurking nearby. Alex couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in her stomach as they approached a makeshift barricade of abandoned cars and debris blocking their path. Carlos, the former marine, began dismantling the blockage, trying to clear a path through the rubble. His large hands and strong arms quickly moved the rocks. Alex scanned the area for any signs of movement but saw nothing. She knew this area would be crawling with zombies, the desperate monsters who preyed on anyone venturing through this path. She gripped her rifle tighter, ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. She turned to Jack, their leader, and whispered, "Do we have to go through this? Can't we find another way around?" Jack shook his head grimly. "This is the shortest route to the rendezvous point. We don't have much time. We don’t know how long the others will wait for us, and it’s almost dark. We have to push through, no matter what." He looked at Mia and Max, “Alex and I will go through first. You two stay here and cover us as we cross through the barricade. Then we'll switch. Keep your eyes and ears open, and don't hesitate to shoot if you see anything move. Got it?" The others nodded, grim and determined. Alex felt a surge of adrenaline as she and Jack approached the barricade. Jack cautiously approached the barricade, following Carlos as he cleared the path through. A loud explosion erupted behind them as they reached the other side. Alex whipped around and saw a fireball engulfing their vehicle. She realised too late that they were being ambushed. Alex turned towards Jack only to find that he was pointing a gun at her. Jack had betrayed them and planted a bomb in their car. He smiled wickedly and said, "Sorry, Alex. But I work for the scavengers now. They offered me a better deal than the Resurgence ever did. They have food, water, weapons, and a safe haven in the city. They also have something you don't: a cure for the plague killing us all. I couldn't pass up this opportunity, even if it meant sacrificing you and the others. You understand, right?" Alex felt anger and disbelief as she listened to Jack's words. She couldn't believe he would do such a thing after all they had been through together. She looked at him contemptuously. "You're a traitor, Jack. And a liar." She spat at him. "There is no cure for the plague. The scavengers used you as a pawn in their war against the Resurgence. They don't care about you or anyone else. They'll kill you as soon as they get what they want from you." She raised her rifle and aimed at his chest. "You won't get away with this, Jack. I won't let you." She pulled the trigger, hoping to end his life before he could do more damage. But a shot rang out from behind her before her bullet could hit him. She felt a sharp pain in her back and fell to the ground, dropping her rifle. She looked up and saw one of the scavengers standing over her, holding a smoking gun. He had been hiding behind the barricade, waiting for the right moment to ambush them. He grinned maliciously and said, "Nice try, Alex. But you're too late. Jack here is our hero. He helped us eliminate your friends and get your precious supplies. Thank you, by the way. This will be a lot of help." He held up the small metal device. He kicked her rifle away and said, "Now it's time for you to join them." He aimed his gun at her head and pulled the trigger. -------- Alex jolted awake. Her sharp movements caused her back to twinge in pain, and she dropped back onto the bed with a groan. Squeezing her eyes shut to the harsh light. Her mind was foggy, and her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache. She slowly opened her eyes again, letting them adjust to the dimly lit room. It took her a moment to realise she was not in the decaying city or facing an ambush. Instead. She found herself in a makeshift infirmary, the faint hum of generators providing the only source of light and power. As her vision cleared, she noticed Dr Zhang tending to her wounds. He wore a weary but relieved expression on his face. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice laced with concern. “You took quite a hit back there. We weren’t sure if you’d make it.” Alex’s memories of the ambush flooded back, and she up abruptly, wincing at the pain in her back. “Jack…he betrayed us,” she whispered, her voice filled with anger and betrayal. Dr. Zhang nodded solemnly. “Yes, we know. The others are gone. He took most of our supplies, too.” Tears welled up in Alex’s eyes as she thought about her friends and her comrades. They had fought together and survived together, and now they were gone, betrayed by one of their own. Mia and Max, who had been waiting anxiously nearby, approached her cautiously. Mia spoke softly, her voice trembling with grief and anger. “We’ll get through this, Alex. We’ll find a way to stop the scavengers and their lies and avenge our friends.” Alex nodded, determination burning in her eyes. She knew they couldn't give up despite the pain, the betrayal, and the loss. The world was still in the grip of the zombie apocalypse, and they were the last hope for humanity. As Dr Zhang continued to treat her wounds, Alex knew that her past experiences, both the mistakes and moments of bravery, shaped her into the person she was now – a survivor, a fighter, and a damn good scientist. Now more than ever, she was determined with her friends to uncover the truth about the virus and find a cure to stop the apocalypse. 

qb6t4e

Venom-dipped Memories

I still remember that day: as crystal clear as the first time I saw it happen. I was a lad of but fourteen, slowly growing into manhood. I lived alone in a cabin with my father on the edge of the wilds. He taught me all I knew: how to live in the wilds, cook for myself, forage for food, what berries were toxic and which were not. He also taught me to read, how to shoot, and how to throw a hatchet... Useful skills. Many times he would disappear for months on end, leaving me in the care of a trusted friend till he decided I was old enough to look after myself. But he’d always return with goods from the cities. It took me years before I asked him what it was he did. A broad grin slowly appeared on his grizzled face. “I hunt monsters, son.” I was amazed. Stunned. “What? W-wow...” He nodded gravely, his smile disappearing as he knelt down and put his huge hand on my shoulder. “Dangerous work too, but someone has to keep those monsters from spreading. They’re all dangerous and won’t think twice about killing a human.” From that day, I idolized him even more than I already did. A monster hunter, I wanted to be like him. But for the time being I merely hunted for our food. I was on one such trek with a plump bounty of pheasants when that fateful day happened. Snow covered the ground. My limbs were numb. I was looking forward to warming myself by the hearth and enjoying the birds I had bagged for us, but as I drew closer I could see something was very wrong. The door to the cabin was hanging off its hinges and no smoke curled from the chimney. I dropped the pheasants and ran to the cabin drawing my hunting knife. A horrible thought came to me. Bandits? Please let it only be bandits... Going through the door I found our cabin in chaos. Furniture smashed. Objects scattered across the floor... and when I turned the corner into the kitchen my heart stopped. My father’s crumpled body lying on the floor. I ran to him, feverishly looking over his once-proud body, looking for any sign. I heaved and rolled his body toward me, my tears clouding my vision. I couldn’t find a mark on him, but he was dead. If I had to guess I’d say he was somehow suffocated, his eyes were wide and bloodshot. I held his limp form and sobbed for hours. I couldn’t think straight. I tried to focus on anything else but I just couldn’t. Whenever I thought I was through crying, fresh tears would begin to flow. The sun had set by the time I finally began to think somewhat rationally. Wiping my tears, I lit a lantern and ventured outside. Tracks in the snow. In my stupor upon seeing the door blasted off its hinges, I must have missed them. They weren’t feet, hooves, or paws: merely wavy lines: preserved by the snowpack and the mild weather. I began to collect my thoughts, circling the strange markings as my mind began to see clearly again. A serpent of some sort? I realized it had to be moving slowly in the cold. Maybe I could still catch it? I could avenge my father! I sighed. First I had to do something. I gathered up my supplies including my father’s rifle which I found leaning against the wall by his bed. My little squirrel gun just wouldn’t do. His gun was once a muzzleloader, now converted into a breechloader. A true weapon. I then grabbed the hatchet and fastened it to my belt with the hunting knife before pulling on my longest, warmest coat. I turned my attention to the cabin and my father’s crumpled form one final time before commencing the hunt. I didn’t have time for a proper burial and I could lose whatever killed him while scratching out a shallow grave and finding a suitable, temporary headstone... But I couldn’t just leave him for the crows. I gritted my teeth as fresh tears began to flow. I threw my lantern onto the floor. I set my childhood ablaze, and with it the shell of my father. It almost seemed symbolic. Like it or not, I was now a man.  I turned away from the blazing cabin and set out into the woods in pursuit of the creature that killed my father. The night gave way into day, and another night. Then the days stretched on into weeks, and then months, and finally years. I had lost the trail. I did what I could to survive. I knew how to shoot and how to fight, I made my living hunting animals, monsters, and even the odd criminal. As I grew older, people still called me ‘boy’ . Five years had passed since I lost everything. I still had yet to find my original quarry. However, through the hardships, I had only grown more experienced. The goblins of Farmouth, the boars of the Northern Woods, the deathworms of Muguhl, the Red Hand Gang: Terrors that had all ended by my gun or blade. Through my travels I would sometimes pick up the trail of something similar to what I had surmised had killed my father, but every time I thought I got close it would evade me once again, or I’d find myself facing a different beast entirely.    ...But this time I was sure I’d found my quarry. Arid lands and hills among the ruins of a long dead civilization. It was warm, perfect for a serpent. I still had my father’s rifle. If that wasn’t enough I had a large axe on my belt and a long dagger. One day, a messenger from the Rajah of this kingdom had offered a substantial bounty to anyone who killed this creature for him: It had killed many of his soldiers already. Vengeance and a reward: What more could I ask for? Perhaps this would be the last hunt? I could settle down in this strange land. A foreigner like myself was often viewed as exotic and intriguing. I liked the look of the ladies of this land, and their manner of dressing. But would I really know how to settle down? Hunting was all I knew. What would I do with the rest of my life? Would I keep wandering like a nomad? I shook my head: I was getting ahead of myself. I could just be marching to my death right now. I pulled the hammer back on the rifle and examined the tracks. Just like I remembered them outside my cabin. Yes. This had to be it. “This one’s for you father,” I declared as I found the entrance to the lair. An archway made of crumbling sandstone among the fallen walls and towers of the old palace. Keeping my rifle shouldered I made my way through the lighting dim with the sun streaming in from the archway. I blinked my eyes rapidly as they adjusted, there were other bits of illumination too. Small crystals set on the walls casting an ambient glow. I slowly crept into the lair as I looked around for my quarry, the lair went in deeper down a hall. I picked my way around rubble and found myself in what appeared to be an aquifer of some sort. Statues lined the floor, some broken, some in perfect condition. The only sound was my own breathing, and the drip of water. This must have been a bathouse or something when these weren’t ruins. It was impressive it still had water. As I looked around I paused at a pair of statues. They were of women with serpent bodies, but human torsos. Their details were intricate, one of the statues even had paint upon it still. I was gawking at the serpentine eye of one of the statues when it blinked. Dammit. I went for the trigger but I soon found my feet jerked out from under me and I dropped the rifle. The weapon discharged and the bullet ricocheted off a wall. I growled as I freed my knife and axe as the creature leered at me. I raised my weapons but her coils slipped over my arms. I strained against her as I fell to my knees desperately trying to break free of her grip, but the pressure on my arms persisted and I found my weapons falling as my arms were forced down and pinned to my side as she coiled around me. I strained uselessly against her grip. A twitch of her muscles and I was gasping for breath. Was this how it was to end? Killed by the same beast that killed my father? She lowered her human face towards mine, a delicate hand cupping my chin. “Go on!” I wheezed. “Finish it!” “Hmm,” she spoke in a surprisingly pleasant voice. “Your scent and face are familiar, but different at once. Curious.” I stared at her. I hated to admit it but her human half was enchantingly beautiful. I buried the observation under rage. “You killed my father!” Her eyes blinked and she tilted her head. “Ahh, I see it now.” I strained against her uselessly. “Have you been chasing me all this time?” she asked. “Every day since the day I became a man,” I replied hatefully. “I see. It’s true I did kill your father. But he killed my mother.” I paused and she continued. “The same rage you feel, I felt.” I shook my head, “It’s different. He hunted monsters - you’re all threats to us!” She squeezed me again and I felt as if my ribs would crack. “You are the ones that hunt us. My mother and I tried to stay hidden, but one cow dead and all the hunters and warriors come after us. My mother was just trying to provide for me, and then defend me from those that sought to harm us. Your father was no different. He killed her, and I watched. But I swore vengeance.” I looked away words sounded too truthful. “How about you killing the Rajah’s soldiers?” “They would attack me on sight, I don’t have the luxury of going into town and buying food. I have to survive. You humans are always attacking that which is different. Don’t you, monster hunter?” Her words dripped venom. I met her gaze and I could see myself within it, and I began to feel the guilt of what I had done. Was she much different than I? Had I not spent years chasing her down out of hurt and anger as she had my father? Were all those monsters I fought really evil, or were some of them just forced to drastic means. No! This had to be an enchantment or something! I shook my head, “I can’t believe it.” “Then let me show you,” she said as she leaned closer. I tried to look away but I couldn’t avoid staring into her bright eyes. I found myself lost in the colors, transfixed. My head grew foggy and I felt as if I were falling off a cliff. When the sensation stopped I was in a cave of some sort, staring up at another Naga woman, much like the one I had been coiled up by but older. I felt a strange sensation as I stared at her: warmth, love, kindness.  “See what I made mother?” My voice spoke of its own accord and it was higher pitched, a girl’s voice. “Oh, nectar, it’s lovely,” the older serpent woman whispered as she took a pendant made from leather and a single gem. I looked down - I had become a Naga girl myself! I looked back up at ‘mother’ her head turned towards the mouth of the cave. “What’s wrong mother?” my new voice asked. “Quiet.” she hissed as she suddenly picked me up and shoved me under a crevice. “Don’t come out, no matter what happens. Okay?” “Okay,” I replied fear hammering in my chest. The cave echoed with the sound of a gunshot. I saw the Naga woman jerk as red blossomed from her shoulder and I felt myself stifle a scream as tears began to leak from my eyes. Mother wasn’t defeated yet, though: she still had fight in her as she rounded on the human entering the cave. I knew him well: My father. As he tried to reload the serpent charged him attempting to get him in her coils. My father avoided the attempt and raised his gun only for it to be swatted from his hands by mother’s claws. The axe came free as the Naga tackled him, I saw the head fall and catch her in the scales. Again I felt myself stifle screams. I was terrified. Distressed. In tears. I had to stay still. The fight continued but father got the upperhand, the axe falling again and again until Mother lay still her blood seeping across the cave floor. I shut my eyes as he took a trophy to prove his kill. I stayed coiled under the shelf well after he left. Until daring to venture out and weep over mother’s body. The familiar hate filled me and I set out, catching the man’s scent. I would avenge mother. I would crush that human in my coils. I sputtered back to reality as the Naga still had me in her coils, she was wiping away a tear and I felt tears in my eyes too.  “I should kill you like the others,” she said. The creature had an accent that I couldn’t quite place. “...But I see something in your eyes. I’m tempted to spare you, but that would be foolish. Do you wish to try and persuade me?”  I shook my head, as much as I was able to in her grip . “I’m not going to beg. I can’t even think of a reason for you to spare me. You’re right, I have killed many monsters. I’ll only ask that you kill me quickly.” She looked at me long and hard before she uncoiled from around me. I checked my wrists and tested my legs, then blinked at her in surprise. “I’m ending the cycle,” she said abruptly. “Go. Take some trinket, there’s plenty here. Just remember a monster spared your life. I shall have to find yet another dwelling.” I knelt in the water in shame and humility as she began to slither away. “Wait… what’s your name?” She paused and tilted her head. “Skye.” “Nathan.” We stared at each other for a time before I spoke again. “Maybe… maybe we can help one another. The cycle has to end, you said it yourself.” Skye hissed. “You’re trying to resort to some trick!” “No wait,” I replied, holding my hands up. “Hear me out.” “You have but a few seconds to convince me human,” she said, regarding me coolly but with interest. 

1mdo2y

The Gharzul

The sun was setting over the forest, and the city nestled beyond it in the folds of the river valley. I had picked up the trail of the Gharzul again. The scabbard at my side holds my wide-bladed falchion, and I grip the green warding stone tightly in my gloved fist, as the determination to find and kill my murderous quarry builds up inside me. My neck is stiff, my muscles sore, I feel as if I'd been stretched on the rack the night before, but all I had done was ride at my usual clip. I had been here before; more than once, I had found myself closing in on the beast, and each time, it had been a night that started out clear but quickly became covered in mist as thick as soup, the only hint of what laid waiting in the shadows was the oppressive feeling that seemed to accompany the fog. Each time, I had found myself weary, stretched, a small persistent pounding behind my eyes. Each time, I was just a step behind. The city was eerily silent like a painting waiting to come alive. It had been the same in all the other towns and villages I tracked the Gharzul through. I felt the eyes of the inhabitants upon me as I rode, and the sounds of the horses' hooves seemed heavy with dread. Weeks ago, I had been looking for a path to the ancient ruins of Karamesh and found a cave deep in the wooded hills beyond the last village in the province. The cave seemed to be the lair of some kind of beast or animal. Old bones covered the floor deeper into the cave. The walls had been carved with glyphs that had begun pulsing blue as I tried to decipher them. Most had been unintelligible to me, but one had transformed itself in my mind. "Zahrul", and as I had spoken it out loud, the cave had come alive with light. I had stumbled and fallen, but I awoke quickly to a cave with an enveloping darkness. As I left the lair, I had finally found the first clue to the beasts' location, a few large clawed prints in the ground, I followed them back to the village. When I came upon the village, the same scene greeted me then that greeted me now at the gates of Nasiraq. I had been lucky to find myself near the village when the terror struck for the first time. The village suffered several grisly murders from claws, teeth, slashing, and blunt force. I asked what the victims' families had seen, if anything, and most could not provide a description. There was a gnawing feeling in my mind as I interviewed people. I wondered if I had somehow released this beast myself when I had uttered its name in that lair, and I would not rest until the beast was found and slain. I had grown restless in the village and worried, a burning hunger filled me to move on, to track the beast, and try to prevent its next murder. So far, I have failed. I would follow the road from beyond the forest edge, finding a few scattered clues along the way, only to finally arrive at the next village or town to find the same scene played out. Always just one step behind the monster. By the time I came upon the third bloody massacre, the patterns of the attacks and the few descriptions I could get from people had led me to believe I was following a Gharzul. I had heard the tales of these monsters, a creature that was bold enough to strike in the early evening but preferred the night, using the disorienting mists and fogs that always seemed to precede a Gharzul attack to snatch victims from their doorsteps. Leaving no trace until the body, or what remained of it was found later when the mists cleared, revealing streets covered in gore. But no one in all of the borderlands had reported a real Gharzul in centuries, they were supposed to be a myth. I had to hunt this creature and was prepared to do whatever it took to bring it to justice. If I was lucky, I could cover up what I was becoming more and more convinced was my role in releasing it onto the world. I make my way through the winding streets, observing the buildings and inhabitants as I go. I see frightened glances and the empty, haunted faces of those who had lost someone to the beast's savagery. I pass by the shops and inns, their doors closed and windows barred. I see signs posted in the windows saying establishments are closed until morning. I hear the warning bells sounding, reverberating off the rooftops, signaling that all should remain indoors. For the first time in my 2 weeks since the cave, I finally arrived somewhere while the attack seemed to be ongoing. The fog isn't lifting like it usually does by the time I reach the site of the latest Gharzul attack. I ignore the warnings, pressing on through the maze of winding streets, searching for any sign of the creature's presence. I move cautiously, my eyes ever alert despite the dull, aching pain behind them. I seem able to shake off the haziness of my mind, and my senses become attuned to the slightest hint of any danger. I dismount and hold my torch up high. Down the alley to my right, I catch a glimpse of crimson color splashed across the cobblestones. My warding stone feels warm now, and I hang it around my neck and pull the large falchion from my scabbard. I find the familiar trail of blood and viscera, evidence of the creature's path of destruction. The upper torso of a young woman becomes visible through the oppressive fog as I approach, and the torchlight reveals a bit more of the alley. I am sure she would have been quite striking if the woman weren't missing half her body and her face wasn't contorted into a look of abject fear. I look up the sides of the buildings that are close around me. The timber frames and white plaster sidings are splattered with gore. Then I see a glint of something just down the alley a bit further, shards of glass on the cobblestones, chunks of plaster missing from the wall, and huge gashes taken out of the timber. It seems the Gharzul had entered the building just ahead of me through a now badly damaged window. I kneel down next to the corpse of the woman, placing the torch on the ground, and I tug my glove off with my teeth, unwilling to release my grip on my sword's hilt. I reach toward her. I am a bit shocked by how dirty my fingernails are; one is even a bit torn and broken, and another looks like it might have been bleeding recently. I must be far more weary and dirty from tracking this monster relentlessly for days on end. No wonder people were staring at me so cautiously, and even with a bit of fear, as I came into Nasiraq today. I probably look terrible. I touch the young woman's bare shoulder. While not warm, her body is nowhere near cold enough to have been here long. The Gharzul must still be close by. I pick up my torch and walk towards the broken window. The entire opening has been ripped open further, large enough for a man to step through easily. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I might find inside. With my falchion in hand and my torch held aloft, I step closer to the shattered window. I can feel the warding stone growing warmer through my tunic. I attempt to calm my mind and focus some of my will through the stone, but it resists. I haven't been able to use the stone correctly ever since the cave. Usually, I can use it to help protect myself and even use it to sense what's around me, but all it does now is warn me of danger by the heat it gives off. The stench of blood and death fills my nostrils, making me gag. My eyes adjust to the dim light inside and the glare of the torch. I can make out the shape of a large body lying on the floor. I approach cautiously, ready to strike at the first sign of movement. As I get closer, I can see that it's the body of a man. His throat has been torn open, and his chest has been ripped apart as if something was desperately searching his abdomen. I grimace and turn away, my stomach churning. I resist retching onto the floor. Suddenly, a low growl echoes through the room. I spin around, my falchion held at the ready. The warding stone is hot now against my chest. It's an uncomfortable burning sensation, even through the cloth of my tunic. In the shadows, I catch a glimpse of a pair of glowing yellow-red eyes. The Gharzul is still here. I have caught up with it at last, but terror threatens to take hold of me. I try to touch the aetheric power of my warding stone one last time, and I feel it pop. I hear an audible crack, and the heat of it is gone. An icy chill fills me. I move towards the eyes, my torch held up, the falchion in front of me in a defensive posture. Then I see it, the Gharzul framed in a rectangular gilded doorway. The Gharzul is massive. If I were standing next to it, it would tower over me. It has razor-sharp teeth and large ears tucked under curved jet-black horns. Its dark grey fur is matted with blood, and its claws drip with gore. Its shape is both human and inhuman. A face that's not entirely unfamiliar stares back at me. It smiles at me, and a low, rumbling growl resonates deep in its chest. I charge forward, my falchion slicing through the air. It catches on the top of the gilded doorway, turning my right shoulder, causing me to stumble towards the Gharzul off balance. "I'm dead" is all I can think. Then my shoulder slams into something hard, and I catch my balance, jumping backward, sweeping out with my sword in a desperate attempt to shield myself from the attack of advantage I know must be coming from the Gharzul, but I catch only open space. My heart is pounding in fear and desperation. "Fool!" I think as I spin around, certain my quarry has somehow worked its way behind me. I lash out with the torch, hoping to hit the monster or illuminate it. But again, there's nothing there. A low, wet, gurgling laughter rebounds off the walls of the disheveled living room. I turn and see the Gharzul exactly where it had been, framed in the doorway. Except. The doorway is rocking back and forth slightly, and so is the image of the Gharzul. "What?" I breathe out as my mind finally registers that the rectangular gilded doorway isn't a doorway at all. It's a mirror. The monster's laughter grows louder, and it smiles a smile that is far too human... Our eyes lock. "Fool." The voice of the Gharzul is rumbling, thick with phlegm, guttural. Primal. "What is this... some trick of aether magic?" I am guarded but also at a loss for what I am seeing. The Gharzul laughs his deep, bellowing laugh again. "It's not a trick. I am right here. Zahrul is here." I take a tentative step toward the mirror, still confused by what I am seeing and hearing. "Enough tricks, monster, come face me." "I am facing you." What an infuriating, pedantic answer from this monster. "I mean, fight me, end this trickery, and fight me." "Why would I harm myself when I am so close to fully restored? Now, with that silly trinket around your neck destroyed and your body and mind sufficiently weakened... Zahrul is here." The deep, menacing tones of Zahrul's voice continue to bounce around the room, resonating. "I would harm you. You would not be harming yourself. Enough riddles! Enough tricks! I don't need the power of aetheric magic to kill you!" I am bellowing at the mirror now. Even if I lose, I will face Zahrul. I must try to stop what I unleashed. The monster just keeps smiling. "You really haven't worked out what is happening, have you? Tell me, how did someone with such a simple mind manage to break the seal on my prison and yet fail to understand that I am you now, and you are Zahrul?" This can't be. I look around frantically, then move toward the mirror. Zahrul chuckles softly, an irritating, grating sound. I take my eyes off Zahrul. So close to the mirror, I expect a trap, but I must know, and I peer around the mirror. There's nothing but the wall of the house. I jump back quickly. This can't be true. Such a fool, why did I read those runes!? Why didn't I leave when they began to pulse with magic? "Fool," Zahrul growls out. "Fool..." Zahrul drags out the word long and slow. "I don't believe you. This is just some trick! I am not a monster." The monster in the mirror lets out a sigh, "You are becoming tiresome to speak to. You're far too daft, but I will try to educate you despite the fact I think you're too dim to get it." The insults seem even worse as they come from a monster in harsh guttural tones. "You have always been one step behind, so perhaps your mind being so slow shouldn't be quite the surprise." Zahrul gives a small chuckle and picks a piece of red meat from his teeth with a long, semi-broken claw. He continues in his heavy, phlegm-filled tone. "Has your body been aching you? Is your head pounding and painful behind your eyes? How about that mind of yours, a bit forgetful perhaps? Is it a little... foggy?" "I..." it can't be. He can't know this for sure. "I am fine." "Indeed, fine. Is it fine to find that your memory begins just in time to find yourself in terrible shape to try and pursue the monster that's just one step ahead? Tired and sore as if you'd... gone on a hunt?" There's a slyness to his tone as he continues, "How about that broken nail of yours? Do you remember how that happened?" "Liar! I am not a murderer like you!" I won't believe what the monster is saying. It's a trick, "This is all just part of your tricks and games, monster. I name you Gharzul; show yourself and face punishment!" Zahrul laughs harder than ever. "Liar!? ME!? You wouldn't even recognize the truth if it were in front of you. Tell me, who are you?" "I'm..." I can't think. My mind seems slow. "Can you tell me where you are from? How did you get that sword you're holding? What's the name of that poor, miserable, smelly beast you rode into the city on? Are you married? Do you have any delightfully delicious children?" "I... I..." I can't answer. "Do you even know," the smile on the monster's face disappears, and he bears his sharp teeth, "your own name?" "No... NO!" I drop the falchion and pull my knife from the back of my belt. It flashes toward my throat. I will not be possessed by this. I will not. But the knife stops short, and I can't will it to go further. Fool, I think again, why did you read the runes! "Yes," Zahrul opens his arms wide, beckoning me in, "fool." I scream, but the scream turns to a triumphant growl in my throat. I taste blood and bile. I feel free. Free to hunt, to kill, to rend flesh. I feel a hunger, an insatiable hunger. The growl turns to deep, primal laughter as I turn out into the darkening night. Zahrul is here.

27aywy

Dreading the Sun

I can’t remember how long it’s been. I could feel as he carefully patched pieces of me together until I was big enough to roll. He was wearing his green scarf, black gloves, and blue striped boots overtop his grey snow-pants and blue camouflage jacket. Flakes of me were falling hard, making it hard to see everything he was doing but he was working hard to create his vision of me. I started out as a big ball, then after a little while longer I had a smaller ball atop that one, & eventually there was three balls atop each other each one smaller than the one before. I couldn’t see or touch anything yet, but I could feel. I felt the care that was put into the formation of each section, with him making sure I had equal padding on all around and each section was a perfect sphere. Suddenly I had eyes, and I could see life all around me. The light was almost too much for me to bear at first but after a few minutes the sun spots stopped blocking my vision and I could see all that was going on around me. I watched as he meticulously searched for the right branches to use as my arms, and once again I could feel. The cold felt good on my fingertips; it felt right. I can’t recall how long I’ve been gone but I’ve missed this feeling of frost coating my arms and the sight of my DNA drifting down from the sky. I realize that I’ve started to zone out because when I refocus on my surroundings, the boy is gone & I feel alone. Only a few moments pass, but it felt like ages & finally the boy emerges from his house running towards me with a carrot and he attaches it to my face, giving me a nose. I can smell the crisp cool air and inhale a few flecks of snow as I take a whiff. “And for my last touch I need to give you a smile,” the boy exclaims as he stands before me with his hands on his hips and a satisfied look on his young face. He scurries off in search of whatever it is mouths are made of & my thoughts drift to when I last felt life in me. It was a day not like this one, with the snow falling in drifts & all was quiet save for the sound of children’s laughter & the occasional “beep, beep, beep” of snow removal vehicles backing up while clearing driveways. It was a chilly day, but that’s just how I like it because on those days I don’t have to worry about making it to tomorrow. The boy comes running up to me from behind the house and carefully secures five rocks along my face to form a smile. “Perfect!” he sighs with his hands placed proudly on his hips. He stands back and admires his work, and I look back at him cheerfully. “Hunter it’s time to come inside,” a voice calls from the window. “Ohp, that’s my mom,” Hunter explains, “I gotta go now. I’ll come back to play again tomorrow. Now, don’t you run off anywhere.” He laughs at his joke as he runs through the snow and disappears inside the house. I wish I could , I think in response but I know that’s something that will remain a dream. So many places I’d go just to see if only I could move from this spot, but I suppose I’m content being admired by everyone that passes by. It seems darker out now that the boy has gone inside, & all this coming to life has left me exhausted. There’s nothing more for me to do but go to sleep until the boy comes back to play tomorrow, just like he promised. Morning comes in no time, & I awaken to the sound of car doors slamming closed as everyone in the neighborhood get their kids out the door and off to school. I watch patiently for Hunter to come out to play, but the day goes by and the sun moves across the sky and Hunter never shows. Finally, a bus drives down the road and I see Hunter get off with a few friends and I watch as he walks home while goofing off with his friends. I wait for him to introduce me to his friends, but he doesn’t even look at me when he gets to his house and just waves goodbye to his friends and walks directly inside the house. Three days go by, and he never comes out to play with me. The first night went quickly but each subsequent night went by slower than the last & I wonder what I did wrong. Saturday comes & it’s a warm day. I can feel the heat of the sun beating down on me and the panic starts to set in. My breathing quickens & my eyes widen as I realize what’s about to happen. It’s a memory I chose to forget and one I’m dreading to relive but the sun is making it hard to ignore. It’s coming back to me now, the last time I was made. I got to enjoy a few days, weeks even, breathing in the cold air and taking in the life going on around me until that darn sun came out in, feeling warmer than ever before. I started to sweat from the memory, or was it from the sun, of how I slowly drooped and caved in on myself as the days wore on. This was the beginning of the end, & I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I begged, I pleaded, I screamed, but no one could hear me. I was nothing but a silent snowman made the silently fallen snow, cursed to observe, listen, and feel but never speak & be heard. I grew more deformed each day. Some days the sun wasn’t so warm and I could feel the crisp air solidify my skin but I was already damaged, & Hunter had moved on. After a week of becoming a dilapidated heap, only one of my eyes was left and one of my arms was still sticking out of my side, & out of the corner of my eye I watched in horror as Hunter starts rolling a ball of snow. 

itjtye

To Be Human

To Be Human The undeniable succulent taste of human flesh is to die for. Eating human flesh is what we NakMakians survive on. NakMakians are monsters that hunt the human race. Due to the rise of NakMakians eating humans, they have found a way to fight back against them to prevent them from taking over. They created an organization called K.T.N, short for Kill The NakMakians. They posed a significant threat to us, so we hid and eat when necessary. But being pushed into a corner, we, NakMakians, have developed the skill of camouflage. We can disguise ourselves as humans to make it easier to eat them. With this new skill, K.T.N created a device when NakMakians walk through it, an alarm will go off, letting everyone know they are not human. Sadly, there is no way we can get around it. They put the device on almost every door of every building. The humans are always one step ahead. Us NakMakians can eat other foods, but it doesn't provide the nutrients for us to live. I enjoy eating humans; my favorite parts of humans to eat are the thighs, especially when they are muscular; the tougher, the better for me. The lungs are always so tender, especially the young ones. It is always a breath of fresh air when I eat them. And lastly, the tongue. It's always a mouthful to eat, but I enjoy every bite. And after I finish with the flesh and organs, I go to the bones as a dessert; sucking on the marrow of the ribs is the best part. Just thinking of it has me salivating. But the more I eat, the lonelier I become. I wish I could share my love of humans with someone. Unfortunately, we NakMakians are solo-hunting monsters. Once we're born, we stay with our mother for one year, and then she will leave in the middle of the night and never return. The fathers mate and leave. We never experience love like humans. Our race are loners. For some reason, every day, I watch the humans interact with one another. They are happily talking, playing, and eating with each other. They don't seem lonely at all. They have families, something I will never experience. Those children have both parents in their lives. They can go to them with any problems they have. I can only rely on myself. Most humans have a dog or a cat, a trusty companion they can depend on, while animals fear us no matter what form we take. Humans can drive and enjoy the different beautiful scenery of the world while we mostly come out at night to eat and then go back into hiding. Is this the life I will live for the rest of my life? It is hard to explain, but strangely, I find myself lusting to be human… It is unheard-of for NakMakians to want to be around other living beings, humans or NakMakians. So, I ask myself why do I want to become human. I'm not supposed to feel lonely, but I am. I'm not supposed to want friends, but I do. I want to become human so that I can have friends. To have someone to talk to. Observing these humans interact with one another makes me not want to be lonely. To be human, I have to stop eating them. I can't live alongside them if I am eating what I want to become. From this day on, I will never eat another human again. When it was night, I looked into a car window and saw a black, fuzzy, four-armed, sharp-toothed, crimson-eyed monster. It was me, "I am a monster." A monster that has been eating humans for my whole life. A monster that will go against everything my existence stands for. There is no way I can live alongside humans looking like this. I will become human. This will be the last time I ever see myself like this again, and honestly, I won't miss this horrid form. I abide my NakMakian life farewell. Using my recollection, I've obtained by observing the human I began morphing into a human. My four fuzzy arms retracted into my body, and two slim brown arms emerged. The fur started to fall off as my teeth straightened and my eyes turned blue. I grew long black hair and breasts as my face smoothed out. The transformation was complete. It was painful but worth it. I looked in the window again and saw a beautiful woman. I was finally human. Over the next couple of days, I practiced the human language and gestures the best way I could. I would go to parks and sit there, learning to act like a proper human. I learned from everyone, but I had to pay more attention to the females since I am one. Females are so beautiful and exciting; they have so many personalities, but the personality I like the most is the strong-willed ones. I want to become just like them. Watching the humans was enjoyable, but with each passing day, my body was diminishing. Without eating, I was getting no nutrients. I didn't have the urge to devour the countless humans I was always surrounded by. My devotion to being one of them overrode my hunger. The more l learned, the faster I was approaching death. Perhaps this is what it means to be human. The NakMakian race has a long life span double the amount of humans. A human life is fragile and short, with many wonderful memories you can look back on. But I might die before I can make a friend or have my first conversation with a human. I don't want that to happen. I don't know how much longer I have, but I will make a friend before I perish. Two days have passed, and my body was shutting down. My vision was failing; I was fatigued and in constant pain. Whenever I tried talking to someone, they ignored or pushed me aside. I looked frail, and they didn't want any part of me. This devastated me. I'm going to die without ever having a conversation. As I stumbled through the busy town, I had many thoughts going through my brain. "It is okay to die like this? Should I go back on what I was standing for and, eat one human, and start over? Should I forget being a human?" When I had that last thought going through my mind, I saw this little boy helping this older woman across the street. That is what life is about—helping each other and getting along. I haven't made a mistake. I will die never eating a human again. I've decided to go into a building, a shopping mall. I know the alarm will go off, and the K.T.N. will come and kill me, but that is what I want. To be killed by another human is justice. I slowly began to head to the mall; it wasn't too far from where I was. On my way to the mall, tears started going down my face. I don't want to die. I will miss watching the humans at the park and seeing them run with their dogs. I will never see happy children playing again, but to die is what it means to be human. To be able to look back on those memories is what it means to be human. Before I knew it, I was in front of the door. I could turn around, but I won't. The people I have eaten didn't have a choice; I won't give myself a choice. I took one step, and the automatic door opened. I closed my eyes and walked through the door. I have no regrets. … … … The alarm didn't go off. How could this be? While I stood in shock, a beautiful woman approached me. "Are you okay? You look weak; let me buy you something to eat." I have become a human. The end.

iu3prx

Thingummyjig

It was time. That time near the start. I didn’t have what I’d usually have. The stuff that I find that I need first thing. So I went out. I was dry once I was out, so the weather wasn’t a problem. I have a problem with the weather when it prevents me from being dry. I doubt anyone likes that. Not really they don’t. But I hate those storm clowns, I really do. After a bout of doubt that threatened to put the kibosh on the proceedings, I arrived at my intended destination. This was the place alright. The place itself wasn’t a pick-me-up, but it purveyed pick-me-up in hot liquid form, which was just exactly what I was after. I could smell the bouncy liquid before I entered the establishment and that aroma made me hopeful that the day would turn out alright in the end. Hope springs infernal and all that rock n roll. I joined the queue. I know that we are supposed to be a nation of queuers, but I’ve never really been one for standing around and doing nothing. Waiting in line and having to do precisely the square multiple of nothing annoys me right from the let-go. Problem is, I then see all the inefficiencies in the processes that should get me to the front of the queue. It’s like I’ve been given a special gift to see these things. That’s a big fat smelly joke though, and the whoopee pillow of a joke is on me. Me of all people. I might see these things, but what am I supposed to do with them? Eventually I got to the front of the line, barely containing my seething anger. That anger dissipated as the lady in front of me paid for her liquid and something solid to go along with it. The youngster behind the counter turned towards me and smiled as though her incompetence didn’t matter one jot. She had a smile on her like the Cheshire Dog. “Can I help you?” she asked me in a falsely friendly way that they teach them on some course in Swindon or Slough or Suffragette or another place whose name begins with an S. No imagination, these people, and they train the imagination out of their employees. It’s sad is what it is. The equivalent of the weather that stops a decent fellow from remaining dry. Could she help me? That was the million doughnut question. I hoped she could, but I’d much rather help myself if I were honest. That would be the best of results. This was going to be like the blind leading the blind. Wish I could have seen the show, but I was one of the participants. “One of those, please?” I pointed at the writing on the wall. These houses always have words on the wall. I hoped I was pointing at the correct list. Generally, the main products are on the first list. The one to the left of the counter. The young girl gave me a look. I didn’t like the look of that look. The look she gave me bored into my embarrassment and that gave rise to risky feelings, this could be dangerous. This could be very dangerous indeed. As dangerous as a cheese sand witch brandishing piccalilli. All I wanted was some of the hot liquid that suited me very well. I’d feel better for the hot liquid, but I knew that calling it hot liquid was not going to help my cause. My swords failed me. Really, I should have told her. I should have explained. But that is another joke of elephantine proportions that I am the sticky branch of. That is a joke that really isn’t funny, but it keeps getting told all the same. “One of those, from off the wall,” I told her, “third one down on the list.” The one I like is usually the third one down. I swear it is. If not, it should be one that will at least suffice. I sighed. The sigh caught me unawares. I didn’t feel it coming and it worried me that if a sigh can do that, then maybe tears can too. That would not do. That really would not do. I silently told myself off. I needed to pull myself together. Like a pair of rusty shears. There’s a whole day ahead of me. If I lost it now, the rest would be a write off. While I was anxious about causing a little scene that might growball and undo me, the girl behind the counter said something. I didn’t quite catch it, so I did that thing that many a stranger in a stranger field has done, I nodded. I nodded like those nodding horses, hoping that this would Felicity a favourable result. She went to work on a machine that has always reminded me of standing on a bridge as a child and dropping yellow peel down off the edge, as a giant metal serpent slithers beneath me. Those were thrilling times. That was an entire world away from the here and now, and I am so different I no longer recognise the person I have become. I was asked if I wanted something added to the liquid. I nodded again. The nod worked last time. I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to use it a third time. No one is that lucky. I was handed the hot liquid. I smiled then. I had what I had come for. I turned towards a table. “Excuse me!” I froze. There is a way of saying those words that is a challenge and this was a challenge alright. I was loathed to turn back around, but I did so all the same. I was trembling. The game was up. I was right back in that village  and I fully expected to see the business end of a rifle staring me in the eye. No one tells you what that is like, how large that dark, foreboding hole is and how it threatens to suck you in and take you from this life. No one tells you because they can’t. And if they did, you would not understand. You would not understand one bit of it. I stood as still as a strawcurrant jelly and I awaited my fate. “You haven’t paid,” the girl told me. She looked a bit annoyed. For my part, I wished she didn’t, but if wishes were trees then I’d be a bird. I stood there, trying to work out what I should do. “You’re spilling it,” this was from the next woman in the line. She took the liquid container and placed it on a nearby table, “it’s OK, love. I’ll pay for that.” I said thank you , but she was busy paying and had her back to me. I may as well have been thanking a betting box. I didn’t think I wanted the hot liquid then. It was too much bother. I felt upset and all I wanted to do is go home. I sat down at the table anyway. The thought of home upset me and I didn’t know what to do for the rest. So many things upset me these days. It wasn’t always like this, but then I am not who I once was. I took a wrong turn somewhere along the way, but I didn’t know I was lost until it was far, far too late to turn back around. Not that you can. Life is a one way beat and music isn’t yours to conduct. I drank the warm liquid absently. It wasn’t what I wanted after all. There was no disappointment though, instead I smiled. I smiled at a familiar phrase that swam up from the murky depths and greeted me like an eager frog. As long as it’s warm and wet. I heard those words so many times that they are etched upon my memory. She used to say that every time I asked if she’d like me to make her a drink. I had words that I would say back to her. What were they? My stomach started to tie itself into a scarf. If I had to think too hard those words would denude me however well I wrote them down in my mind. You’re easily pleased! There they were! That was the ticket! Oh joy of joys! I finished my drink and I left that place with the metal machine hissing at me as though I didn’t belong there and it wanted me gone. I didn’t look back, I had places to go and people to see. I walked along the pavement and I began whistling a haunty tune. I used to whistle all of the time when I was younger. I whistled a tune that I knew off by head, but I didn’t recognise the sound of it as it escaped my puckered, dry nose. “Oy! Watch where you’re going!” That really hurt. My shoulder hurt like Bellamy. He walked right into my shoulder. My breath. It was difficult to breath. I needed to lean against this wall for a moment. Just a hand. On the wall. To get my breath back. The wall. Was not… Well what a to do! How did I get down here? It’s a long time since I looked up at the sky. It never ceases to be a beauty. Shame it’s so noisy. What is it with all the noise? What’s this? Move out of the way! Can’t you see I’m looking up at the sky!? So tired. Think I’ll just close my eyes for a while. That’s better. Fish swimming above me in a red tinged sea. You don’t see that every day. “Maggie… Why did you go? I missed you so much when you went… And I’ve missed you every day since. I’ve been so sad.” “Now how about a cuppa?” You’re easily pleased!

ul7id7

A Time to Kill

Camp Page in Chun Cheon Korea was the perfect place to pop my cherry. For six months, I’ve been training to be a sniper and now I’m finally getting my first assignment. It was a Saturday morning in 1953, when Major Bak called me into his office. “Here is a permanent pass for you. It will get you in and out of the front gate anytime, night or day. Now I want you to meet your partners. When you go out the gate, go straight ahead to the top of the hill. There, you will see several stores on the right on Myong Dong Road. Go there and find the barber shop. When you go inside, ask for John.” “You’re not coming with me?” I asked. “I am sorry, Corporal Ellis, but I cannot come with you. I am very well known around here. If I am seen going into that barber shop, I risk having all the informants from there being captured. Your file said you can speak Korean, so you should have no problem asking someone for directions. Isn’t that true?” All I could do was stare at him. Here I was, in the middle of a foreign country, with no way of determining the difference between friend or foe. As I looked out the window facing the road up the hill, I knew I had no choice. “I guess if someone asks who I am, I could tell them I’m a reporter for Life Magazine, major Bak.” Major Bak laughed. “I doubt if they will ask you anything, except for money or cigarettes. Hell, a pack of Lucky Strikes will buy you a personal guide to the barbershop.” Rising from his chair, he joined me at the window, and replied, “The weather looks good today. You better take advantage of it while you can.” My time for procrastination had come to an end. After saying my farewells, I left the building and began my journey up the hill. Before I knew it, I was walking down Myong Dong Road and found the sign saying Yi Bal So (Barbershop). As I went inside, I was greeted with cigarette smoke filled room with a man getting a haircut and two others talking to the barber. But when they saw me come in, they went silent. “Naneun jon-eul chajgo issseubnida (I am looking for John),” I said. The two men who were talking to the barber looked at each other and walked out the door. The barber quickly finished with his customer, and he ran out as well. Now it was just the barber and me. “So,” he said. “You the big FBI man, huh?” He eyed me from top to bottom. “You no look like much. You think you can kill the big honchos up north?” It was my turn to look at John from top to bottom. I didn’t see much that differentiate from any other Korean, except for the cold, calculating look in his eyes. “Who says I’m from the FBI?” John began to laugh. “No secrets here. Everyone talks. I listen. You join Army, you shoot good. FBI hears this and recruits you. Here you are today. So, big FBI man wants to play soldier. Good. I hope you can kill those soldier men. All number ten.” As he looked outside to make sure no one was watching or listening, he whispered, “Come back tomorrow morning. 5 a.m. You go on fishing boat up Han River. Go north and kill number ten soldiers. Dangsin-eun ihae? (You understand?)” “Ye. (Yes)” He bowed to me. “Good-bye FBI man. See you tomorrow.” After returning his bow, I went back to Camp Page, wondering, how did my story come to light? After returning to Camp Page, I reported to Major Bak and told him what happened and when I finished, he asked only one question. “Do you have everything you need?” I thought about the rifle, scope, and everything I needed to carry in my backpack. I knew the mountainous terrain would be difficult to traverse, even without carrying a load. But this is what I trained for. “Yes sir,” I told him. “I have enough supplies to last for three days. With a little luck, I’ll be back before then.” “Very well, Mr. Ellis. Get some rest. You may not get much until you return.” When I returned to the barracks, I tried to get as much rest as possible, but my sleep was restless. As I laid in bed, all I could think about was my first mission and my first target, but one question overwhelmed all else. What happens to me when this is over? *** As the sun began to rise from the east, I found myself huddled in the hull of a river fishing boat. The door above me was slightly ajar, permitting a beam of light to enter. A slight odor of gasoline filled the air and even though the hull was empty, it was overpowered by the stench of rotten fish. The smell made me feel nauseous, but I knew I was banned from going up on deck. If the North Koreans spotted my big nose or round eyes, we would all be shot on sight. With little choice in the matter, I did my best to ignore the smell and stayed below. My only hope was knowing I could be allowed on deck after sunset. So, when midafternoon hit, I was surprised to see the crewmen signaling for me to come up. “Everything, you bring,” one of them whispered. “Balli (Quickly).” I grabbed my gear and headed up to greet the sunshine and fresh air. I felt like I was just released from thirty days of solitary confinement. Another of the crewmen was on shore signaling for me to follow him. This is it, I thought. the crewman grabbed my scope bag and began to guide me through a mountain pass. The crewman spoke to me in simple Korean. “Maybe two kilometers, camp ahead. Big honchos there. You kill the general. Understand?” “Ye,” I replied. The crewman and I went up the path, then turned off into a wooded area. Ten minutes later, we came to the edge of a clearing. From there I could see an encampment in the near distance. The crewman pointed at the camp. “Geugos-e (There).” It was still light out and decided I didn’t need the scope. Taking out my binoculars, I began to search for a general. With all the men standing around him, it didn’t take long to find him. I leaned up against a tree and took aim. I was about to fire, when I saw another general come out of a tent, joining the first general. The crewman grew agitated and whispered, “Balli, FBI man.” But the line of sight wasn’t perfect. I waited as the two generals pivoted around each other. I took a deep breath and continued to wait. Then it happened. Both generals were lined up in my sight. As I squeezed the trigger, the bullet exploded from the rifle, and a moment later, both generals dropped dead from a single shot. Grabbing my backpack, I ran as fast as I could to the boat. Fortunately, the crewman was three steps ahead of me, leading our way back to safety. Occasionally, I would glance back and see if anyone was following us. Though I saw no one following, I wasn’t tempted to slow down. We jumped back on the deck of the boat and the crew man pointed at the cargo hold. “Jump. Balli.” He tossed the scope bag into the hold, and when it hit bottom, the sound of the lenses shattering pierced the surrounding silence. That’s it, I thought. All my future missions will have to be completed in daylight hours. Then I smiled to myself when I realized I wouldn’t have to carry that bag wherever I went. I hopped in the hold and did a quick inspection of the scope. When I opened the bag, I saw it was hopeless. The front lens was separated from the scope and was shattered into several pieces. I closed the bag up and threw it in the corner. No sense worrying about it. Then I heard the boat engine come to life and felt us moving again. I looked up and saw a crewman peering down at me. “How soon before we get back?” I asked. He smiled at me and showed me three fingers. “Three days, FBI man.” I could believe what I heard. “Three days? Why so long?” He waved his arm at the cargo hold. “No fish, here. Now we fish. Empty boat, no good. Look bad. Fish, one. Go home, two.” At that moment, I realized he was right. If we went back to Chun Cheon without a catch, suspicious eyes would turn our way. I looked at my surroundings and a question came to me. “If fish go here, where do I go?” The crewman began to laugh. “No go. You stay here. Fish stink. You stink. Same, same.” If I hadn’t spent most of my life not swearing, I would have said something that would have even made a prostitute blush. But I didn’t. Instead, I closed my mouth and prepared myself for the worst. I wasn’t sure how many fish they could catch in three days, but I was sure it would be far more than I wished for. Three hours later, my hell began. I heard the crew groaning, as they dragged the fishing net to the deck of the boat. Moments later, the load was dropped in the cargo hold and I was surrounded by fish flopping around. It wasn’t long after, they took their last gasp of air and ceased to move. I pushed them as far away as I could with my foot, knowing it was only the beginning. The smell wasn’t overpowering, but I knew that would change by the next day. At sunset, I was greeted by another load of fish and as before I pushed them off to the side. A crewman peered down to check on me. “Fishing finished today. Eat time. Rice, fish, kimchee (spicy pickled cabbage), makgeolli (rice wine).” He signaled for me to come on the deck. I was more than happy to oblige. The sun had set, and the stars were coming out in the cloudless sky. I sat with the others, as we shared a meal. They talked among themselves about fishing, their children’s accomplishments, and their nagging wives. Not one word was whispered about what transpired today. There was no wind and the sound of them talking would carry across the water I sat there quietly, thankful not to be sitting next to the fish. Later, when the makgeolli warmed up everyone’s spirits, they began to sing cultural songs. They continued to sing, until the last man fell asleep. As I laid on the deck, ready to join them in their slumber, a chill ran into the air making it impossible for me to sleep, forcing me to face my inner demons. During my training in the FBI, I was constantly reminded how killing someone in cold blood could affect my life. Nightmares would be my closest companions. Depression was sure to follow. I was promised I would be seen by world renown doctors to get me through this trauma. But as I laid there, only one thing ran through my mind. It was the thrill of the hunt and how I hungered for more. Before I fell asleep, I knew my dreams would be pleasant, recognizing the fear in the hunted’s eyes. Before, I was bound by the unknowing, but now I know and am eager for my next mission. My mind was at peace, and I closed my eyes with the echoing of rifle fire dancing in my head. It seemed like only a moment had passed when someone shook me awake. Seeing the stars were fading in the pre-dawn light, I knew dawn was coming. The crewman who woke me pointed at the hold and said, “Go.” Instead of arguing, I went back to join the fish and pushed them away from my corner. By the time we returned to Chun Cheon, I came to realize those three days were the most miserable and wonderful of my life.

yad5up

Wyvern

Wyvern anointed himself with the ceremonial oils and stepped into the sauna's heat. Today was his nineteenth birthday, a day of ritual, a day to face his future. More importantly, it was the day he could finally set off and fulfill his duty, something he had been preparing for his entire life. The sauna was a ceremonial ritual, representing being forged anew and crossing that ever-perilous border between boy and man. Wyvern sat down and meditated in the heat, trying to calm his thoughts. He was about to set off on the most important journey of his life, one that would almost certainly end in death. After exactly fourteen minutes (as specified by ritual), he got up and dragged himself to the door. Wyvern emerged to a gathering of his closest family, his mother and uncle, right outside the wooden door, anxiously waiting for him. They immediately started scrubbing him clean with pumice stones and giving him the proper face paint. Wyvern turned to his mother, seemingly the only one concerned about his impending doom. “You know you don’t have to do this. No one in the village would hold it against you if you gave up.” His mother’s eyes were on the verge of tears, only keeping from spilling over through sheer will. “We both know there is no future for oathbreakers in Nautan. I either do this, or we all get shamed and ignored by the community,” Wyvern said, his gaze steely. His uncle Bear, a bald, heavyset man already tired from scrubbing his body, chose this moment to weigh in. “Bullshit. Kid, you’re doing this because you think you wouldn’t be the Future Sun anymore if you failed. No one will think less of you just cause you had the misfortune of being picked to hunt the Beast.” “You say that, but all of you enjoy what my status as the Future Sun has afforded this family, and the Future Sun can’t be a known coward. At least if I die on the hunt, Ma will get payment and still be accepted by the village.” “You stupid, stupid child. We’d still rather have you.” His mother sobbed, finally losing the will to stop her tears from flowing. “Bye Ma, bye Unc, if they recover my body, try to bury it by the old apple tree near the south wall. Love you both.” Wyvern said curtly. He tried to keep it as short as possible. Wyvern had to report at the north gate in precisely twenty-three minutes (again, ritual), and everything that had to be said was already said in the weeks leading up to today. He tried not to look back as he ran to the next checkpoint but couldn’t help himself. The only view that greeted him was his mother sobbing uncontrollably on the ground and his uncle crying into his hands. Wyvern wished he could turn around and get a different final memory of them before leaving, but he was already late. Punctuality was a virtue, and he would need all the goodwill he could get if he wanted to have even the slightest chance of surviving. It took Wyvern at least four hours to get from the north gate into the thick of the forest. A hunter with lesser prey would have had to stop at this point to properly track their game, but Wyvern’s target would only be found in one place: Mount Thunderhead. From where Wyvern was now, it would be a long, hard trek that would’ve taken an ordinary man three days. Wyvern could do it in one; he was, after all, a member of the Mokilan tribe and the Future Sun of that tribe no less. As Wyvern walked, he found that his thoughts were horrible company. Every thought he had was spoiled by the fact that he was walking into his death. After night fell, Wyvern set up camp and rested for the night; not even the best warriors dared to go into battle fatigued. Wyvern watched the stars as he slept and remembered nights spent with his mother and uncle learning and identifying the constellations as a child before he started hunting. He wondered if he would be in a different position if the Elders of the tribe didn’t divine him to be the Future Sun. If he wasn’t trained until near death to be the greatest hunter in his tribe of exceptional hunters. He entertained the notion of a life studying the stars instead of only seeing them through foliage on hunts; Wyvern tried to shut down the thought as quickly as possible. He was a hunter; it was all he was good at and his only viable path in life. Wishing for anything else would be spitting on the gifts he’d been given, a betrayal to everyone who relied on him. He fell asleep quickly after that, dreaming of constellations despite his previous affirmations. The next day, Wyvern made quick work of the remaining trek, devoting all of his mental energy to making it to the mountain. Currently, he was hanging on to the side of Mt. Thunderhead, scoping for his prey, careful not to alert anything while slowly making his way up. He had no idea what to expect. All other Suns sent throughout the tribe’s long history never succeeded. Wyvern’s current predicament was not ideal, to say the least. He was climbing up the side of the tallest mountain he knew existed on one of the hottest days of the year while also making sure not to alert a centuries-old monster he couldn’t recognize that killed hundreds of warriors smarter, braver, and stronger than him. The climb was slow and treacherous, but at least he wasn’t dead yet, and in Wyvern’s mind, that counted for something. A small triumph in the comically shitty situation he found himself in. It took another four hours before he was able to summit the mountain and saw nothing but a jagged expanse of sleet gray rock partially obscured by a dense fog. Wyvern tried investigating further but soon found himself completely blind in the fog. He had no choice but to set up camp and wait for something to happen. So Wyvern sat down, trying to make himself as small as possible while having his spear ready to spring into action at any moment. Hours passed, then a full day, and there was still no sign of any movement. Wyvern was tired of waiting and only had enough rations to last one more day; he would have to brave the fog and face the monster. As he stepped into the mist, Wyvern focused on his other senses, specifically his hearing, throwing small pebbles in various directions and letting them guide him and keep him from walking face-first into any rock formations. He threw pebble after pebble and cataloged just how far everything was from him until one of his pebbles made no noise at all. Wyvern threw five more in quick succession to verify if he was very close to the edge of a cliff or was hitting something soft. “Hey man, could you stop pelting me with rocks? You already got my attention.” a gruff voice boomed from the mists, answering his question. “I’m sorry?” said Wyvern, shocked to hear a voice on what he thought was an uninhabited mountain. “Don’t be sorry. Just leave and let me get back to my nap. I was having a nice dream about the constellations.” At this point, the man was very clearly annoyed by Wyvern’s presence, and if Wyvern were a bit smarter and a lot less brave, he would have hightailed it off the mountain. In the end, however, his curiosity won out.  “How are you living here? The mist obscures everything, and based on what I’ve seen, the lack of sun because of the fog prevents anything from growing.” “The mountain provides me with what I need, and it seems today it chose to give me an annoying teenager who can’t take a hint.” “How did you know I was a teenager?” “That scream earlier made me think you were a five-year-old, but you look a bit too muscular for your average five-year-old.” “Wait, you can see me? Through the fog?” “Of course I can. You hit your head or something.” Suddenly, a hand reached out of the gray of the fog and grabbed Wyvern’s chin. As soon as the hand made contact with him, he could see an old man standing in his late 60s in front of him, wearing nothing but a simple robe. Even more wondrous was that the fog seemingly disappeared, directly in front of his small picturesque cottage, directly on the mountain's rock with a cot directly in front. “What the hell did you do to me? Who are you?” “You people and your questions, I just opened your third eye. Now start looking me in the eye and answer my questions.” Wyvern shifted his gaze into the man’s stark white eyes. “Who are you, and why are you on my mountain.” “I am here as the Future Sun of the Mokilan tribe to claim my birthright and kill the beast that lives on this mountain for the glory of my people.” Wyvern tried to project and make himself seem a little more grand in front of the wizard. His pride had been hurt by being compared to a five-year-old. “What monster? I’ve lived on this mountain for quite some time and have yet to see an animal, let alone a monster.” “That cannot be, my tribe has sent their best hunters to this mountain for centuries, and not one has come back alive. Their dead bodies carry claw marks a foot deep; there is no world in which the Beast does not exist. You must be mistaken, Great One.” Wyvern was suspicious of the Beast’s true identity but carefully held his cards close to his sleeve in front of this strange man he wasn’t sure he could trust. “Kid, I’ve already told you no monster lives on this mountain, and I hate repeating myself. Now, a storm is not too far out, so I suggest you scram before it arrives. You do not want to descend when it’s raining; it's a really easy way to die.” The wizard was getting increasingly impatient with every passing moment. It astounded Wyvern that a scholar of magic would be more impatient than a child. “I apologize, but I cannot leave without the head of my prey. I would lose my standing in my tribe, and my family would suffer.” “I honestly don’t care. Just walk in any direction for a while, and you’ll get off the mountain one way or another.” “Maybe I wasn’t clear, but I am saying that I cannot leave this mountain without your head; as the only resident of this mountain, I am quite confident you are the Beast my tribe has been hunting for centuries.” Wyvern leveled his spear at the man and quickly assumed a stance in which he would be able to strike if the wizard moved even an inch. The wizard's impatience morphed into a fatigued exasperation. “Go home kid, I don’t want to kill you, and you’re kind of forcing my hand here.” The bags under his eyes deepened, and he started looking about as old as he actually was. “I’ve lived quite a long time, and I don’t remember killing your tribe members, but there is no chance in hell a greenhorn like you could even scratch me before I atomized you.” Wyvern relaxed his stance, completely believing his words. “I apologize again, but the only value I have in my tribe is that I am their best hunter. That’s why I am the Future Sun and was sent here; I would have no place if I returned, having failed my mission.” Wyvern said frankly, and it was true. If Wyvern returned to the village empty-handed, he would be labeled a coward, and the Mokilan had no space or charity for cowards and their families. “I knew you would say that. Follow me.” said the wizard, entering the cottage behind his cot. Wyvern followed, unsure of what to do; he kept his spear ready and his feet light. The wizard stopped at the door and appeared to collect himself before he went in, the open door giving way to pure black, offering no idea of what lay beyond. Wyvern took much longer than the wizard to collect himself but eventually entered, keeping a death grip on his spear. When he entered, he nearly vomited off of the stench alone; dozens of rotting bodies half decomposed were strewn about the cottage floor, all in various stages of decomposition. Numerous bodies bore claw marks, and those whose faces hadn't yet decomposed were contorted into expressions of sheer terror. The wizard was standing in the middle of them, looking burnt out to the stem. “Every couple of years or so, your tribe sends hunters to kill me. Every couple of years or so, yet your tribe never stops sending them out. The few times I’ve spared people, they come back to tell me no one believed them, labeled them as a coward, and forgot about them. Is it that much of a sin to ask the world to leave me alone.” Wyvern began crying, sobbing uncontrollably. It was all too much for him, and it would be unreasonable to expect a teenager not to weep at his impending death. He was convinced that he would die here, nineteen years spent hunting, nineteen years wasted. The wizard collapsed onto a nearby chair and buried his face into his hands. “You don’t have to die. I’ve always given others the choice. However, I don’t hold out hope that you’ll choose to live. Your tribe does glorify dying on the hunt.” “Sorry, that’s not an option. All I’ve done with my life is hunt; it’s all I can do. My family relies on me. I am nothing if I go back to the village empty.” Wyvern managed to get his feelings under control; he would kill himself if he spent his final moments bawling like a baby. The old man took his head out of his hands and stared into Wyvern's eyes, “You know I used to bury them off the mountain, but eventually, I got tired of making the trek and started dumping the bodies inside and sleeping outside.” The wizard moved closer to Wyvern, his white eyes piercing through Wyvern, “Believe it or not, I’m a peaceful person, but every single one of these so-called hunters said the same thing: ‘They were nothing without the hunt’ or ‘their family relied on them.’ Your crisis is not special.” “Then what am I supposed to do, because dying or living the rest of my life as an outcast and my family starving doesn’t sound appealing.” “You’re young. You’ll find a way to live at the margins of your society. People have done it before. Now it’s time for you to leave. Tell your tribe what you saw here. Slim chance they believe you, but you’ll at least be alive down there.” “Ok,” said Wyvern, coming to terms with the fact that he would have to return in shame. At the beginning of his journey, he was willing to die, but that was when he still had the chance of being able to win against some gigantic scaly monster. Now, seeing this wizard living amid the corpses of his ancestors who seemingly had control of the mists, he knew he had no chance of winning. He would no longer hunt, but maybe it was time to find something else. He imagined his mother and uncle would also be pretty happy to see him alive. “Wait, really?” Now, it was the wizard's turn to cry. “You would not believe the number of times I have given that same speech to someone, and they’ve still tried to kill me. Good on you, kid. Now, you really should leave as soon as possible to avoid that storm.” The old man choked out between sobs, eventually breaking into an easy smile at the thought of not having to kill again. “And when you get to your village, can you tell them something for me?” “Sure, anything.” “Tell them to let me live in solitude for at least a century. Tell them to leave me the fuck alone.” Wyvern then proceeded to leave much quicker than he arrived; he did not need to wait around for a magical god-being to change his mind. Wyvern walked through the night to make it back to his village in record time. His mother and uncle both cried tears of joy upon his return while the other villagers watched with disdain. He tried telling everyone the truth, but predictably, people thought he never actually went to the mountain. One more Future Sun was sent out and never returned before Wyvern managed to convince the village to stop the practice, and it turns out he was a pretty good orator; he just never knew it due to all the hunting. Wyvern never picked up a spear again after that day, but he did start studying the stars under the master astronomer of the village. He wasn’t any good at it. His teacher said he was the worst student he ever had, but every minute he spent looking at the stars was worth more than a year of hunting. Wyvern remained an outcast until the end of his life, but he managed to build a family and life at the margins of society just like the wizard said he would. On his deathbed, he’d say the wisest decision he ever made was to run away. Wyvern died a better death than most of the Future Suns before him, surrounded by his family at the end of a fulfilled life spent doing what he loved.

4rzb1s

What Happened To John

What Happened To John The wheels rattled over the tracks. A conversation, an interesting one, roused me from my semi conscious sleep. I shouldn’t have been asleep; I had, after all, paid handsomely for this journey. I needed to take it all in.            ‘He’s got five years, I wish it was more but that’s how it is,’ a middle-aged woman said.            ‘There’s always a chance that things might change. Who knows with the way things are going in this day and age. It can be one thing one day and another the next,’ her companion, dressed in blue, responded.            The scenery quickly changed from urban to suburban and then countryside. I wasn’t expecting so much of the latter, but it was a pleasant enough turn of events.            ‘What does John think about it all?’            ‘He’s said nothing.’ ‘Maybe that’s his way of coping.’ The sound of the wheels on the track kept on in the background.  ‘Come on, let’s get a drink and drown our sorrows.’ The two women stood up and left. There was a lull.  I was thinking about leaving at the next possible opportunity when there was a huge bang! Sirens wailed, people jumped up from their seats. Everything seemed to jolt to a halt. ‘By joves, that was a shock,’ someone near me said. The sirens stopped. Through the small gap between the heads of the people in front of me I could see that no one was badly injured. We started to move again. A friend who’d told me about the journey had said that it could be slow at times but to hold on, as the ending was spectacular. I pulled a packet from my trouser pocket and eased out one of its contents. Just as I was beginning to think I’d been duped and that this was as good as things would get, something rushed towards me from my left hand side. I ducked, but then felt stupid when I realised what it was. Perhaps this was what I’d been waiting for. Another of the same flew past. I ducked again quite unnecessarily. I realised that I was sitting with my mouth wide open, like a kid who’d just been told about Santa Claus. An elderly gentleman seated on my left hand side glanced quickly in my direction and then away. ‘It’s spectacular isn’t it?’ I whispered. He ignored me. The women came back, I wondered if they’d heard the commotion, but if they had, they didn’t comment. They continued their conversation. ‘John’s been working on this sort of thing,’ one of the women said. ‘He’s clever then,’ the other replied. ‘At some things, but it’s a pity he doesn’t put more effort into what really matters. If so, there might be more than five years. I don’t want to go back to the city.’ I wondered if she was talking about their relationship. ‘I don’t blame you, it’s so nice out here.’ ‘Well, the only negative is those things.’ ‘What things?’ was the reply. ‘You know, you saw them, flying out there,’ she pointed to a window, ‘ they’re huge.’ ‘Oh, those, don’t let them put you off. They’re harmless. And you have to admit, they’re beautiful.’ Their conversation was stifled by some spectacular pieces of imagery. Was this why my friend had told me to hang on? It went for sometime, one scene after another. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, the whole imagery changed. It was jaw dropping. The two women seemed just as inspired as I was. One got up and pushed a curtain back. The view was so picturesque; I’d been wondering why they hadn’t done that earlier. She sat back down and the conversation continued. I looked at my watch. By my reckoning there should still be a good forty minutes or so to go. The rhythmic sound of the wheels on the track threatened to lull me back into my previous soporific state. ‘John, sit down,’ one of the women told a man who’d just joined them. He was obviously the subject of their conversation. He was handsome, quite dapper actually. As requested, he sat down. ‘Sorry to leave you ladies alone all this time, but I was held up with some pressing business.’ He leaned across and whispered something. I didn’t catch it all but it seemed that John did get more than five years. Was he a murderer, or perhaps an embezzler? Then again, it mightn’t be anything at all as sinister as that. Perhaps he had some sort of cancer or was applying for funding for a project; it was mere speculation on my part. ‘Shh, John, careful they might hear you,’ the middle-aged woman said. ‘Don’t let your imagination get away with you, girl. They don’t know I’m here. Anyway, the journey’s ending,’ John replied, ‘we must be going.’ He turned to the woman in blue, ‘Thankyou for accompanying my wife. I suppose she’s told you of my predicament?’ ‘She has, let’s hope I wish you the best,’ the woman replied. As John and the women took their leave, the sound of the wheels rattling over the track continued. Suddenly, the image in front of me became blurred, the rhythmic rattling of wheels changed to a loud screeching, crunching of metal on metal. I wondered if John and the women had felt it. All the same, the journey was gaining tempo. Those flying objects from early in my journey were back with a vengeance. Instead of ducking, I looked hard at them. The woman in blue was right; they were beautiful and of no danger to anyone. A voice came over a loudspeaker. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, there is no cause for alarm. Please accept my apologies for this disruption, technicians are attending to the problem and we should be back on track shortly.’ True to his word, we were ‘moving in the right direction’ was how he explained it I was a bit disappointed by this as I’d been enjoying watching everything played out back to front, the scenery looked totally different that way and I amused myself trying to piece together the experience that had played out in front of me before. I again looked at my watch. Just ten more minutes by my reckoning and I’d be with my friend telling him all about my adventure.  I stood up to take my leave, music played in the background. The wonderful views over snow capped peaks, previously in the background, made me realise that what I had just experienced was worth all the kerfuffle. Still, three days later, I’m left wondering what really happened to John. 1,110 words

o0ns5k

Destiny's Violent Strings

I sat at the corner table in a dreary inn in Swanknoll, very aware of the eyes that found me. The small mountain village was used to passersby almost every day, most traveling from Ríse to Kruh Zivota, and still, their glares painted a vivid picture of how welcome I was. If there was another way through the mountains, I would use it, but I was here, instead. Talons wrapped around the mug, I brought it to my beak and swallowed, shuddering at the ale’s bitterness. Its taste twisted with the inn’s odor of sweat and smoke in my mouth as I took another pull. As unpleasant as it was, I craved the thought of my torso filled with warmth and my mind filled with things to distract me from where I currently found myself. The townspeople had kept their distance thus far, and as long as they continued to do so, giving a wide berth to the towering stark black eagle wearing a bear headdress and steel talon gauntlets, my pass through Swanknoll would be uneventful and well behind me by morning. Then, there was a commotion outside, and the violence of my destiny began to pull its strings into a thick web once again. My eyes met the door, as other people turned and looked up from their drinks, dinners, and conversations, and three men dressed in frills, fur coats, and lots of gold accents strode inside, bringing with them a biting wind and drunken tongues. Someone cursed and yelled to shut the door, then cut himself off when he realized who they were. Noblemen, probably riding through from Ríse. I followed the men, their gaits wobbling, toward the bar. One of them, a younger man with dirty blonde, well-kept hair and an entitled, nasally voice ordered drinks. The barkeep nodded profusely, gathering up three mugs of a frothing, amber ale, then lowered his eyes as the blonde nobleman collected the drinks and left. I stiffened as they found an empty table toward the center of the rectangular room, three tables from where I sat. After getting comfortable and beginning to drink, or rather resuming to drink telling from the flippant air that settled around them, my eyes turned back to the barkeep. He argued in hushed tones with an older woman, perhaps his wife. His face was apple red and his grey locks swayed as he shook his head, his hand gestures tight and frequent. That was when I realized the nobleman hadn’t paid but merely left the bar. With a sharp intake of breath, putrid stink swelling through my nares, I rose from my chair and felt the head beams close above me. When I turned back to the noblemen’s table, their eyes had found me, their looks predatory and sinister. The blonde one made the first move to approach, the other two, a lanky man with sunken eyes and snarling lips, the left side of his face pulled up and mangled as if he had been burned long ago, and a shorter man with a thick, dark beard, his tunic’s buttons straining to not pop from his girth, trailing close behind. My eyes immediately followed their hands as they rested on pommels of sheathed swords at their hips. “Look what we have here, gents,” the blonde man said, cocking his head quizically, and making a gesture with his free hand. “I haven’t seen one of you around here before. What’s your name?” I didn’t move— couldn’t move, every muscle in my body tensed to breaking. I was locked in place, staring down three Duchy noblemen. The way he talked, perhaps he wasn’t from Ríse, and instead, these men were from Swanknoll itself. “Now, I asked you a question,” the blonde man said, his voice growing louder and firmer. “You answer me, bird , or you’ll see what happens to those who refuse me.” My talons scraped the wooden floor in retaliation, making a dull grating sound that reverberated through the now silent room, the sharp metal points that my talons were encased under peeling slender ribbons of wood up as they went. The noblemen didn’t move, the blonde man staring daggers at me, his head raised back to meet my eyes. “You’re from the Northern Mountains by my guess,” the man said, “near Evermill. My father knows the Duke of Evermill—an ancient bastard—eighty-nine years old. Can you believe that, gents?” His lackeys chimed in their thoughts, wishing swift death upon the Duke nonchalantly, and peace and prosperity for his son’s inheritance of the title—a good friend of theirs, by the sound of it. “Duke Reginar told my father stories of these creatures living in the mountains. They’re nuisances, coming from the peaks and hunting his game, even killing his men and having their fiendish ways with his women, if the mood strikes them. And those —” he glanced at my gauntlets, “are more gruesome than a dozen swords.” The fat man on the blonde’s left spat, twisting his grip around his sword’s hilt. “Let’s send him back to where he belongs, Neith. It’s got no business here.” “Yeah,” agreed the burned man, “this is our town, and we’ve gotta protect our women.” The more the other two spoke, it was evident that only “Neith” was a noble, and these men were nothing more than his lessers. And Duke Reginar—the mention of his name stowed a fire within me. I was numb, my entire body stuck with fine needles, the flames raging behind my eyes, searing my brain. And I didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t speak a word. No longer because I couldn’t, but because this man deserved nothing from me. Neith raised a hand, silencing the jeers from his men as he shook his head slowly, his eyes alight, as well. “For all I care, Reginar lets these things terrorize his county,” Neith said. “But we aren’t in Evermill, now are we, friend? In Swanknoll, we go about things a little differently.” He took a step forward, the first move in minutes, and even as tense as the room had become already, it grew thicker the closer this man came to me—this peculiar stranger. If his ego matched his height, we’d be at eye level, but as it stood now, I was a little over two feet taller than Neith was. And still, he was the one who took that step across the line between drunken jeering and intimidation. I didn’t move. The other two men, those whose names were still unknown, spread out, following in their leader’s thoughts, and ensuring that I was cornered and my escape would have to be through one of them. “Ole Reginar went on for hours about how this one’s kind rebuff the Grand Duchy, telling wild tales about how they’ll attack anyone with gold sewn in their clothes without hesitation,” Neith said, loud enough for everyone in the inn to hear. A grin pulled at the corners of his lips, revealing straight, white teeth—too white. He knew it as well as I—there’d be no refuting his claims from me. Singlehandedly, Neith Knoll had just banished me from Swanknoll and ensured that if any Eagles came here, they would no longer be merely avoided, but possible violence would find them, the people wanting nothing to do with “savages and killers”. “So, I’ll tell you what, bird ; you love our ale so much, and gawk at our women, and all you need do is pledge your allegiance to the Grand Duchy and me.” Neith paused for effect. “Pledge allegiance and you won’t be shackled and shipped back to Duke Reginar for the chopping block.” Silence spread through the room, masking every inch until the absence of sound was nauseating. Neith stared at me, his grin at its full arc. “No.” Neith’s grin curled into a snarl, not used to being denied. He took another step forward, now but a foot away from me, his breath stinking of liquor. “Pledge allegiance to the Duchy or I’ll have your head mounted on my wall.” “No.” The room erupted into chaos—Neith shoved me back, but I didn’t go far, my talons dug securely into the floor. He stumbled a few feet back as the fat man came rushing me with a knife, and the burned man clambered forward proffering fists. I threw my wings apart, whipping both men in the face, and leaped upward, twisting myself into a spin, and bringing a clutched steel talon down across the burned man’s head. He collapsed in a heap to the floor, his temple split and gushing dark blood. As I landed, facing the wall, the fat man was now on my left and Neith was behind me. Steel slid against leather behind me as the fat man charged again, swiping madly at my wing, knowing that cutting one of them to ribbons would render me useless. But I was quicker, shifting my weight and jumping back at each attack, hopping over the burned man lying motionless, and finding the wall. I cursed, then spread my wings and sent myself up, curling my torso, and kicking off the wall to dive over the fat man. I landed and thrust a kick behind me, shoving the fat man into the wall with a thud, a few paintings a ways down falling to the floor with a crash. Neith’s blade sliced diagonally down my chest, and I sucked in instinctively. Our eyes met in that moment, realization flooding his features, shifting rage to shock as a stinging pain gripped hold of all my senses. I came to the same realization only a moment later. He had misjudged his distance—an amateur mistake. Instead of driving the middle of his blade across me in a deep, killing blow, he had missed a step and the tip of his sword had found my skin and cut me from furculum to hip. It was still excruciating and was beginning to bleed, but nowhere near deadly as long as I applied healing salve afterward. I leaped and drove a clenched talon into his chest, then another into his face as he fell. His head hit the floor with a sickening crack, half a second later I landed, my gauntlets clanking dully. I was breathing heavily, tensed, and scanning the room for more combatants. But no one was near me. Every one of the inn’s common room occupants cowered in the corner opposite me, as far from me and my wrath as they could get. As my eyes found them, they trembled and averted their eyes, shielding their faces with their hands and arms, some holding up chairs to try and stave me off. I seethed with each breath and glanced at the three men lying on the floor around me. One was a nobleman—the son of the Duke of Swanknoll, while the others could be Counts or their sons, or nobody street thugs. Either way, I sighed, knowing that one way or another, I had played right into Neith’s game. I had doomed all other Eagles from traveling through Swanknoll. My body hardened as I straightened my posture from my rather hunched fighting stance. I started to the door. The Duchy was the same everywhere, their violence toward my kin was no different here than in Evermill. I felt the rage building in me as I pictured Duke Reginar, and now Neith Knoll beside him. The Duchy was all the same, and this proved it. Why would any of my kin want to travel through Swanknoll? If they did, they’d find the same Duchy hospitality I did. I opened the front door, the cold wind meeting me, blowing back my headdress and cloak underneath, and I stalked out into the night, leaving three men bleeding behind me.

qagfgw

The Monsters Of The Lake

The sun was just beginning to set over Wa’l’ta, casting the golden pillar across the water that the Wa’l’tani, the people who lived in Wa’l’ta, revered so. It was a chilly evening now that they found themselves firmly in autumn. Alijandra, a Wa’l’tani warrior, stood in front of a mirror, tying her hair up tightly. Wa’l’ta had grown immensely in the past few generations, but it remained a small village compared to others of the land. Its warriors were not gleaming, silver-clad knights like those found in distant kingdoms, but rather a ragamuffin band of Wa’l’tani who preferred fighting to farming. But farming, not fighting, is what ruled here. The Wa’l’tani people had the expansion of their farms to thank for the newfound growth of their village. Food shortages were a distant memory now, and the surplus of crops had begun to put them on the map for trade with larger communities across the land. Recently, however, they’d been plagued by the Clariidae, monstrous creatures who, despite their humanoid shape, appeared to be some type of giant, deadly fish. Not only could they breathe underwater, but their teeth were like those of a shark: sharp, pointed, and extremely good at biting. At least, that was the word around the village. While the existence of these monsters was far from legend (they could often be heard shrieking their foul screech at night, and sightings of them swimming in the large lake where both species caught fish were commonplace), only Haiet, the captain of the fishing boat, had seen those teeth up close and lived to tell the tale. Others had only faced the Clariidae on land, where the monsters were quick to flee with whatever Wa’l’tani crops they had managed to stuff into their bags of braided algae. Alijandra tested the weight of her new sword; it was a decently-made, decently-balanced sword, but it still felt strange in her hand. She was more accustomed to daggers, which gave her superior freedom of movement. But hey, she thought, recalling the distinct, jagged, mother-of-pearl knives carried by the Clariidae, at least this thing’ll keep more distance between us. I hope that discovery of ore veins in the caves will lead to better quality weapons in the future, though… And with that, she headed out to join the others by the fire for supper and prayer. The Wa’l’tani gathered by the fire every evening to dine, share stories, pray, and enjoy the sunset over the water. Today was different, however - today Alijandra and her fellow warriors would join Haiet on the boat to thin out the lake monsters. There had been a nasty uptick of the beasts ever since the Wa’l’tani had discovered what a goldmine - literally and metaphorically - the cave system was. The caves had a plethora of underwater tunnels connecting them to the lake, so it was likely they had disturbed a Clariidae nest during their excavations. Now the things were more territorial than ever, and bolder in their thievery. With the last bite taken and the last prayer whispered to the setting sun, the warriors prepared to head out. Villagers waved, sending them off with shouts of encouragement and thanks. The warriors waved, smiled, and pretended they weren’t nervous. With little training and even less battle experience, none of them knew just how unprepared they were for what they were about to face. Even Haiet was completely and totally unprepared for the sheer number of monsters awaiting them in the deeper reaches of the lake. The hunt quickly became a bloodbath, with human blood making up most of the mix. Sure, they managed to snag a few monsters in nets where they could safely slit their throats, but they hadn’t imagined the monsters would manage to pull off such a coordinated attack. It was as if the beasts were waiting for them. In quick succession, humans were pulled off the boat and drowned by the vile creatures. Those who managed to cling to their comrades quickly learned just how sharp those monstrous teeth were as they gnawed through the arms in their way. When Oner, the young man next to Alijandra, was pulled overboard, she did what was either the bravest or stupidest (or perhaps both) thing she had ever done: she dove in after him. Her sword found its way to Oner’s captor, freeing him and further bloodying the already murky water.  “Go,” Alijandra gasped as she and Oner shot up for air, pointing to the rope ladder hanging from the side of the boat. Oner gripped it and pulled himself out, though it was no easy task; they were in monster-infested waters, after all. He worked his way up high enough for Alijandra to begin her ascent. She reached up and, just as her fingers brushed the rope but before they could close around it, something grabbed her from below, pulling her under the surface of the water once more. She thrashed and kicked, struggling to see where her attacker(s) lurked through the crimson water. It didn’t help that the sun was almost completely set now, meaning even the clearest water would soon appear black. Flashes of fins and scales appeared all around her, just as cuts appeared all over her body. The impact of her sword and a fresh release of blood told her she had made contact. She prayed it was a monster, not a drowning companion. Her lungs demanded a fresh supply of air, but monsters swarmed above her - she hadn’t realized how much the weight of her sword had dragged her down. She tried to clear the way with her weapon, slow as it was underwater, until it was finally forced out of her grasp. Her heart pounded, her lungs cramped. How would she reach the surface without her sword!? She decided sinking the last few feet to the bottom of the lake and pushing off with all her might was her best bet. This just might work, Alijandra thought as she shot up through the water…until she felt the tug of the net around her ankle. One of their old fishing nets was anchoring her down in this watery grave. In the near-blackness of the lake, with fingers beginning to numb from the cold, and while stringing together all the curses she knew in her head, Alijandra tried desperately to free herself. Her body began to convulse from its need for oxygen, her foot still hopelessly tangled. The last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was a strange pattern of colors. Seemingly infinite shades of blue, green, and teal danced across her vision, too close to focus on. The cold blackness of the water disappeared behind the vivid hues, only to be replaced with blackness once again as Alijandra’s eyes slowly closed. Alijandra awoke suddenly, coughing up water and gasping for air. For a moment she saw nothing but darkness around her and wondered if she was dead. Fighting for air, her lungs aching, her wounds stinging, she hoped this wasn’t the afterlife. This was far from the promise of The Golden Lands as told by her people, where the feasts were constant and aplenty, the air smelled of flowers and spices, and the setting sun shone a golden pillar across the water, always. This, on the other hand, was more of a damp-dark-nothingness. Then the smell of a crackling fire reached her nose, and her fingers began to feel the rough surface beneath her. It felt like rock…was she in a cave? Slowly she worked her way up to a seated position. The puddle of bloody water beneath her sloshed as she moved, the sound covered only by her continued struggles to breathe. The only light in the cave came from a small fire on the rock, built near the edge of a large hole in the stone, about 50 yards away from Alijandra. Squinting through the gloom, Alijandra noticed firelight dancing across the hole - it was filled with water! An underwater cave, then, thought Alijandra. That’s how I got here. But, how…? The last thing she remembered was drowning. Who had brought her here? And where were they now? Why would they bring her here instead of back to the village, anyway? A slithering sound caught her attention. She looked around desperately for its source. “Um…hello?” Alijandra called out tentatively, sure that whoever her cavern companion was, they already knew she was there. “Are…you the one that saved me?” There was no response except for the soft rustle of the hidden stranger moving around the cave, outside of the firelight’s glow. Alijandra paused, unsure what to do next. A chill ran up her spine, completely separate from the chill that came from being soaked through on a cold night, although in that moment both made her shake. “Well…if it was you, thank you. If not, I mean you no harm!” For a moment there was no sound; no response, no movement. Then, suddenly, a figure stepped into the farthest reaches of the firelight. Alijandra gasped. The figure was too patterned, too shimmering, too aquamarine . Lines of fins sprouted from the scalp instead of hair. Light shone through the webbing between the fingers of the figure. Oceanic colors danced playfully across iridescent - scales, were they? - as they caught the low light. Even in the thick shadows of the cave, it was obvious: this creature was not human. Alijandra crept closer slowly, cautiously, too curious not to get a better look but terrified of what awaited her. It couldn’t be, there’s no way… thought Alijandra as she inched her way towards the fire. Why would it save me? That makes no sense, there’s no way- Alijandra’s stomach dropped as she approached the figure. There was no denying it. Standing in front of her, with one jagged mother-of-pearl blade in each webbed hand, was a Clariid. Alijandra only stared at the creature. She was weak from drowning, she’d lost her weapon, and she had no idea if there were more monsters lurking in the waters below, hidden by the narrow, twisting path through the rock that formed the watery portal in and out of this cave. If I’m not hostile, maybe it won’t be either, Alijandra hoped. No sudden movements. The Monster Of The Lake broke the silence; thin lips parted, exposing those menacing teeth. Alijandra prepared herself for the screech she’d grown accustomed to hearing in the distance while sitting around the campfire, the only sound firmly associated with these monsters. Instead, the monster spoke: “It was me, and I don’t believe you.” Alijandra was dumbstruck. “It wa-I-w-y-...you can talk!?” The creature stared at her through harsh, piercing yellow eyes. “As can you,” came the response, “although not as well as I thought.” Alijandra ignored the jab and pressed on “So, wait, it was you that saved me?” “Yes.” “...Thank you,” said Alijandra awkwardly. Silence stretched between the two again, this time broken by Alijandra. “...Why?” The creature’s yellow eyes glanced to the side, only to quickly snap back to the Alijandra. “I…don’t know. My people say you haunt us, but I do not think that you all deserve to die. Now that you’re awake, I hope I did not make the wrong decision.” Alijandra’s brow furrowed at this. She meant to ask about the “my people say you haunt us” part, but she gestured as she spoke, which caused the creature to recoil into the darkness beyond the firelight and let out that horrible screech. Carried through the open air of the night, the screech was one thing. While not a pleasant sound, a distant chorus of them was strangely enchanting. But here, enclosed by the walls of the cave, the sound was horrendous. Alijandra clamped her hands to her ears as fast as she could, but it made little difference. A wave of nausea made her stomach roll as the sound drilled its way into her brain. It stopped abruptly; soon after, a webbed foot cautiously stepped back to the edge of the light. Alijandra realized something then, as the yellow eyes again locked onto her face and the Clariid held the knives at the ready: The monster was afraid of Alijandra! She almost laughed out loud at the thought. Instead, she asked “Why do your… people,” she had to bite back the habit of referring to the Clariidae as “monsters”. She continued “think my people haunt you?” “You take. You take everything. You take the land to grow crops you will not share. You take the fish from the waters. Now you want to take the caves. These caves are ours . The waters are ours. You can’t even breathe it!” The Clariid took a breath to calm herself before continuing on. “That’s why my people say you are monsters. You take and take and leave nothing left. You will kill all the world around you. That is what they say.” Alijandra’s cheeks grew hot from these accusations. “ We take things? You steal from us !” “We steal because there is nothing else left!” The Clariid sighed. “My people tell the tales of the peaceful times, before your farms grew too large and you pushed your way into our waters. It wasn’t always like this.” Alijandra eyed the mother-of-pearl blades. Despite the vice-like grip of the webbed hands holding them, Alijandra didn’t think this creature would hurt her. Not now, at least. Sitting down, she looked up at the Clariid and asked “Do you have a name?” “Of course I have a name. Ailani.” Ailani paused before asking “Do you have a name?” “Yes, it’s Alijandra.” Once again an uncomfortable silence stretched between them before Alijandra said “I didn’t know that you used names.” “I didn’t know that you used names!” And then, for the first time as far as either of them knew, the two species laughed together. Ailani relaxed enough to make her way across the edge of the firelight to the watery tunnel. She knelt down and splashed water on herself, rehydrating her skin. Being out of the water was drying enough, but her proximity to the fire made her skin sting and itch with tightness. “What are you doing?” Asked Alijandra. Ailani considered answering, but she didn’t want to give away any vulnerabilities of her people to this human, even if she seemed not to be the monster the Clariidae feared. Instead she dove into the water, grateful for its cool relief as it rushed across her scales. She swam away quickly, in a moment disappearing from view. Alijandra peered after her then sat back, glancing around the cave. Um…What now? As far as she could tell, there were no other ways in or out, and she had no idea how long she would have to hold her breath to make it through the water. She attempted a deep breath, testing out her lungs, but was quickly sent into a painful fit of coughs. Sooo, that won’t work. She supposed she’d have to wait until the sun rose. Maybe then she would find another way out. All she wanted to do now was sleep, anyway. A demanding rumble from her stomach reminded her that she wanted to eat, too. She adjusted her position. Closer to the warmth of the fire, with rock firmly protecting her back, she lay down. Only then, closer to the light, did she realize that a thick salve had been applied to the worst of her wounds. She stung all over and was woozy from the blood loss, but thankfully none of her wounds seemed too serious. Alijandra nearly jumped out of her skin when Ailani’s head popped back up with a splash. She threw a braided algae sack onto the rock before climbing out and exposing its contents: Two fish, a clump of edible algae, and a vine of sourberries. Alijandra’s stomach growled again at the sight, which made Ailani freeze up. “That was my stomach,” clarified Alijandra quickly, “It makes that sound when I’m hungry.” Ailani looked dubious yet intrigued. “All humans?” Alijandra nodded, which made Ailani burst into laughter. “You cannot blame us for thinking you’re monsters when your stomachs growl so!” she said before passing a fish to Alijandra, along with half of the algae and sourberries. Alijandra placed her fish by the fire and nibbled the rest while she waited. “Why do you do that?” asked Ailani, gesturing with her chin to the fish cooking by the fire. “It makes it safe to eat. Humans can get sick from raw fish.” Ailani tried to hide her annoyance at this. So they encroach on our waters for fish they cannot eat without special treatment… She shrugged off the thought and began to eat her raw fish. Alijandra, in turn, tried to hide her fear every time she saw Ailani’s sharp, pointed teeth pierce through the fish like it was nothing. And so they ate, each too intrigued by the other to allow their discomfort to end the conversation. They asked each other question after question about the differences between their species, their histories, what it was like to live underwater, what it was like to live on land, and many more, until they could barely keep their eyes open. “You’re not going to kill me in my sleep, are you?” asked Alijandra half-jokingly as she settled back down on the cave floor. “Only if you try to kill me in mine.” “Fair enough.” Ailani slipped back into the water, popping her head up only to say “Good sleep to you.” “You too.” Eventually, the two creatures drifted off into a deep sleep. Tomorrow they would try to figure out a way to convince their peoples to coexist peacefully. Perhaps they could work out a system of trading crops for fish. But that was a worry for tomorrow. For now, two monsters had shed their masks and discovered that the face staring back at them wasn’t so terrible after all.

9oaj2b

Orpheus

TW: mention of suicide, mental illness and other dark themes My sister's death was the beginning of the end. We did everything together as kids. We were each other's rock. Our home. When something went wrong, we would also turn to each other for strength and comfort. She was an angel on Earth, and no one could tell me otherwise. Sophie was my polar opposite the way her pale, blonde hair matched that of our mother's and her round periwinkle eyes shone as a mirror into a place only she knew. While I was a good foot taller than she was with dark brown hair and eyes. Too much like our father. Both in appearance and in attitude. Too often, I would get into fistfights with guys at school when they upset her. Sophie was too soft to stand up for herself, but she didn't need to when she always had me in her shadow. Always ready to get my knuckles bloody. But after our parents' divorce...something changed in her. Where she was always soft and quiet, she became more reserved and sheepish. There was a devastating kind of sadness in her eyes and at times I could hear her sobbing softly to herself in her room. I knew she was sad. I knew that there was something she wasn't telling me. But I always told myself she would say something when she was ready. I didn't know--wasn't prepared--for the fact that she never would be. It was two weeks after her sixteenth birthday when I found her. Eyes closed in the most depressing kind of peaceful way. I thought she was just getting ready for a shower. Until my feet were suddenly drenched with water. I'd never been one to cry. Never one to scream. Something broke in me the night I found her lifeless in the bathtub. Still clothed with our mother's Ativan bottle on the side of the bathtub--empty. I screamed, pleaded, sobbed as I begged her to come back. But there was nothing I could do to bring Sophie back. I had an idea. It was farfetched and what I thought was useless, but it was all I had. I decided to follow my sister into the afterlife. So, after grabbing another bottle of our mother's sleeping pill bottles-- I downed the contents. Hoping, pleading that it would bring me to her. I just wasn't expecting to wake up in a damp, dark cave somewhere. I must have looked confused because the next words I heard sent a chill deep into my bones. "Andrew Dames." It wasn't a question. "Yes? Who's there?" I called softly into the darkness. "Come to save your sister, I see." Whoever it was knew my motive and that singsong voice deep in the cave grew nearer. I felt whoever--whatever--it was circling me. A chill ran down my spine. "Who are you?" I called again. My face paled as the creature revealed itself before me. Towering above me, yet somehow human and... otherworldly at the same time, was the most devastatingly beautiful woman I had ever seen. Sleek, black hair that reached the cave floor and glaring red eyes that bore into my very soul. "I have many names," her voice was a purr that raised the hairs on my arms, "Though you can call me Lucifer." There they were. The Devil--herself. But what I didn't quite understand was why they seemed almost human. Why a human female? I didn't dare to ask as the next thing that came rocked me to my core. "What would you give to have your sister back?" I had a feeling they could sense my desperation. Could taste it in their fanged mouth. "Anything," came my urgent answer, "I'd give you anything." A feline grin spread across their beautiful face, baring those razor-sharp teeth that filled a too-small mouth. "In exchange for your sister's life back," they began, almost tauntingly, "you will do my dirty work, so to speak. Do we have a deal?" I watched, unnervingly as they sat there grinning at me. Waiting--knowing--what the answer would be. "Deal." "Excellent," in the blink of an eye, they were no longer a woman with the face of an angel but a man wearing a very elegant, black suit. The change was so swift I had barely time to register it. Their hair was still sleek and black but was now styled in curls that hung ever-so-slightly into their still beautiful face. What were once piercing red eyes were now devoid of all color--even the whites were gone. Black as the night surrounding us. I peered into the lingering darkness at them. Curious. "What are you?" I dared to ask. They let out a low laugh. "I take many forms, child," their voice now deep and husky. Having lost the singsong that was the female from before. "Whatever form better suites my needs to get the deed done is the form I take." There was a deathly sort of silence that hung in the cave as I let that information sink in. I nodded, now standing, and observed who I now knew to be the Devil themselves. "Right. What do I have to do?" In less than the time it took for me to breathe in one breath, the woman from before was back though they kept the eerie black eyes. They waved a pale, slender hand to their right. A vision of a man in his mid-twenties with sandy brown curls and brilliant blue eyes, sporting the purest of white feathered wings appeared before us. "This is Michael," they declared, "You are to kill him before returning back to me for your next task." The wings. The brilliantly blind light that shone around him. This was the archangel, Michael. I had to kill an archangel. Terror ran through me. How was I supposed to kill an angel? Let alone one that was said to be the general of God's army. I wasn't religious. But my mother was and had read me the scriptures as a kid. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?" Another laugh from them, followed by a shrug. "I suppose you'll have to find out." With that, they were gone, and I was alone in the cave. I closed my eyes against the encompassing darkness. "And if I fail and die...again?" "Then I suppose you and your sister will remain in the River Styx forever," came their distant reply.

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Possessed

Marcus was getting antsy. He had completed every aspect of MEPS, Military Entrance Processing Station, required by the Marine Corps. To include swearing in and being placed in the delayed entry program. Which meant that he was in limbo as to a departure date. His recruiter had told him that a slot could open as early as next month. Or it could be several months depending on the needs of the Marine Corps. Regardless, he wanted to leave as soon as possible. Because he had so much free time on his hands the recruiter had told him to “lay low” while waiting. Which meant keeping out of trouble both physically and on paper. Because any glitch from here on out could jeopardize everything as far as his enlistment stood. It was just after 10pm on a Friday night. Which was a tough time period, as Marcus wasn’t sleepy, but it was too late to do anything fun. And barely being 18 years of age, it wasn’t like he could go out clubbing or anything. Therefore, the only thing left to do was lay out his workout gear for the morning. He was now up to running a sub-20-minute 3-mile pace at the track. A distinction he was very proud of.  But Marcus knew he needed to get it under 18 minutes before leaving for Parris Island. Because along with performing 20 dead-hang pullups and 80 sit-ups in 2 minutes. He only then had a chance to score a 300 on his physical fitness test. Which could help him get meritoriously promoted along with a few other distinctions. While he had no idea what he wanted to do with the rest of my life. He just knew he had to get out of the Washington D.C. area for a while. And the military seemed like an immediate solution to that need. It was also clear that his friends were content simply with working, drinking, and playing video games. But Marcus felt like there was a whole big world outside just waiting to embrace him. Searching the room for his running shoes which he seemed to have misplaced. He heard a sharp “ping” against the glass of his room window. “Damn”, he thought to himself. Knowing this couldn’t be good. It had to be one of his friends looking for him to come outside and hang. Or maybe go to a party or something? Because what else could it be at this time of night? Should he just ghost them and not respond? On second thought, they had probably seen his shadow lurking about the room so it wouldn’t work. Opening the bedroom window Marcus saw Kirk standing there at the side of the house looking frazzled. He was dressed slovenly in blue jeans, a dingy looking white T-shirt, and a beat-up pair of tennis shoes. “What’s up”? Marcus asked. Trying to appear as If I hadn’t seen his gear or demeanor. “I need a ride to Melissa’s house”! Kirk said in a desperate and demanding tone. Kirk was one of the neighborhood crew members. But they weren’t close. So, if he was asking Marcus for a favor it had to be important. Pausing for a second, Marcus tried to think of all the reasons to respond both yes and no!  Understanding that he was Kirk’s only hope. As no one else in their group was going to be able to get hold of a set of wheels at this hour. “This might work”, Marcus thought to himself selfishly. Because he wasn’t sleepy and could drop Kirk off at Melissa’s before continuing through the city. Maybe stopping somewhere to grab a bite to eat. And hopefully by then he’d be ready to go home and fall asleep. “Meet me by the car in 5”, he replied in a low voice before closing the bedroom window. Changing into shorts, Marcus wore a dark blue sweatsuit with a pair of white high-tops. Stopping in his tracks before exiting the room. He quickly concocted a story in his mind before heading downstairs. He hated lying to his mother, but he felt there was no other way. Pausing outside his mom’s bedroom door, Marcus felt a tinge of guilt regarding the lie he was about to tell. “Knock. Knock, knock”, he firmly but gently made his presence known. “Come in”, his mother immediately responded in a caring voice. Cracking the door open before leaning inside. He could see his mother was comfortably curled up in her bed with the reading light on. But he couldn’t make-out the title of the book in her hand. No worries he thought, as it was probably above his reading comprehension level anyway. “They started the all-night basketball league at the recreation center this month. And while I wasn’t going to go, I changed my mind. And I was wondering if I could use the car to get there”? Marcus asked. Without questioning, his mother reached to the side of the bed for her purse. She fished out the car keys and held them out for me to come and grab.  Marcus’s guilt immediately heightened the closer he got to the keys after witnessing his mother’s trust. “Drive safe”, she called out as Marcus closed the door. “Yes ma’am”, he replied. Reminding himself to drive carefully because any tickets for traffic violations would bring his deception to light. “It’s open”, Marcus called out to Kirk clicking the key fog while making his way to the vehicle. The car started up nicely, purring quietly as most newer model vehicles do. “We got to hurry”, Kirk exclaimed, sliding into the car passenger seat. “Hurry”? “I can’t afford any tickets”, Marcus shot back. With the sole intention of evening the interaction. Because he knew from experience. If he let Kirk start calling the shots. They would never stop coming in. The car rounded the corner onto the main drag. Which was now bustling with both vehicles and pedestrians. Marcus’s demeanor lightened up when he saw all the activity of this busy night. For it signified, he would have to do something outlandish to get pulled over and cited. Reassuring him that his lie could plausibly stay a secret. “I can’t believe this “Broad” is trying to play me”, Kirk broke the silence. Slamming his fist into the vehicle’s dashboard. “Whoa, this is my mom’s car”, Marcus protested! Wanting Kirk to respect it like he should. But Kirke didn’t reply. Turning his head to the right to gaze out the window. Which didn’t feel right to Marcus on so many levels. Because it signified that he didn’t care. The two rode in silence for the next 5 minutes. Causing Marcus to fumble with the radio before finding something appropriate to listen to. Taking care of the awkward silence that was plaguing the car. Marcus knew the general area where Melissa lived, but not the exact house address. So, he figured they were about 10 minutes out and Kirk could guide them the rest of the way. “Why is she treating me like this”? Kirk broke the silence. “Hanging out with that idiot DJ-kid Franz”, he continued. Now this was the first Marcus had heard anything like this. And he was about to tell Kirk that Melissa was only 20 years old and it was a free country. Besides, everybody knew Kirk had multiple girlfriends of his own. But just before speaking Marcus caught a glimpse of the red glimmer in Kirks eyes. Matching a set of what appeared to be invisible horns on his head. Which caused Marcus to do a double take at Kirk. Therefore, he thought twice, and stated that he had no clue. For the next few minutes Kirk carried on about how good he was to Melissa and how he cared for her. But his tone came across as if there was someone else speaking from within him. “Look, you sure you want to go over there and deal with her tonight. You seem pretty upset right now. We can go hang out and let things cool down if you want”, Marcus offered. Although he wanted Kirk out of his mother’s car as quickly as possible. Kirk shot a stare back at Marcus that almost caused him to lose control of the steering wheel and crash the vehicle. “I’m not going there for her. I heard Franz’s voice in the background when we were on the phone so I’m going there to deal with him”, Kirk replied. He seemed possessed! As Marcus had never seen this side of him before. And while he didn’t believe in devils or monsters, Kirk sure appeared to be one. The monotone in his voice coupled with the 100-yard stare which now held his eyes, was frightening to say the least. “Okay, we’re getting close, but I don’t know exactly where she lives”, Marcus informed Kirk. “So, you’ll have to guide us in from here”, he continued. Kirk agreed, after shooting Marcus a look as if to say, “you shouldn’t know her exact address”! “Make a right and then a left turn”, Kirk interjected. Producing what appeared to be a steak knife from his person. “Dude, what the hell”, Marcus exclaimed shockingly. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch”, Kirk exclaimed. “I’m just going to talk some sense into the lad”, Kirk said holding up the knife. Marcus knew they had come too far to begin lecturing! And there was no talking to Kirk anymore. Besides, he appeared to be possessed with some evil spirit or something. And Marcus needed to get away fast and forget tonight. Making the final left turn, Kirk hopped out of the front seat in the middle of the dark neighborhood. He didn’t even say thank you for the ride. But Marcus didn’t care. He just wanted to get as far away as quickly as possible. Watching Kirk disappear into the night.  Marcus swore he could still see the red horns outlining the back of his head. “Never again”, Marcus scolded himself. “You’re supposed to be laying low and staying away from drama,” he continued. Turning back on the main road. Marcus pulled into the first 7-Eleven he came across and grabbed a quick Slurpee. He liked to mix all the flavors into a large cup. Something he had discovered as a child which had stuck with him until this day. While exiting the store, he saw 3 police cars whizzing past with lights and sirens blazing. And his heart sank. Because they were headed in the direction he’d just come from. “What to do now, what to do”? he questioned himself. As his heart rate quickened. “Head to the actual recreation center”, he thought.  Even though he knew it was closed, at least he could use it as an alibi if need be. The next day one of Marcuse’s friends informed him that Kirk had been shot by county police. He wasn’t dead but was in the local hospital recovering. And when they had tried to give him a blood transfusion they were baffled as they had never come across anything like his blood type.  Marcus played ignorant as to the situation. But deep down inside it just solidified that Kirk wasn’t of this world. Marcus stayed in the house for a solid week. Peeking out the window periodically assuming the detectives would show up to question him. But they never came.  

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A Wish Fulfilled

Thunder howled not from the dark cloudy sky, but from the gigantic, deformed catfish in the water beating and thrashing the cliffs with its human hands. Angry and tired, the six-foot monster cried with a human’s voice, “Why won’t you bring her back to me? I don’t deserve this. I have waited far too long. I need my wife. I am lost without her.” The large black rocks in response to the unhappy attacker did not reply. They had no power to overcome death. They were merely the guardians of the siren’s grave. The monster cried and slowly slipped back into the ocean. A group of more than a hundred tourists stared in disbelief. Some of the people had already run up the stairs leading down to the rocks of the cliff that touched the unsettled water. Some of the tourists were hitting the video on their smartphones to record the unnatural wonder, only to discover later, that the monster fish was not there. A few of the people from Canada were calling the park ranger’s office and reporting what they had seen. Most of the park rangers ignored the stories they heard about the gigantic catfish. They believed that the tourists were a bit delusional from being out in the weather all day. Perhaps, they had not carried water with them. Or the other possibility was a few of the tourists were playing practical jokes on them. As the sun went down, the waves receded. The tourists had all left the park and in the dark, the stars lit up the cove.  Small silver fishes jumped. A bird dived down and caught one and took off to a neighboring cliff and ate it for his meal. -A lighthouse off another cliff not far away beamed its light over the ocean warning any traveler by boat that something unsafe was underneath the slow currents. A violin could be heard somewhere in the distance. An old man was playing it inside his cabin. He was staring at a picture of a beautiful redhead. She was surrounded by a group of musicians. She was smiling. He was remembering the many years he had spent with her. The places they had traveled. Their family together. She had always looked after him. Where he was weak, she was strong. As the old man finished, he put down his violin and turned out the light and went to bed. He slept a long time, but when he finally did wake up much later in the day, he found a small puddle near his bed, that he had no clue where it had come from. His coat was also soaked, so he hung it up to dry and on the clothesline outside his cabin. Earlier in the morning while the old man supposedly slept, the gigantic catfish had reappeared. He angrily beat his fists upon the rocky cliffs. “Let her out! I demand you release her spirit!” he screamed. For hours, he continued his attack on the cliffs. Water crashed over the rocks, flying in the air, back and forth between the shore and the ocean, never letting up, until he felt defeated and crawled back into the ocean. There were no tourists that day to see the odd sight, as the park was closed for maintenance. The sky grew dark, fir trees stood tall in the forest, and the violin again began to play. The old man was lonely and tired. His love was gone. The pain he felt was unbearable. He put the instrument down. He remembered his coat and went outside to retrieve it. He had just grabbed it off the line when he saw a falling star.  He made a wish. “Oh, maker of all that is good and wise and wonderful in the universe, please, oh please, let me see my dear wife again. I miss her so.” After which, he went back inside the cabin, laid the coat at the foot of the bed, and crawled into his bed and fell fast asleep. The old man dreamed of a siren, that sang beautiful folk tales of long ago. Her red hair ran long past her shoulders.  She sat on a rock. “Come to me,” she beckoned to him with her lovely hand. “Her I am.” The old man’s white beard suddenly stuck out straight from his face, like a cat’s whiskers in different directions. His excitement and awe gave him motivation to make the three-hour journey on foot. He put on his jacket and walked out of his cabin down a rocky trail leading him to the cliffs where he had lost her long ago. Along the way, the twists and turns of the path sometimes grew narrow, and there were small rocks he clumsily had a hard time stepping over. Sometimes, the path changed, and it ran uphill. He would have a hard time catching his breath. He would rest for a minute and then continue his way. The breeze coming off the ocean was pleasant. Just when he was about to give up, and the fog started to roll in, he saw her. “Here I am,” he said. His wife smiled and laughed. Her eyes sparkled in the night. Her legs dipped over the edge of the rock she sat upon and rested beneath the surface of the water. It seemed like she had temporarily turned into a mermaid. The old fish was overcome by the joy he felt in the presence of the love of his life. He reached out to her and took her hand. She smiled at him. He hugged her and kissed her one last time, as the siren disappeared. The sun was rising. The wife, the singer’s words could be heard floating across the water. “It’s okay, my love, don’t be angry. I am always watching over you. Life moves quickly, when this day is done, I’ll be with you again.” The next morning, the water was calm. It did not beat upon the shore. Not far away, the old man woke up in his cabin. A new puddle was on the floor, and his jacket was mysteriously wet again, but he was calm and in a happy mood instead of being depressed. He went outside to the small porch and read a book. Happily humming to himself, he looked out at the inlet that was down the hill from where he lived and knew tomorrow and the tomorrows after that were going to be okay.  No monster was found, but the lone wolf park ranger, that believed the opposite of all his coworkers had finally solved a mystery that he had been trying to solve for years. He had once seen the fish but had never realized it was really an old man until he stayed up one night, not being able to sleep himself and went to check out the cliffs where the monster always appeared according to the tourists. He sat in the dark. He saw the old man approaching. The old man’s eyes closed. He was sleepwalking. He watched the old man, turn into a fish, and then back into himself. He appeared to be talking to someone else that he loved very much, but the park ranger could not see who.  He saw the old man’s gestures towards something sitting near him. He did hear the siren’s words to her husband though floating across the wind. Instead of telling everyone about his discovery, he buried the truth. Its light would keep him warm during the rest of the long nights, especially in winter, in the wilderness in Maine.

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The Monstrous Dragon

The dead forest was consumed by a thick blanket of ash. Princess Josephine shook at its stillness. Only the clopping horse and the squeaky tottering of the tumbleweed wagon could be heard in the dusk. The air, which smelled of dew and smoke, nearly suffocated her. “Are you certain you must go alone?” Conrad, the knight captain, asked. Josephine thought for a moment. “I-I must. This is the best way.” She pursed her lips. “It’s quite wrong to leave a princess to her death.” Her face contorted as she hissed. “Watch your tongue! I shall not die. Might I remind you that I too was trained as a dragon slayer? I shall slash that dragon’s throat the first chance I get!” “My apologies. I simply worry the dragon might scar Your Highness.” “I know of your concerns, and I am forever grateful for your loyalty, but the dragon will kill us both if you’re found; Therefore…” “I’ll always desire you, Princess, even when you’re damaged. So long your face isn’t ruined.” The sudden silence was filled in by the rumbling of thunder. “Right,” she tittered. “Let’s…stick to the plan. Once the dragon captures me, he will desire to… play with me for some time before he ki- before he finishes me. So I shall kill him in his sleep. But perhaps, if I cannot kill him…” She clenched her crystal earrings. “I do hope you reach me in a timely manner.” “Yes Princess. I shall do as you command. As long as you have the crystal, I shall come to your rescue.” After rubbing her earrings, disappointed that it didn’t bring the comfort she was seeking, Josephine spoke again. “I'm aware that even with my training, I am nowhere near that of an actual dragon slayer, so I can only scheme and take the cowardly way.” “You are not a coward, Princess. You are very brave to even desire to confront such a beast. It is commonly said amongst dragon slayers that ‘everyone will freeze when they see a royal dragon for the first time.’ That is why I shant blame you too much if you request me to turn the carriage around.” “No, I refuse to even entertain such a thought. I must go forward. I must do this for my people and for every other princess. Once I kill that royal dragon, we’ll attack the others. Their kind must be extinguished!” Her resolve thrilled him. “Your Highness, I pray for your victory.” The cave’s mouth was even more uninviting than the forest. The floor slushed at the horse’s steps and water dripped from spikes protruding through the ceiling. The princess trembled, partially from the chill, partially from the bones. The carriage stopped. Conrad removed the harness before going down the side of the wagon. “We’ve arrived, Princess. This is as far as I can go.” He handed her the keys. “Stay alive and well, I beg.” She held them tightly. “Do not worry about me. I shall make it out unharmed,” she said as she shielded her body from Conrad’s smile. After he rode back, she sat in the corner of the cage and wrapped herself in a blanket, waiting patiently for her captor. . . . Josephine had trained for the moment when she would have the dragon’s blood on her hands. So lying in wait was nothing. Lying in wait on the tough wagon floor in an ice cave, however, was another thing. Her flesh was scraping away, soon to become one of the many bones not too far from her. She had sat there for at least two hours, and yet not a sound could be heard but howling wind and some fluttering bats. She arose. Maybe I should explore for a bit , she thought. She lit her lamp and, with much hesitation, exited the cell and ventured deeper into the black cave. When she was far from her base, there came an earthquake followed by draconic roars: her cue to head back. The earthquakes got stronger. And then came the screeching. It blended her insides and bleed out her ears. The cave brightened briefly, leaving behind a thick fog, forcing her into a fit of coughs. An angry breath pushed her into a rock mound. She screamed as one cut into her sides. Suddenly, a green mountain appeared. It hovered above her by its long bony fingers covered in flesh. They swished around, blowing hurricanes with each movement. A mossy tree, of at least a thousand years, twisted atop the mountain. Two yellow orbs, that could only be described as demons, glowed brightly in the darkness. The dragon's head was more teeth than flesh and it was crowned with two mighty spears. It sniffed the air, turning its head as if it were looking for something, as if it were looking for her . What was I thinking? What made me believe I could even scratch it? Now that he blew her away in dissatisfaction, she could only attempt to hide her pathetic self for fear she might be eaten. She crawled further between the stones. Josephine bounced as the creature landed. She couldn’t help but notice its talons were half her size. Most dragons that lived around humans were only slightly bigger than horses when turned, but this was a royal dragon. The beast inhaled deeply before making low, guttural noises. The thought ‘everyone will freeze when they see a royal dragon for the first time,’ came to mind as she stiffened. Come on! Prepare for battle! Make haste! She urged herself. Hands grabbed her heart and a salty wetness dripped down her cheek. The dragon shifted into its human form, allowing her move at last. While gasping for air, she pulled a dagger out from her leg holster. “St-stay away, you beast.” Even as a human, he towered over her. Slit pupils moved in the sickly glow of his golden eyes. She gagged. “Stay back!” He looked her up and down. “Thank goodness,” he smiled menacingly. “I feared you might’ve died. I was careless with my flying.” She could barely hear his words, only her wretched breath. She tightened her grip on the dagger which slipped from her sweaty palms. “You are in very bad condition. Please, allow me to treat you.” “No! I shall,” her breath was even more ragged. “I shall kill you!” He chuckled. “It seems you’re too hurt to kill me. So allow me to dress your wounds, and you may kill me later.” Her weapon dropped. “Help me,” she begged with a cracked voice. “Of course.” He transformed again into a beast and enclosed her in his hands, making a soft prison for her to rest in. His wings spread across the cave, and he let out a roar before leaping into the skies.  . . . Josephine awoke to her body wrapped in damp towels and a soft bed under her. She was shocked to see she wasn’t muddy. Her sides throbbed as she touched the bandage covering her gash. She jolted at a man’s figure. “You’re that dragon!” She wheezed. He shushed her. “You’re still very weak, you shouldn’t raise your voice.” She couldn’t help but laugh. The dragon she set out to kill was now taking care of her? He set a basin of water on a side table and reached out with his clawed hands. Josephine shrank back. “What’re you trying to do?” “Change your bandages.” “Then, what’ll you do after?” He stared blankly. “Do you intend to use me to birth your heir, or will you eat me instead?” He flinched and curled his lips, revealing a pair of fangs. “Why should I do any of those to the woman I shall marry? Dragons don’t even eat humans.” “Marry!?” She squeaked. “It’s tradition for a princess to go into the cave in hopes of marrying a royal dragon. But considering you wish to kill me, it seems that wasn’t your intention? Should I bring you back?” “No! I do intend to marry you.” She was shocked at the proposal. “For now, just concern yourself with your recovery.” He cut her bandages with his claws and removed them. He took a rag out of his pocket and dipped it into the water. “And about our heir, that's something we can worry about later. We haven’t even had our wedding. Pray, don’t feel pressured.” “Wedding?” He didn’t respond immediately, but focused on cleaning her cut. “Yes. How can I think of heirs before the wedding?” “I…didn’t know dragons had weddings.” He smiled as he rewrapped her wound. She observed how weirdly his hands moved, like he was being mindful of his claws. She pushed him away when he came closer. “Don’t worry,” he said dejectedly. “I shall care for you most diligently.” . . . When her eyes adjusted to light that peeked through the cracks above, she noticed his cave was unlike that of the one in the miserable forest. It was grassy and soft to the touch. In the distance was a gentle stream. She noticed things about him as well. The dragon wore a calm, serious expression. His long, green hair was always tied with a ribbon. He was stubborn and didn’t allow her to skip meals. He also loved to sit at the edge of her bed to read. She almost looked forward to seeing him. Almost. She tapped her leg. He’s late. Not that I care! I’m just hungry. She thought about when he had first offered her food. She was convinced he had wanted to fatten her up to eat her: “Eat you?” he had said with a powerful laugh. “You’re right, I’ve been planning to eat you.” Her heart had dropped. “I knew it!” “But since you refuse to eat, I should just eat you now before you lose any more blood.” “Wait no,” she’d said tearfully. “I’ll eat! Please wait ‘till I’m healed. I promise I’ll get fat by then. Right now I’m so bony and weak. Wouldn’t you rather eat a pig than a mouse?” UGH! She attacked the bed. I still can’t forget his cheeky grin. It brings me to shame. She huffed and crossed her arms. Where is he, anyways? I’m getting lonely- “You’re up I see!” Her hands curled and her hair flew out of her head. “When did you get here?” “Just now.” “You didn’t see me act strange, right?” “Strange? Not at all.” She sighed. “Nothing strange about a princess having a tantrum.” “I-I-I was not having a tantrum! And I wouldn’t have done that if I knew you were here!” He laughed before handing her bowls of fruit and grilled meat. He didn’t burn the meat this time , she smiled. He's trying so hard, and I don’t even know who he is . “What’s your name?” He covered his reddened face. “Oh…So you’re finally curious about your fiancee’s name?” “Don’t make me sound so heartless.” He grinned. “My mother named me Basil because my hair reminds her of it.” Josephine giggled. “I’m Josephine. Pleasure to meet you, Basil.” “Pleasure.” He extended his hand and she rubbed it. “Careful, my nails may hurt you.” “You won’t hurt me,” she put his hand to her cheek. Basil shuffled. “May I call you Jossie?” “I’d like that.” “Jossie,” his voice was breathy. “You’re so lovely, and you always make me laugh. At first, I only intended to marry you to keep tradition, but now I…” “Yes?” He pulled his hand back. “Nevermind.” His face became a tomato and his eyes rolled around his head. “You need more rest-Dammit.” She laughed as he stumbled. … Josephine often questioned if it was sane to be curious about Basil. Surely, he is an evil dragon hiding behind a cloak of goodness . “You're not supposed to be this gentle,” she said as he ran his claws through her hair. “Why?” “Because you’re a monster.” Her heart sank at her words. “I’m… a monster?” “Well, you can’t deny that throughout history dragons have slain many people and captured princesses for their pleasure. You even captured me, didn’t you?” She gave him a pathetic smile. “I didn’t capture you. I thought it was your desire to marry a dragon. You said it was your intention.”  “Please, did you truly believe that? I said that so you wouldn’t kill me. You’re a bloodthirsty dragon, after all.” He removed his hands from her hair. “You’re mad at me for being a dragon?” “Of course I am! You’re murderers.” “Josephine,” she was taken aback by his sharpness. “Did you know that humans kill one another? Some also kill dragons, ignoring the peace treaty. But it makes no sense for me to hate you for something you have no part of.” “But dragons started it,” she shouted desperately. “So you are to blame!” She was frightened when fumes blew out of his nose. His eyes blared as he glowered. “I’ve done nothing wrong! I refuse to be ashamed for what I am. Do not link me with monsters like them.” “So you admit they’re monsters.” “Of course they are. But slaying humans and capturing princesses are now against dragon law. Any dragon who does such things, before or now, is a disgrace. I’m not like them!” “Not like them? You can transform, your hair is a strange color, and your eyes are disgusting! If not a monster, then what are you?!” “Here you are calling me a monster,” he said between tears, “yet you don’t even know the meaning of the word. A monster is any being, dragon or human or whatever, that hurts an innocent person!” She gasped. “So do not dare call me a monster when all I’ve done is taken care of you!” He stomped away. His words bit into her heart. Did she ignore the wicked deeds of mankind and only looked at dragons? Was she wrong for hating them? Why did she want to kill him in the first place? She couldn’t believe he said everything so clearly: Anyone could be a monster. . . . The saturated rag flooded her skin. Basil also wiped Jossie a bit more aggressively than usual. But he was careful not to hurt her, even as smoke puffed out of his nose. His eyes were as sunken as hers. He sighed. “Do you need anything before I leave?” She played with her fingers and rubbed her arms. “Um.” The words couldn’t come out. “Since, there’s nothing…” “Wait, no! I um. I apologize.” “For what?” He turned from her. “For treating you like a horrible monster. And even threatening to kill you.” He grumbled. “Please forgive me. I don’t mean the things I said. I think your dragon form is amazing. And your hair and eyes,” she whispered, “are very beautiful.” He hugged her tightly. “It’s alright, Jossie. I still…I love you. Very much.” Her eyes grew. He loves me? Tears she damned up for years sprayed from her eyes. She clung to him. “I’m so sorry!” “It’s alright.” He rubbed her head. “It’s alright.” . . . Basil insisted on celebrating Jossie’s near recovery by going on a long hunt. We’ll have a good dinner. Then I’ll tell him that I… she giggled. She cocked her head at the sound of a dragon’s roar. It didn’t sound like his typical roars. It came again and she found herself running to him. Something… isn’t right! Outside the cave, a green dragon was attempting to fly, but a massive dragon snare kept him down. A group of knights took turns slicing into him. “No!” Jossie screamed. She groaned from her pained waist. “Stop!” Conrad dismounted his horse before taking her in his arms. “Your Highness! I’m glad you’re safe.” “What’re you doing? Let Basil go!” “Basil? Is that its name?” “He’s done nothing wrong!” She hit his chest. “Oh, right! You no longer have to pretend to be his bride. I’m here to save you.” The dragon eyed her with an expression she couldn’t identify, but it made her sick. “This was before I knew you!” She turned back to Conrad. “How did you even find me?” “Princess,” he pulled out a crystal. The crystal he held glowed in unison with the ones in her ears. “Remember, as long as you have the crystal, I shall rescue you.” The dragon made a mournful cry. She didn’t know what to say. “No, I didn’t mean for this to happen! I swear!” Conrad unsheathed his sword. “Stay back princess. It’s time for this to come to an end.” She grabbed Conrad’s arm. “Conrad, please. If you continue like this, you’ll become a monster!” He frowned. “It seems that the princess was tricked by the dragon. Knights, hold her back!” “That’s a lie, I wasn’t tricked!” A knight grabbed her tightly. “Ouch! Let go of me,” she tried pulling free. “Keep her away!” He commanded before heading toward Basil. She whimpered as they dragged her away. “Conrad! You only hate him because he’s a dragon, but he’s a kind dragon.” Basil snapped the tree that held the snare in half. “He even took care of me. See? I’m fine, Conrad.” Basil screeched as he pulled his limbs, forcing the stump out of the ground. “Conrad! Why won’t you listen to me!” The captain rushed forward. “No!” Just in time, Basil loosened the stump and flew away with it dangling from his leg. In the distance, the stump and snare that anchored him made him fall out of the sky. “Basil,” she called out. “I’m sorry! I really wanted to be your bride! I love you!” “Knights!” The voice was distorted and unrecognizable, but she knew it came from Conrad. “When we return to the palace, immediately put the princess in the dungeon. She has been brainwashed,” said the ferocious beast. It loomed over her with blood-filled eyes. And it terrified her.

3llwfr

The Enigma of Eccentric Tomes and Curiosities

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the deserted street, Sarah found herself standing in front of the mysterious old bookstore she had heard rumors about for years. Its sign, faded and nearly illegible, read "Eccentric Tomes and Curiosities." Sarah's curiosity had finally led her here, to this dark and narrow alleyway that was nearly hidden from the bustling city center. She pushed open the heavy wooden door, causing an antique bell above to chime with an eerie, melodic tone. The shop's interior was unlike anything she had ever seen. Dimly lit, the shelves were stacked high with ancient tomes, strange artifacts, and curiosities that defied categorization. Dusty cobwebs clung to the corners, and the air was thick with the scent of old parchment. As she began to explore the labyrinthine aisles, Sarah felt as though she had stepped into another world. She was drawn to a section labeled "Occult and Esoteric," where she discovered a leather-bound grimoire, its pages filled with cryptic symbols and incantations. She couldn't resist the temptation and tucked it under her arm. The proprietor, an elderly man with a long white beard, appeared from the shadows. He peered at her with piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold centuries of wisdom. "That book is not for sale," he said in a low, gravelly voice. Startled, Sarah put the grimoire back on the shelf, but her curiosity had been piqued even further. She decided to engage the old man in conversation. "Who are you, and what is this place?" she asked. The old man smiled cryptically. "I am merely the custodian of knowledge, and this is a haven for seekers of the unknown. Some say the books and artifacts here hold secrets beyond imagination." Sarah spent hours in the shop, engrossed in conversations with the enigmatic proprietor. He shared tales of travelers who had come seeking wisdom and left forever changed, as well as stories of those who had vanished into the depths of the shop, never to return. As the night wore on, Sarah realized that she had lost track of time. She thanked the old man and made her way to the door, leaving with more questions than answers. As she stepped back into the bustling city, she couldn't help but wonder about the mysteries that lay hidden within Eccentric Tomes and Curiosities. Years passed, and Sarah became a scholar of the occult, dedicating her life to unraveling the secrets of the grimoire she had glimpsed that fateful night. But despite her tireless efforts, she could never quite decipher its true meaning. The old bookstore remained a place of mystery, known to only a select few who ventured into its depths. It continued to draw seekers, dreamers, and those in search of answers to questions they couldn't even articulate. And so, the story of Eccentric Tomes and Curiosities remained an open-ended enigma, a place where the line between reality and the unknown blurred, and where each visitor would leave with their own interpretation of the mysteries it held. Over the years, rumors of the old bookstore continued to circulate, its reputation growing with each passing tale. It became a legend in its own right, whispered about in hushed conversations among those who sought the extraordinary and the inexplicable. Scholars, occultists, and adventurers from around the world made pilgrimages to the hidden alleyway, hoping to unlock the secrets that lay within Eccentric Tomes and Curiosities. Some claimed to have discovered ancient texts that revealed hidden knowledge, while others spoke of encounters with strange beings that defied explanation. One particularly persistent legend spoke of a doorway within the shop that led to a hidden dimension, a realm of infinite possibilities and uncharted mysteries. Many tried to find it, but the doorway remained elusive, appearing only to those deemed worthy or perhaps, merely lucky. The old man who had once greeted Sarah continued to watch over the shop, ageless and timeless. He never seemed to age, and his knowledge appeared boundless. He welcomed visitors with the same cryptic smile and offered guidance to those who dared to ask questions. Sarah's obsession with the grimoire had taken her on a lifelong journey, and while she never fully unraveled its secrets, she became a respected authority in the world of the occult. Her name was often mentioned in the same breath as the bookstore, and she was seen by many as the keeper of its legacy. As the years passed, Eccentric Tomes and Curiosities took on a life of its own, becoming a symbol of the uncharted territory that lay beyond the boundaries of human understanding. It was a place where the line between reality and the supernatural blurred, and where the quest for knowledge was an endless, ever-evolving journey. And so, the story of the old bookstore remained open-ended, an enigma that defied easy explanation. It was a place where each visitor would leave with their own interpretation of the mysteries it held, a place that continued to beckon to those who sought to explore the unexplored and to challenge the limits of human knowledge. As for Sarah, she continued to visit the shop from time to time, always in search of answers that remained just out of reach. And each time she left, she couldn't help but feel that the true essence of Eccentric Tomes and Curiosities lay not in the books and artifacts it housed, but in the boundless curiosity and unquenchable thirst for the unknown that it inspired in all who crossed its threshold. The years passed, and Eccentric Tomes and Curiosities remained an enigmatic presence in the heart of the city. Visitors came and went, each leaving their own mark on the shop's ever-evolving story. One day, a young woman named Emily entered the shop. She had heard the legends, read the stories, and felt an irresistible pull toward the mysterious place. As she wandered among the shelves, her fingers brushed against a leather-bound grimoire—the same one that had once captivated Sarah all those years ago. The old man, seemingly untouched by time, watched Emily with a knowing look. He approached her and said, "That book is not for sale, but it is willing to reveal its secrets to those who are truly dedicated." Emily's eyes widened with a mix of excitement and trepidation. She was drawn into a conversation with the enigmatic proprietor, and as the hours turned into days, she became a regular presence in the shop. She studied the grimoire diligently, pouring over its pages night after night. The old man offered guidance and cryptic insights, and slowly, Emily began to unlock the hidden knowledge within its ancient pages. As the months passed, Emily's understanding of the occult deepened, and her connection with the grimoire grew stronger. She shared her discoveries with the old man, who nodded approvingly as if he had been waiting for someone like her for a very long time. One day, as Emily delved deeper into the grimoire's mysteries, she stumbled upon a passage that hinted at the elusive doorway to another dimension—the same doorway that had become the stuff of legend. With newfound determination, Emily embarked on a quest to find the hidden doorway within the shop. She pored over old manuscripts, consulted ancient maps, and followed cryptic clues that led her deeper into the labyrinthine aisles of Eccentric Tomes and Curiosities. Finally, after months of tireless searching, Emily stood before a nondescript bookshelf. She felt a strange energy emanating from it—a sensation that sent shivers down her spine. With trembling hands, she pushed on the seemingly ordinary shelf, and it swung open to reveal a passage that led to a realm beyond imagination. The old man smiled one last time, his eyes filled with a mix of pride and nostalgia. Emily stepped through the doorway, disappearing into the unknown. The legend of Eccentric Tomes and Curiosities continued to grow, now intertwined with Emily's quest and the mysterious doorway. Some believed she had found the answers she sought, while others speculated that she had ventured too far into the uncharted territory of the occult. As for the old man, he returned to the shadows, waiting patiently for the next seeker to arrive, for the story of Eccentric Tomes and Curiosities was a tale without end—a tale where each visitor would leave with their own interpretation of the mysteries it held, and where the boundaries of reality and the supernatural remained forever blurred.

w96tn0

A Different Kind of Monster

He is the stuff of legends. But then they all are. By rights, they should not exist. That could be said about every species on this planet. Life is a precarious nonsense that fascinates me and appals me in equal measure. I’m a fan though. How could I not be? My master waxed lyrical about William, and my master was not one for praise. I should know. I was a constant disappointment to him and he was quick to tell me so. I was his Grand Mistake. After me, he avoided making another for fear that he might double down on the folly that he considered me to be. My master spoke of William with a reverence and awe that is seldom heard. I was not blind to his using William as yet another stick to beat me with. William was like the elder brother that I never had. I missed out on his companionship, but suffered under his shadow all the same. William was made by one of The Elders. The Elders seldom create. They seldom do anything these days. Old age creeps up on everyone. Even monsters. So old are The Elders that they have seen civilisations rise and fall. Empires expand and then crumble. It would seem that witnessing so much of the history of this world has slowed them down. I doubt their heads can contain anymore memories or information. They have become watchful, grey statues and it is a wonder that any of them could make another of their kind. I should be careful what I say. Respect for The Elders is an essential survival strategy, if half of what I have been told is true. They hear my thoughts, let alone my words. They are connected to everything. To hear what is said about them, you would think that they have transcended the mundane aspects of being and moved upwards to a higher state of being. As if a monster can do such a thing. Legends get out of hand far too often. I take most of what I hear with a pinch of salt, but when it comes to William, I am intrigued. I have been intrigued for decades now, and that is why I have dedicated myself to hunting him down. I had to. I had to know. Hunting a vampire is a tricky business. Vampires are precious creatures. They don’t like to be challenged. They don’t even like anyone knowing that they’re a vampire, not unless it’s that time of an evening and they’re playing with their food before devouring it. They’re very much like cats. They corner the mouse and then they pin its tail with a paw. Letting it go so it can make a bid for freedom before slamming that paw down again. Come to think of it, vampires are a so very like cats. They’re in it for themselves and they don’t give a tinker’s fig for anyone else. When it comes to who is more selfish, a cat or a vampire? Mr Tiddles has some fierce competition and the deciding factor is likely to be that the vampire would despatch the poor moggy rather than lose to the purring furball. Vampires don’t do pets, unless you count familiars as pets that is. Not that I’ve encountered that many familiars on my travels. If familiars were ever a thing, they seem to have gone out of fashion a long time ago. My theory on that one is that authors use familiars to pad out the story. I reckon authors get carried away and familiars are as a result of something they would like to be. After all, that’s why they write isn’t it? Authors are as solitary as vampires, so they get it into their heads that maybe they could strike up a friendship and house share with a vampire. Writing during the day as they kept an eye on the sleeping vamp’s coffin and catching up on the vampire gossip in the early hours upon the return of the sated monster. As if a vampire is going to trust an author. That’s about as ridiculous as it gets. Vampires trust no one, not even themselves. They are especially mistrustful of other vampires. It takes one to know one, and vampires fear any contact with another of their kind. They are deeply uncomfortable with that eventuality. I’ve never quite got that one, but then my master always told me I had a lot to learn. So, who better to learn from than William? William, the darling of the vampires. William the best of vampires. William, the bane of my second life. For all the talk of the connectedness of vampirekind, I have found no way to detect fellow vampires. They elude me and this is deeply frustrating. I know vampires can hide their presence from all but the strongest of vampires, but I never learnt the trick. My master taught me precious little when it came to all matters vampire. I found this to be unfair. One moment he was moaning about what a disappointment I was, but the next he was ignoring me and failing to teach me to be ! Some parent he turned out to be. William will be different. William is different. These past thirty years I have tracked him down, and now I am close to meeting William. At last I have found the one vampire who can help me make sense of my existence. I will bide my time and find the moment that I can introduce myself and then I will become his apprentice. I’ll even become his disciple if he wills it. Whatever it takes. I will learn from the best and then I will be the best! I have seen him from afar several times now. Twice, I saw him with a human woman. This I had not expected. He sat there as bold as the day and he chatted to her. William is on another level. There is playing with your food and then there is sitting on a park bench and talking about the weather. The levels of my intrigue have risen to delightful heights and it is all I can do to await my moment. I do not want to rush things and ruin my one and only opportunity to befriend this unique and celebrated vampire. I dared follow him to his resting place just last week. He took a couple back to his house. I observed him feigning a drunken or drugged stupor in order to lower their guard. Feeding on two humans in one sitting is impressive. People are unpredictable, especially when they realise they are in danger. When neither of them left the house, it was clear that he had fed well. I figure a week is about right. The hunger is never far away, even in the aftermath of a hearty meal. There is something in us that is terrified of starving. A constant urge to secure the next meal. Leaving it too long between meals is unwise. The noise and pain that our hunger causes is beyond measure and it is maddening. It would be a terrible thing to witness a starving vampire, they would tear themselves apart well before they ever starved to death. A week has given me time to select something suitable. Something that I hope is to his taste. And now I have done so, it is time. I approach the house. His house. The place that he rests. I find myself thinking of the word lair. I am encroaching. I know that. For a vampire to approach another is rare, and it is dangerous. I wonder whether it is tied in with that hunger of ours. A blood lust heightened by our need to protect our territory. To protect ourselves. I realise that I have no clue when it comes to the etiquette here. I hope the gift I bring will signal my intent. Vampires have no need of the social mores and norms that so restrict humans. They may play along for a while, but there is nothing in it for them. They are in it for themselves in a way few humans could ever understand. There are few boundaries. We are almost limitless. Knocking on the door, I feel exposed and weak. There is a tremendous presence here. I can feel William in a way I fancied I could from afar, but the intensity here, on the threshold of his abode is dizzying. William is possessed of a power that I can only dream of. I shudder at the thought of ever crossing paths with The Elders. The door opens, but before I can peer in. Before I am possessed of an idea of the situation, I am launched backwards and somewhere along this rearward trajectory, I lose the gift that I had brought for William. “What is the meaning of this!?” I hear his voice, but it is as much in my head as spoken. Those words pierce my mind and threaten to possess me. “I…” I stammer and stutter, which is so unlike me. He has me gripped by the throat and an arm encompassing my waist. I am pinned and helpless. I have never been rendered so in all my days as a vampire, “I wanted to visit with you,” I manage to tell him. He loosens his grip and fixes me with a stare that I cannot evade. I am given an insight into how a human must feel when I pluck them from their lives and prepare to feed upon them. He does not speak for a while, instead he examines me as though I were a sample under a microscope. “Who made  you?” he asks eventually. I hesitate and hope that he does not read anything into that hesitation, “Samuel,” I say. “Samuel should have known better,” he growls this and I wonder what he means by it. All the same my hackles go up as I detect the brother of Samuel’s disappointment in me. “I brought you…” I begin. “A mistake,” he interjects. I should be chastened, but instead I am angry. I tried to do the right thing. He is not giving me a chance. William, it turns out, is rude. Just as rude as Samuel. “I brought it as a token,” I tell him, wanting him to understand. “It?!” he scoffs. “I came in good faith,” I continue. Now he laughs, “you knock at my door with a half dead woman and you call that good faith?” “I wanted to…” I say. But he is not listening, “I bet you don’t even know her name.” “Name?” I say, becoming confused at his reaction and the direction our conversation is heading in, “you bother with their names?” He fixes me with a hard look, “come,” he says, then he grabs me and I don’t have a say in where we are going, or whether I would like to go or not. Should it surprise me that we are sat on that same bench I saw him conversing with that woman? I don’t think it should, but I sense a sentimentality in William that renders him weak and potentially fearful. If I am right, then he is a conflicted soul, and we don’t have souls, not the likes of us. William is an enigma, but he threatens to be a disappointment. He seems almost human, and the very thought of his humanity sickens me. This much vaunted vampire has the potential to be a damp squib, worse still a lie. Did the sombre and dour Samuel deceive me? Was I the butt of a joke he constructed over the years? Or was he himself deceived? “Tell me,” William says as he stares up at the moon, “why are you here?” “I came here to learn,” I tell him. He chuckles, but there is no merriment in him, “did you really? What would you learn from me?” “I want to be a great and powerful vampire,” I say. Now he turns to me, “do you have any idea what that entails?” I nod, “I have an idea.” He shakes his head, “you have no idea.” “Why are you…” I begin. But he raises a finger of admonishment that silences me, “you gave Samuel what he had desired for an age?” “I don’t know what you mean,” I say this, but there is something stirring deep in my mind. A dawning realisation that I would supress, if I could. He’s nodding now. “You know?” I ask him. “I do now,” he says, “your presence here tells me all I need to know.” I smile despite myself, “I did what they said cannot be done.” “You really believe that?” he says. That’s when I feel the icy shard of doubt. It pierces my brain. It pains and confuses me. “I don’t know what he told you,” he shakes his head sadly, “but you were used by him.” “He told me that you were the best of vampires,” I say. William’s eyebrows shoot up, he seems surprised for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles, “yes, I suppose that he would.” “Why did he hold you in such high regard?” I ask him. He shrugs, “I struggled to let go of who I was. And then I didn’t let go at all.” “Really? Samuel considered you to be better than the rest of us because you attempted to remain human?” I cannot keep my contempt for such a thing from my words. He nods, “what value do we hold if we have no values?” “Oh puhlease!” I grimace at the pathetic figure before me, “we are far more powerful than these sad little humans! None of them are a match for us. We can do so much more than they can. We can be so much more.” “And yet here you are…” he is looking back up at the moon now. Sitting back and relaxing as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. “It seems I have made a mistake,” I tell him. He nods slowly, “a series of mistakes.” “What do you mean?” I ask. He turns to look at me, “you are a strange little man. Have you not seen those who hold disdain for others who are exactly the same as them? Samuel chose well when it came to finding someone to end him, but he could never have turned you. You don’t have the… capacity for it. But then, he sent you here to me, so you are my problem now.” “Problem?” I guffaw at William’s arrogance, “I will become a powerful vampire, with or without your help.” William stands, “no. No, I’m afraid you will do nothing of the sort. You were a means to an end, and now you are a loose end.” “But I did what could not be done!” I stand too, “I ended my master! I am already a powerful vampire!” William looks sad now, “you still do not understand do you?” I nod, “Samuel tricked me into killing him.” “A vampire cannot kill its maker,” William says this and looks expectantly at me. I laugh, the very idea of what William is attempting to convey is ridiculous, “you can’t mean…” William nods. “But what about…” I begin. “What about what?” William asks me. I feel my mouth working, but no words will come forth. “It’s all gone hasn’t it?” William says. He sits back down on the bench and sighs. I follow suit. I have nothing better to do. “What about…?” I begin. “A self-induced delusion,” William says. “None of it was real?” I ask him. “Now that is a question that would take forever and a day to answer. Suffice to say, you’re not a vampire and you never will be,” he sighs again. “But why?” I ask him earnestly. He turns and looks deep into my eyes, “your lack of humanity,” he tells me. Then he leans in and I know what is coming, but I cannot stop it. I do not even fight him as he bites down and he begins to feed. I have been tricked. Only I tricked myself. I blinded myself to what was real and I lived out a dangerous and impossible fantasy that was always going to end like this. I disappointed Samuel so much that he could not make me into a vampire. I disappointed him with my naked arrogance and greed. He knew my ambition would lead me to end him and he played on that so that he had a way out from an existence he had come to loathe. He told me stories of William and led me right to him. William with his frail, human heart and sense of justice. William, the vampire who only preys on what I regarded as the strongest of the humans. Predators themselves. I thought he tested himself on the best and always came out a winner. I was wrong. William has a code. William is more human than I could ever be. Samuel understood this and he sent me, a murderer, to William’s front door. There was only ever one way that this would end. I hated humanity and made myself into something as far from human as I could. I hated myself and I became nothing. Worse than nothing. As the light of the moon fades, I wonder whether my blood tastes as bitter as I feel. 

kz2vlc

A Deal With the Devil Himself

“Cadence, I don’t think this will go well for us!” I rolled my eyes and kept walking up the hill. “C’mon, Sam! Do you really want to back out of this dare? I do not believe the devil truly resides in this old house.” Sam grabbed my arm. “Of course you don’t! Can we at least talk about this? Listen, Cay, Tammy, and Lila can just take the win; it’s a stupid dare anyway.” Well, I suppose I should introduce myself and Sam. My name is Cadence Dowry. I’m 5’7, and I have long brown hair and hazel eyes. Sam is my best friend. He’s 6'1, with short blond hair that falls into his green eyes, and he’s a total scaredy cat. Sam has apparently done so much research on the one historical house in our little town outside of mainstream L.A. Tammy and Lila are a few of our best friends. When we lost the bet, they dared us to come to this haunted house where the devil himself had supposedly possessed three people. “Sam, we are not losing this dare, okay? We already lost the bet because you were too scared to ask out Rebecca, so deal with the consequences.” He sighed. “Fine! But did you at least bring your throwing knives?” I rolled my eyes. “As always, Sam, yes. Not that it's going to do much against the devil if he really is here.” I pulled one out of my back pocket to show it to him. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.” We trudged up to the house, which was surprisingly not rotting like I thought it would be. It was rather dusty, but the outer wood and brick were pretty solid. A black cat scampered out of the open door. “Typical.” I scoffed as Sam jumped. All of a sudden, in a flurry of motion, two people came racing out the door. Sam screamed a little, but the two didn’t seem to notice. “Sasha, I am not going back in there!” the red-headed girl said. “But Molly! We didn’t even get to the kitchen!” The black cat came slinking back, and the blond, who I guess was Shasha, scooped her up. “Look, Wisp’s okay with it!” The redhead rolled her eyes. “No way. There is something in there that I don’t want to mess with. You can take Wisper and go with these two; they look like they're about to go exploring. I’m leaving.” With that, she left, and I half thought Sam would follow. The blond turned to us. “Sorry about her. That’s Molly, my best friend but a certified wimp. I’m Sasha, this is Whisper, and we’re going to go back in there despite Molly being afraid of a gust of wind.” I grinned a little. “I’m Cadence. This is Sam, who’s also afraid of everything and probably would have left too, but he’s not going to because we lost a bet.” Sasha grinned. “After you then.” xXx The floorboards creaked as I walked into the main hallway. “This was about where we made it before the gust came from down the hall,” Sasha said. Sam grabbed my free hand, which wasn’t holding the flashlight. I shook my head in amusement but didn’t let go. “Alright, here was our plan: We were going to sit in each room for a couple of minutes, maybe have a snack or something, and just see what happens,” I said. Sasha nodded. “Sounds good to me.” We started in the kitchen and sat down. I pulled out some grapes, and we passed them around. Everything went well from then on. In each room we went into, nothing happened. Again and again and again. We fed the cat some food, played around, made tic-tac-toe in the dust, and then it was time for the last room. The basement. Sam shook his head, “Cay, this is where everyone has been getting possessed. What if we just skipped this room?” I sighed but then looked at my watch. “C’mon, Sam! We’ll be fine. It’s nowhere near dinner, and nothing has been happening.” He frowned. “We’ll be fine,” I repeated. “Famous last words.” He muttered before tramping down the stairs after Sasha and Whisper. xXx “Okay! That’s time!” Sam sighed with relief. As we got up, a loud noise sounded, and my heart sank. Sam went white when Sasha ran to the stairs but stopped at the bottom. “That was the door!” She said. Sam looked at me and gasped; when I looked to my side, my hair was floating beside me. I snatched my hair down and put it into a messy bun. “It’s fine. We’re all fine. Maybe the wind shoved the door shut.” Sam stood up, “And your hair?!” I shook my head, “doesn't matter!” I tentatively walked up the first two steps and then got more confident, but as soon as I reached the door, I went flying back down. Sam caught me. “Oh my God, Cay! Are you okay!?” I nodded and started back up again, but Sam caught my arm. The small window had gotten dark all of a sudden, and the shadows stood out. Sasha checked her watch. “It is not early enough to get dark out, and when we came in here, there was no sign of rain, so why the hell is it so dark!?” Suddenly, my vision went blurry, and Sam and Sasha flew backward; I sank to my knees. “Stop, please!” I whispered to no one in particular. “Take me instead. Take me and let them go, please. I’ll do anything you want.” Suddenly, the room brightened, the door swung open, and my friends got up miraculously unharmed. But me? I still felt it; the presence was inside my very being. Sam came over to help me, but I leaped up. “No, don’t touch me! I don’t know what he did to me, but I don’t want you to get hurt.” The slight color left in Sam's face drained. “Who, Cay?” I shook my head. “The devil himself.” 

d23noc

The Monster and the Child

Vaughn paced through the forest, dappled shadows chasing the sun patches through the swaying trees as he made his way down to the stream. He growled at a fox that crossed his path, his normal indifference to the woodland creatures fouled by the human who dared to enter his domain. At the river he drank deeply, ridding his mouth of the bitter taste of human blood. It had been decades since anyone had been foolish enough to enter the Forsaken Woods (a stupid but apt name in his opinion).  Well, anyone except the elf. Gavan still insisted on visiting, still trying to find a way to free him. Vaughn snorted. He didn’t need to be redeemed, those humans had deserved what he had done and Gavan would never convince him otherwise. But the elf was her friend, and he would never insult her by chasing Gavan away. No matter how annoying he was. The water still as he lifted his muzzle, and he regarded his reflection for just a moment before his deep growl caused ripples to distort the image. Once he had been the strongest of all demons, a rare shapeshifter with almost omnipotent abilities. However, when the humans fell, after their betrayal and his subsequent slaughter of those involved – the races had acted to stop his blind rage. He glared at the silver cuff that circled his right paw, the infused magic shackling him to the confines of the woods, but worse, trapping him in the feline form he had been in at the time. His fire orange feline eyes narrow in irritation at his reflection. His obsidian fur was broken only on his ears, twin tails and a diamond blaze on his forehead, where the fur’s amber hue matched his eyes. Red drops of blood, almost invisible against the black fur, were welling where the idiot human had managed to drag his hunting knife across his left eye. The eye was undamaged but the wound would likely scar. Not that it mattered, he had plenty of those already. He glared at the wound, thinking he could really use opposable thumbs but simply huffed in annoyance as he shoved his face in the stream to get the human stench out and clean the wound, knowing that it would heal in a few hours. He started to wander, idly questioning why he hadn’t just killed the man and be done with it. Centuries ago, he would have without hesitation. However, letting the man flee, bleeding and broken from the woods, would remind anyone else foolish enough to return what awaited them. It was odd that it had been a human. They were rare in this world, most of them disappearing during that traitor Mateos’s uprising. But a few had survived. She had survived. Without meaning to, his feet had started taking him to the clearing in the woods where they had met and he stopped. He did not want to go there, not with the shame of one of her kins blood on his claws. He turned back, taking only one step before a scent drifted in on the wind, another human scent, and it was coming from the clearing. He felt unbridled rage at the thought of some human trespassing on the last scared memory he had. He tore through the trees, his massive body far more agile than it appeared as he gracefully dodged the forest debris. He had a vision of another hunter, but something about the scent was different. It was younger, much younger than the hunter, female and – something almost, familiar. Not that it would matter, anyone who had ventured this far into the woods would get no mercy from him. But when he finally cleared the trees and emerged in the glade, all his anger vanished into stunned confusion. Staring back at him was a wide-eyed girl, a child of maybe four or five years in age. Her hair hung in a mass of honey locks, framing a heart shaped face with two bright blue eyes staring widely back at him. Vaughan skidded to a stop ten feet from the girl, unsure of what to do. He had eviscerated men and women by the hundreds, slay demons and beasts who had challenged his power. Yet something about this child… Vaughn leaned his muzzle close to the girl, summoning a tiny growl and bearing his fangs and claws half-heartedly. This child was not worth the effort of dirtying his claws again. The little girl’s eyes grew even wider, a tiny noise escaping from her lips before she turned and fled towards the edge of clearing. Vaughn turned to leave, but watched as the child made it as far as the edge of the clearing only to duck behind a boulder and stay there. He waited for the sounds of her footfalls to continue but was confused when, instead, she waited a moment before she peeked back out at him, hurrying to hide again when he let out another growl. This went on for the better part of an hour, the little girl watching him from where she hid and Vaughn making a move or sound that sent her back to her hiding place. Vaughn just wanted the stupid tiny thing to run back to wherever it had come from, but for some irrational reason he found he didn’t want to leave the child alone in the woods. He may be the most dangerous beast in the woods, but he wasn’t the only one. He looked up at the sky, the west starting to sink into the oranges and purples of sunset as the east began to darken with blues and blacks. He flicked an ear at the steps, head falling to stare where little girl was frozen mid step about ten feet from him. He let out an exasperated huff, getting tired of this game as the little girl stepped back, her hands held tightly behind her back. She looked back at the boulder, as if looking for someone then looked back at Vaughn with a cross of fear and determination on her tiny child face. She took the smallest shuffle step forward, flinging her hands out and Vaughn jumped back, unsure what she was doing and half expecting an assault of sorts. His movement had startled the girl as well and he watched as a handful of purple and orange flowers fell to the ground, followed swiftly by the little girl. She sat there staring up at him, her wide eyes frozen in fear. He slowly leaned down, sniffing the flowers and arched an eye at her when he realized they were in fact only flowers and not some cleverly hidden weapon. “What, precisely, were you trying to do with these flowers little one?” He watched the little girls mouth drop open, and to his surprise she leaned in a little closer, as if – in awe. “Ano, you can speak English Neko-san?” Her voice had an odd accent mixed in with the breathless way he remembered most children spoke, and she used words he wasn’t sure he quite understood. He arched a brow, wondering if she was perhaps too young to understand a full conversation. “What is English Neko-san?” Vaughn was shocked when the little girl rolled back and started to shake. He leaned forward, wondering if she was having a seizure of sorts, and to his horror found that the little brat was, laughing. He narrowed his eyes at her, wondering how she went from being terrified of him, to staring up at him with that stupid grin on her face. “No silly, English Neko-san isn’t a thing! Oh! Gomen- I mean sorry. Mama says I mix up my Nihongo and my English too much.” She scrunched up her nose, speaking each word carefully as if to make sure she was using the correct one. “I said you speak English Mr. Cat!” The little girl beamed at him, as if she had just announced she was a princess. Vaughn scrunched his muzzle in annoyance, his voice laced with a growl. “My name is not ‘Mr. Cat’ and I do not know what this ‘English’ is.” “It is what you speak! My name is Hikari, what’s your name Mr. Cat?” Vaughn flicked an ear in irritation, trying to remind himself that children were not always the most intelligent creatures to speak with. He laid where he was, eyeing the tiny being when she scooted closer, exasperation evident as he. “Stop calling me that. How did you get here, little one? Where is your family?” “Mama and Papa and Kenshin Ji-chan are at home. My friend said that they couldn’t come with me here.” Vaughn frowned, wondering what the child meant by that. He absently twitched his two tails while he thought, and jumped up as the little girl gasped. Vaughn’s head swiveled as he scanned the clearing for some sign of danger, looking back at the child to find that she was staring at him, or more specifically, at his tails. Gone were any signs of fear she had as she ran forward, stopping just a foot or two away from him and staring intently at his tails. Her closeness stirred some unknown feeling in him and he flicked an ear at her, his voice rumbling in aggravation as he stood to put space between them. “What are you all worked up about, you stupid brat?” He watched the little girl point up at his tails, nothing short of amazement in her voice. “You have two tails! All the cats I know only have one.” “They are clearly inferior beasts.” She scrunched her face up, her gaze shifting from Vaughn’s ears and the mark on his forehead as she frowned. “Does it hurt?” Vaugn looked at her in confusion. “Does what hurt?” “Your tails, and your ears. They are on fire!” Vaughn felt the corner of his jaw tick up in something that was absolutely not a smirk. He sat back on his haunches, his tails wrapping comfortably around his paws as he cocked his head to Hikari. “I assure you, little one, my fur is not on fire. It is just naturally that color.” She threw him an exceptionally skeptically glance for someone so young as she went back to staring at his tails, and Vaughn rolled his eyes as he flicked a tail over at her landing just a in front of her. “See for yourself.” Hikari reached slowly down, her hand hovering just above the proffered tail when she glanced quickly back up at the feline demon. He watched her take a breath as if preparing to face death itself and thrust her hand into his fur. She giggled, a smile lighting up her face running her hands through the velvety fur as if it was the softest thing she had ever felt. Vaughn stiffened at the contact. He could not remember the last time anyone had willingly come so close to him, let alone touched him with such casual ease. Memories of midnight hair and dark eyes began to surface and he shook them away, whipping his tail away from the girl. She pouted a little but he ignored it his voice a little gruffer as he moved to lay down, putting a few more inches between them. “As I said, no fire.” The little girl ignored the fact that he had moved away, moving to plop right in front of his face completely oblivious to the fangs that were likely longer than her arms. He let out a small grumble and she gave him a quizzical look, those blue eyes open and honest and so innocent. “Are you sad Mr. Cat?” Vaughn balked at the question, putting his nose right in her face and blowing her golden hair back with a snort. “What an imprudent question. I am a demon, I do not get sad!” To her credit, Hikari didn’t back away from his hostile tones, just rocked back on her heels and squinted as if she were studying him. She put her face right up to his left eye, assessing the wound that was already starting to knit itself together. A tiny arm rose as if to touch the wound and he let out a soft warning growl, but she just pointed to a small scar on her arm and then back his scar. “A bully must have done that so you must be sad. I know I am sad when the other kids bully me. Mama says it’s cuz I am different because she and Papa are from America but we live in Japan. But we all go to the same school and do the same things – I don’t get why we are different. So, they push me sometimes and call me weird and it makes me sad.” Vaughn stared at this tiny human as if she were an alien being. For someone so young she was already learning the cruelty that can come from others. He huffed uncomfortably, unsure of what to say but Hikari jumped up and started running around the clearing, gathering the flowers she dropped. She began to talk animated, her previous melancholy vanishing as she chatted away. “But it’s ok because I have Rika-san who is with me and she is really nice. And Kenshin Oji-san is fun to play with. He teaches me karate and kendo!” Vaughn felt his mouth twitch up as he watched her flail her arms and legs wildly, petals from the flowers scattering as she waved them around like a sword. “I’m getting super good. And today I met a real nice lady who said you were lonely and she said that me and you will be bestest friends!” Vaugn jumped back as if the words had scalded him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” his narrowed eyes blazed with power, the orange in his fur starting to glow like an auburn sunset as he growled, “I am a demon, little one. I have no need of friends.” He had had enough of this. He wasn’t even sure why he was still entertaining his involvement with this child. He leapt to the other side of the clearing, flicking his tails at her as he spoke. “You are lucky I don’t eat you. Go back where ever you came from and never disturb my forest again.” He ignored her shout as he moved into the forest, his mood darkening as he moved deeper into the forest. He was not foolish enough to get involved with the humans again, no matter how bite sized they may be. But before he could make it very far, a tiny scream pierced the darkness. He looked to the west, surprised to see the last of the sun slip beyond the horizon. The little brat was probably afraid of the dark. He let out a huff, moving further away when another inhuman screech followed. He froze for only an instant as he recognized the cry of harpy, his feet moving before he even realized what he was doing. When he broke out through the trees, he could see the little girl huddled by the boulder, a harpy circling above her. He could smell the blood before he saw the talon wound on the girl’s arm, and rage flooded his vision. In one leap he was across the clearing, the harpy struggling where his claws pinned it to the ground. He would have ripped the winged beast into pieces but the feeling of tiny hands on his back leg as Hikari buried her face into his fur stopped him. He let his breath fall hot on the harpy’s face, his voice low and sharp as a blade as he said, “Do not come back.” The harpy let out a fearful cry, twisting and disappearing into the sky as soon as Vaugn moved his paw. Vaugn eyed the little girl as she peeked out, shaking a little as she watched her attacker disappear. He saw the child slump to the ground, and her eyes shone in the moonlight, tears brimming on her eyelashes. Vaughn leaned back, something akin to panic starting to creep into his mind. “S-stop that!” he hissed. “You cannot – there is no – crying in the Forsaken Woods!” He uttered the word ‘crying’ as if it were acid. Hikari sniffed, unable to stop the tears as Vaughn grumbled, “Hell’s bells child what’s the matter?” Hikari rubbed at her nose, her face becoming blotchy as she stuttered through the tears “I was s-so scared!” Vaugn sighed, grabbing the child by the scruff of her shirt and dropping her on the boulder so they were eye level. He examined her wound, unbidden relief setting in when he realized it was only a scratch. She let out a tiny hiccup and Vaughn grumbled at her. “Enough. I do not associate with beings who blubber like a new born kit.” Vaughn flicked an ear in annoyance, turning his head as if to ignore one of his tails lifting to wipe the tears from her face. A small giggle escaped from Hikari, and the noise lightening some of the turmoil in Vaughn’s chest. When he looked back, the moonlight that lit the clearing glowed of her and he could see the smile that lit up her face. “You saved me!” Vaughn grunted. “I do not abide harpies poaching in my territory.” “You saved me! So, we are now friends Mr. Cat.” Vaughn arched a quizzical eye at the child’s logic, but inside he felt something he had not felt in nearly four hundred years. Even in the dark, he could see light and hope in Hikari’s eyes, the same essence that he had seen in one other human. Saya.  With a heavy sigh, Vaughn sat on his haunches, twin tails wrapped around his paws, his next words heavy with reluctance. “If we are going to be – friends – you must start by calling me by my name. Vaughn.”

too596

Project Detonation

Project Detonation By: Kearnon Henske “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” Carter's alarm was blasting. Carter woke up after a good night's sleep. He rushed out of bed, knowing that he had many things to do. While most kids would eat breakfast and get dressed, Carter didn’t have time for any of that. Instead, knowing that he had many important things to attend to, he ran through the house, out the door, and hopped on his bike, riding deep into the forest. He came to his destination, and after jumping into a hole, he plunged into a deep pool of water. Then he heard someone say, “You're late.” Rushing through the station, Carter stopped at the weapons room and grabbed a few guns and knives along with some grenades and a grappling hook. Carter and his team were all spies, and they were working on a big project. After meeting up with his best friend, Colin, they headed to the team meeting room where they were to discuss their plans with their boss, and they were welcomed with a very unpleasant surprise- their boss was sitting dead on his chair. Rushing out through the door, Carter and Colin had to tell everyone about this news because their boss was running the whole mission, and he knew many things about the mission that other people didn’t. Carter and Colin hopped on the loudspeaker to tell everyone about what happened and after the announcement, they told everyone to come to the team meeting room to discuss what happened and to figure out if they could find any clues. People were searching every corner of the room when Carter spotted a note sitting in their boss’s jacket and it read, “We know what you are doing every day, and we are going to destroy you. From, Venomshade.” Everybody knew what Venomshade was, and they knew that they were up to something. Carter and his team needed to figure it out fast. Everyone ran through the station and to the lab. Carter was carrying the note on its edge with gloves in order to create minimum contact with it. After getting to the lab,Carter and Colin placed the note under a microscope to see if they could find any clues, and they noticed one thing- a speck of sand. Carter told everyone that Venomshade was probably near a place with sand. They could only think of one place where sand was found, and that was the beach. Everybody got geared up with weapons such as guns, knives, grenades, and a grappling hook. After grabbing everything, they rushed out of the station and hopped into their helicopters. Before they were about to take off, Colin asked Carter, “You sure this is a good idea? We only have 30 people, and you want us to go up against one of the worst organizations in history?” Carter knew that this was a big risk, but if they didn’t do something to stop them, Carter knew that they would cause big problems so they had to go now. “We have to go now. Otherwise we won’t be able to stop them ever.” When they were about to leave, they realized that their helicopters wouldn’t start, and they ended up finding another note on the wheel of one of the helicopters. It read, “You're not going anywhere. From, Venomshade.” Nobody could get their engines started, and Carter couldn’t figure out what was happening especially since they had guards on duty all night. Then he realized something– one of the guards must be working for Venomshade!! Carter told all of this to Colin, and Colin had been thinking the same thing so they decided that they were going to insert a fake version of one of the Venomshade’s workers into the camp and watch the guards’ reactions to see if the guard shot the person or not. But before Carter and Colin were able to run their idea by the others, they were getting shot at. While shots were ringing out, Carter yelled, “Everybody back in the station!” The crew started to rush into the station, and they all headed to the secret hallway where they had to turn a secret knob attached to the wall. Then they rushed through the secret hallways behind the wall and closed the door because they didn’t want Venomshade to know that they were there. After hiding in the secret hallways, they heard Venomshade come rushing into their station. They all thought that they were safe, but then they heard the ticking of a timer start inside the station followed by Venomshade’s footsteps running out of the station. Since they didn’t think that there was anybody still there, they took a sneak peek out into the secret hallways. Carter looked outside first and when he did, his heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. He saw a bomb lying on the floor with a timer on it that read 00:30. This was horrendous because Carter knew that once that timer hit zero, it was going to explode. After seeing the bomb, he yelled, “There is a bomb on the ground!” Everybody ran to it and tried to defuse it, but Colin was able to defuse it in a matter of seconds because he had trained with the bomb squad. Then Carter came up with a smart idea. He decided to send his drone out and scout the area. The drone had a camera on it so he could see what the drone was seeing. After looking around for quite some time, Carter saw the vehicles that Venomshade were taking to return to their station, and he decided to have the drone follow them. After some time, the drone caught Venomshade jumping out of their vehicles. They opened a hidden latch under a patch of grass that blended in with the surroundings, and that’s when Carter realized, “ That’s where Venomshade was hiding this whole time.” Carter ran to find Colin and when he did, told him about the news.Colin was in shock. He never thought he and the crew would ever get this close to Venomshade. Carter was so excited for this moment because they might now be able to finally beat the most evil organization in history. Carter hopped on the loudspeaker and announced this to everyone else.”We figured out where Venomshade is hiding out. We will attack at midnight!!” Now everybody knew about this. They had been preparing for this moment their whole lives. Everybody quickly suited up in pitch dark clothes and grabbed various weapons such as knives, guns,and grenades, but Carter packed a grenade with 1 megaton worth of tnt inside of it, and then they set off on their quest, driving off with their jeeps to the destination of Venomshade’s secret base. Carter had taken a recording of the drone flight to guide them to the location, and they followed that exact path which led them to the latch. Before they got too close though, they got out of their jeeps and walked by foot because they knew that there would be Venomshade guards on duty. They made sure to be careful. They used their night vision goggles to scan the area for any Venomshade evildoers, and as they expected, there were 5 guards on duty. They shot them with sedation darts, and all of them were knocked out before they were even able to react. After they knocked the guards out, they focused on the hatch, and they carefully opened it. Carter dropped in the big bomb that he kept, and he set the timer to 1:00.”Bomb’s in the station! Everybody back to your jeeps!” Carter shouted. Then Carter closed the hatch. They set off in their jeeps and rode away back to their base hoping for the best.   

1njvgt

Hanging on God’s Pinkie

‘Oh God, oh God, please save me!’ I pray while hanging on to Jesus’s pinkie. Not the actual Jesus, obvs, but a massive concrete Christ the King on the south bank of the Tagus River, his arms stretched wide, blessing the city of Lisbon. ‘Please, please, I’ll do anything, just get me out of this mess!’ I’m currently regretting all my life choices, especially the most recent. I’m a free climber, best in my group of fellow fanatics, so did I back down when I was given this challenge? Hell no! As far as I’m aware, nobody has climbed Lisbon’s Cristo Rei . Or at least, nobody has bragged about it, or been caught doing it. Being caught means you lost anyway, even if you make it all the way to the top. I came at night; the place is spotlighted so no problem there, and security is negligible for this tourist attraction. I already took the selfie of me sitting on the King’s head, smirk plus victory sign, Lisbon’s lights still twinkling behind me as the reddish light of dawn outlines the far hills. It was arrogance that made me decide, after scaling the sheer walls, and then the equally featureless holy robes, and up the wavy hair, that – tired as I was – I’d take a walk along the Saviour’s arm. The state of the concrete isn’t pristine; sixty years of sun wind and rain have done their work. Whilst posing for another selfie before Christ’s cupped hand, looking for all the world as if he’s holding me up, the concrete gave and the phone went flying. Scrabbling for a hold – any hold – I slipped out of Jesus’s hand and at the last second sank my bruised and battered fingers into the groove of the pinkie. ‘For the love of God,’ I pray, trying to keep my cool. Nothing leads to death faster than panic. ‘Please get me out of here.’ I’ve never been more sincere in my life. I don’t look down. Instead, I try to gather energy to pull myself back up. A part of me feels sorry for the employees who’ll be turning up any moment now to open the ticket office, only to find my mangled corpse at their front door. ‘No way,’ I mutter through gritted teeth. I’m at full extension, all my weight held by fingers that were already tired; my core muscles are burning too. I’m on borrowed time. ‘Come on God, if ever there was a time to show yourself it would be now.’ ‘God doesn’t make house calls anymore.’ I look up at the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He’s dressed in a sharp suit, on his haunches in Jesus’s palm, his hands dangling casually between his knees as he looks down at me. ‘Are you an angel?’ ‘I suppose you could say that. My name’s Lucifer Morningstar.’ ‘The devil?’ ‘So you know your theology. Or at least God’s side. History is written by the victor and all that, you know?’ ‘Uh-huh. Look, would you mind pulling me up? Then I’d be happy to discuss theology all day long.’ ‘No can do,’ Lucifer says. ‘Why not?’ ‘It’s negotiation 101. Right now, you need me desperately. But what can I squeeze out of you if I get you out of danger first?’ ‘What do you want?’ My fingers are slipping and I have to squeeze my grip even tighter. ‘Your soul, of course,’ Lucifer says, standing up and taking a step so that his shiny black shoes are only millimetres from my fingers. ‘Isn’t that a bit of a cliché?’ I wonder if I have the strength to heave myself forward to lock onto his ankles. Would that make him fall? Would he fly away and leave me to my fate? Or just vanish? ‘Well, I don’t make the rules’ Lucifer says with a wide-armed shrug that turns him into a parody of the statue. ‘You don’t?’ ‘Article six, paragraph 12. The devil shall restrict his activities to dominion over hell and the collection of the souls of sinners. The rest of the paragraph details the definition of what makes a human a sinner and under what condition I can collect souls.’ ‘Souls’ implies the person is already dead, doesn’t it?’ ‘Bingo!’ ‘So … you can’t actually help me?’ ‘Article 133, paragraph seven, addendum XI. The devil may only appear in the earthly realm under two conditions: the collection of souls, or to test potential sinners.’ ‘To see whether you can tempt them?’ ‘Exactly!’ Lucifer says and makes a shooting motion at me with his index finger, a wide grin making his handsome face rather maniacal. ‘So we have to make a deal? ’It’s getting hard to breathe and that’s making it hard to concentrate. ‘How can I make a deal when I’m inches away from death? Isn’t it a bit too obvious what I need?’ ‘True, we’re in the territory of fish and barrels,’ Lucifer says. ‘It makes things too easy and that would be coercion, which is God’s domain.’ ‘Really?’ I say thinking that all I need to do is hold on and the devil will eventually come through, or maybe not. Maybe he’s just enjoying my pathetic efforts to stay alive. ‘You humans think he loves you, don’t you?’ ‘It’s what the Bible says.’ ‘Yeah, yeah, but that’s basically propaganda, isn’t it? I mean, who wrote it? And even in the book he threatens his so-called beloved people.’ ‘Does he?’ I grunt, sweat is dripping down my face, and between my shoulder blades, my fingers are getting slick. ‘Even you humans have banned torture. The Geneva convention specifically forbids it. But what do you think hell is? It’s torture for all eternity. That’s a bit much, isn’t it?’ ‘I ‘spose,’ I grind out. Since there’s a devil, I’ve decided there’s definitely also a God, and all things considered, I’d rather go to heaven. But that trickster is making me doubt myself, and God for that matter. ‘What if I say I want to be famous?’ ‘As what?’ Lucifer says, his eyes lighting up – or maybe that’s just the rays of the rising sun; he’s looking even lovelier now, almost golden. ‘A climber.’ ‘Shall we add in riches? I can get you a great sponsorship deal.’ ‘Okay.’I t’s getting harder and harder to speak. ‘Mmm,’ Lucifer says staring down at me, ‘this still feels like coercion.’ ‘You better hurry,’ I gasp and my fingers slip. This is it, but instead of a free-fall I’ve got a sharp pain because the devil’s got his foot pressed firmly down on the fingers of my right hand. ‘Fuck!’ I breathe. I’m just dangling by one arm now. ‘I have too much of an advantage,’ Lucifer says. ‘I need to give you something to negotiate with.’ ‘What else is there but my soul?’ This is too surreal. I relax all my muscles and try to calm my mind. If I can delay a bit longer, maybe I’ll gather enough energy to swing myself back into Jesus’s hand. ‘If you do nothing for me and I fall now, it’s just a short trip to heaven and eternal relaxation.’ ‘Heaven’s not all it’s cracked up to be,’ Lucifer says. ‘For a start, no pets.’ ‘What do you mean no pets?’ ‘God doesn’t like them. Only beings with souls get into heaven, and animals don’t have souls.’ ‘That’s a bummer,’ I say while focusing on relaxing my shoulders and my core muscles. Every second of rest improves my chances of getting out of this. ‘Besides,’ Lucifer says, ‘what makes you think your soul is so pristine? You’ve racked up quite a list of sins: breaking and entering, treating the life God gave you with frankly reckless abandon, not to mention petty jealousies and an unwholesome competitive spirit.’ ‘If it was so bad, you wouldn’t have to make a deal with me for my soul. You’d already have it.’ I’ve started deep breathing, gathering the oxygen and power in my muscles for a swing up. ‘All the same,’ Lucifer says, ‘you have the option of a deal with me, an easy trip down, and a good fifty years of comfort and renown ahead of you.’ ‘But like you said it’s too easy. How about this for a deal: If I can get out of my predicament without your help, I’m home free. But if I fall, you have to save me, and give me that life of leisure.’ ‘Ah, so you want to treat me as insurance?’ ‘Pretty much. Do we have a deal?’ ‘We do. Are you ready?’ I take a deep final breath and gather all my reserves. Lucifer lifts his foot off my fingers. I swing left, and grab Christ’s pinkie with both hands, then, using the strength in both arms, swing right and up. Every muscle and sinew cracks as I throw myself over the end of the hand, so now I’m sitting astride the middle finger. ‘I did it!’ I say, grinning like a fool. I’m up. I’m not home free – I’ve got a long descent ahead of me, but I can do that on my own. The devil applauds, and his grin grows broader. ‘Are you sure you don’t want an easy ride down?’ ‘Not that, and not the life of leisure. My bet was to get up and down this damned statue on my own and that’s what I’m going to do.’ ‘Are you sure? Last chance to change your mind. This offer will never be repeated.’ ‘Now you sound like a cheap salesman.’ Lucifer shrugs and turns to go, then he pauses and looks back at me, an enigmatic smile on his face. ‘I hope I never see you again.’ ‘Same here,’ I say as he fades into the bright blue sky. It takes me hours to get down again, and I’m more shaky than from just the climb. I stagger over to a grassy bank and collapse, lying on my back, staring up at Christ’s wide-open arms. The sun is dazzling and warm. What a mad climb! I gaze down at my right hand and the fingers that are bruised a deep purple, and I wonder whether I did manage all on my own. After all, without the devil’s foot on my fingers, and without that chance to gather my forces, I’d be dead. That makes me start questioning the deal I made and whether it’s a coincidence that there are so many tales of people cheating the devil. Then I’m overcome with laughter. He really is a wily old devil.

whkh7d

A Taste for Dragon's Blood

The townsfolk watched as the black wings swung like two scimitars away from the Korinth sea. They held their breath as those wings sliced back towards the jagged peaks of Grymdor's spine. And a few cheered when, with a cobblestone-shaking roar, the beast in the sky let out something that blasted the foothills below: It was dragon's dung, the lifeblood of Queen's Quay. Most in the failed fishing town raced toward the impact site, each hoping to be the first to pick free the scorched treasures that the dragon hadn't digested, but Khisane merely watched the smoke rise from beneath a gnarled oak. She knew Conway, slow of mind but fleet of foot, would surely come away with something. She'd taught her older brother to pull the smaller items first and leave before the bigger men arrived. Still, she couldn't help but worry. In her moment of distraction, Khisane flicked what was between her fingers without uttering the required words. "You're wasting my bat guano, stupid girl." Dominus raised his rheumatic hand as if to strike Khisane. "You're not giving me enough." She scowled at the old man then at the singed residue on her fingertips. She could feel the magic coursing through her veins, so why wasn't it taking? "Again." Dominus dished out another tiny ball of bat guano, which Khisane took between her forefinger and thumb. "How now, brown cow?" She squeezed the rosemary-infused bat droppings. "How now?" She flicked her fingers again, and got a hint of flame then a wisp of smoke before the charred guano fell to the grass. "Pathetic, you have no future in magic. All the dragon's blood in the world wouldn't change that." "Then show me how it's done for once." Khisane made a point of staring at Dominus's broken hands. "Are you even giving me the right words?" "It's how you say them that matters," Dominus said then held out his palm. "That's it for the day. Honestly, you'd make a better living on your back." Khisane froze. If only she had another dab of guano, she knew she'd be able to incinerate the old man in that moment. But beggars couldn't be choosers, and Dominus was the only teacher in town, or at least the only one who somewhat convincingly claimed to know magic. The old man's hand was still outstretched. With a grimace, Khisane dropped a slightly melted silver coin into his hand. "Remember what I said. When you take to whoring, I'll be your first customer." Dominus's billy goat beard wagged as he spoke. Khisane threw her hood over her long black hair and pretended not to hear. She strode across the rolling green, not realizing she was grinding her teeth until she tasted blood. When no one was around to see, she spit it out, a fine red mist of despair. Inside the cottage, she found Conway hiding under their father's patchwork quilt. Well, it was Conway's quilt now. Their father, one of the last true fishermen, had been gone more than 10 years now, swallowed by the Korinth Sea. Conway had chosen to hide with his quilt on one of the wicker chairs tonight, so Khisane walked in that direction. "Now, where could he be?" She raised her eyes heavenward. The mound under the quilt shook but otherwise kept quiet. "I guess I'll have to eat stew all by myself. That's okay, Conway prefers dragon poop anyway." "I do not!" "Who said that?" And so it went until Conway decided to reveal himself. After Khisane pretended to be suitably astonished, her older brother showed her his catch: four lopsided silver coins, two melted gold rings, a ring with its sigil still intact, and a gleaming dagger with the same sigil on its pommel. He'd done well, especially with finding that dagger. After selling everything, they might even be able to add a bit of meat to their stew before the dragon's next offering. Khisane looked more closely at the knife's sigil, a boar with a pair of curving horns to match its generous tusks, an ugly thing though she didn't recognize the family design. "Can I keep it?" Conway asked. "Conway…" "I never get to keep anything." Khisane knew that wasn't true as she'd let him keep a battered helmet and a drinking horn that had somehow survived the dragon's stomach, but she didn't argue. Instead she took two potatoes and a bundle of leeks from the basket under their rickety table. "Show me you can use it safely," she said and set the vegetables on the table. While Conway carefully chopped the potatoes into irregular chunks, Khisane did some quick calculations. How much would the goldsmith pay for the rings? How far could they stretch the coins? She knew it wouldn't be enough if they kept the blade. So, she decided to sell the jeweled hair comb that had belonged to the mother she'd never known, the comb their father said Khisane should wear on her wedding day. She'd never wore the comb anyway, and she wasn't about to get married in Queen's Quay. Conway had finished with the potatoes and was moving on to the leeks. "Okay, you can keep it." Her brother whooped and waved the dagger while Khisane stood well away. "But you can only wear it in here and not outside in town. Let me hear you say it." "I will be safe," Conway said solemnly. "Good, now go get clean. Remember, you have to leave your new knife in here." Conway groaned but left the dagger on the table before running towards the sea. After Khisane finished cutting leeks for the stew, she stood in the doorway and watched Conway in the moonlit sea, that stupid sea that had taken their father then the last of the whitefish that had once sustained the town. Only the stubborn and poor had remained in Queen's Quay. Some claimed the dragon that had awoken shortly after had cursed the Korinth sea, but Khisane couldn't see the point. If the dragon wanted to destroy Queen's Quay, it could simply burn the place to the ground in a matter of minutes. No, it just lived in the mountains and emptied its bowels on the outskirts of town about once a month. And now the only ships that came to Queen's Quay were filled with warriors who thought of themselves as noble slayers of dragons, wealthy men whose weapons and gold kept the town going after being recycled through the dragon. Light! Ten years of eking out a living on dragon droppings. Khisane knew she and Conway had to get out of this wretched town, and she would learn enough magic to do just that. She only hoped that, after selling the comb, she might be able to spare a coin for another lesson with Dominus. *** Khisane was elated. She'd managed to summon a fireball today. It had only been the size of her fist, but it had flown through the air before blackening the gnarled oak under which Dominus always gave his lessons. The old man hadn't even congratulated her. But that didn't matter. She suspected Dominus didn't have much more to teach her anyway. Once she figured out how he prepared his bat guano, she'd be free of him and his lecherous comments. Khisane raced across the green and burst into the cottage to share the news with Conway, but he and his quilt were nowhere in sight. She glanced out at the sea then checked the corner where he kept his bedding during the day. His battered helmet and drinking horn were gone. So was the dagger. She ran into town and saw the ship, a galleon anchored offshore. She searched the tavern first, since some of the men liked to lure Conway in there with a drink and laugh at the results. "Where's Conway?" The barkeep waved her away, but one old drunk fixed her with his bleary gaze. "You mean Conker?" he asked. "Don't call him that." "Well, I only know a Conker on account of him being conked too many times on the head as a babe," the drunk laughed. "Where is he?" The man held out his empty glass, and Khisane slammed her last coin down on the bar. When his drink was refilled, the slurred story took shape: Men from the ship asking Conway about his dagger. Conway refusing to sell it to them but agreeing to go with them up the mountain to see the dragon. Khisane was weightless, floating above the words. She came crashing down as the drunk took another sip. The man choked on his drink when Khisane pushed his hand and was still sputtering out a curse as she sprinted into the street. She must've passed by the cottage on her way to Grymdor's spine because she was holding the ax they used to split firewood. She followed the tracks up the mountain and slowed when she saw the churned-up earth. Khisane found Conway around the next bend. He was still hiding under his patchwork quilt. Only one arm hung free, one arm reaching for home. They'd slit his throat. Khisane clawed at the hard-packed earth until her fingers bled, then she remembered the ax and hacked at the ground until the head flew free from the handle. It was a shallow grave, unworthy of Conway. By the time she'd finished gathering stones and piling them over her brother, night had fallen. She saw the twinkle of their fire further up the mountain. As she crept closer, Khisane saw five men gathered around the fire. She had no bat guano and had left the broken ax further down the hillside, so the smart thing would be to wait for them to fall asleep and hope they didn't post a sentry. She watched as the men clutched their sides and laughed at something. She saw the sixth man then. He gave the others a silly grin then went back to hiding under his blanket as he reenacted Conway's last moments. Khisane's shriek cut through the night as she burst into their camp. "How now brown cow!" She had nothing between her fingers but blood, so she flicked that. To her surprise, a gout of flame shot forth from her hand, but it hit no one and was quickly lost in the glare of the campfire. Then, the men were upon her. She kicked until someone grabbed her legs, then clawed until another pinned her arms to the ground. Finally, all she could do was spit at the man who stood above her head. "Calm yourself, wench." The warrior raised his boot and let it hang over Khisane's face. When she closed her mouth, he brought his boot back down to the ground. "Now, why do you stalk us?" "You killed my brother," she said through clenched teeth. "Oh, that." The speaker sighed "I tried to reason with him, but he was soft in the head." She looked up at the speaker. He wore a tunic over his chain mail, and on it was the horned boar, the same sigil she'd seen on Conway's dagger. The man now wore the dagger on his belt. He followed her gaze to the knife. "You don't take out a knife unless you intend to use it. See, it's still in its scabbard for now." "You scum, you son of a—" The man kicked her in the face then continued speaking. "You have to understand this blade is a family heirloom, meant for noble hands. And when your brother held on to it like a child's toy after I'd offered him gold—well, that was too much." He shrugged as if that explained it all. When Khisane tried to move her mouth, earsplitting pain radiated up from her jaw. The pair of men still held her down, so all she could do was watch as the man with the dagger crouched down beside her. The firelight played across his high forehead and illuminated his thin parted hair as his eyes roamed over her body. "Still… I suppose I have taken a life from you, so I should give you one in return." He licked his bulbous lower lip. "Yes, I, Baron van Del, will make sure you leave here tonight with child." When his words' intent became clear, Khisane struggled anew. The Baron raised a gauntleted hand. "Hold still. This is the closest you'll come to nobility." The magic burned in her blood, but there was no release. Baron van Del's kick must've broken her jaw because the night sky seemed to split down the middle when she opened her mouth to scream. Someone shouted as the fire went out. When the weight of warriors left her arms and legs. Khisane tried to stand and immediately fell back down. She felt something on the ground… Conway's dagger. Khisane clutched it to her chest. Something was standing over her, a blackness deeper than night that blotted out the stars. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw it hovering over her head. A talon dripping blood. Khisane fought against the pain in her jaw and parted her lips. And a drop of dragon's blood—that legendary elixir coveted by all, from the lowliest charlatan to the highest sorcerer—fell on her tongue. I have been waiting for you, said a sonorous voice. *** You have tasted of my blood. Those were the dragon's words of introduction when Khisane awoke. The dragon's voice had been too much for her mind last night, but now its words were like standing on the edge of rough sea—manageable if you knew how to keep your footing. Yes, our blood mingles, our destinies are intertwined. You must be the one who woke me. She had thought dragons lived in caves, but they were on a wide sunny expanse surrounded by pine trees, a hidden plateau along Grymdor's spine. Do you hear me, child? You will be my emissary. We will usher forth a new age. The pain in Khisane's jaw was gone. She felt like an empty vessel. The dragon, not used to being ignored, whipped its tail through the air and split a pine tree. The dragon loomed over her, a massive shadow whose edges were difficult to discern. Show me I am not mistaken. Show me what you can do. An image of blood and fire came to her mind. She remembered flicking blood from her fingers last night and finding fire, so she used Conway's dagger to make a small cut in her forefinger. Then, she spoke the words that Dominus had taught her. She produced another fist-sized fireball. 'How now brown cow?' What nonsense is that? You have blood magic. Show me. Khisane couldn't quite banish the image of a brown cow from her mind, but she went through the motions of summoning a fireball without speaking the words. She focused on her blood and the small bit of dragon's blood that was now part of her. The blood gave way to a bright blue jet of flame. If only Conway could see her now… oh, Conway. "Tell me, how did the Baron and his men taste?" She forced herself to look up at the dragon. I dined on no flesh that night. "You let them get away?" Yes, they did not give battle. Cowards turn my stomach. "You let the Baron get away." Silence. They are insects. They live on my refuse. Now, open your mind to me, so we can begin. The dragon lowered its head to be at eye-level with Khisane. Its yellow eyes with black slitted pupils brooked no argument. So, Khisane opened her raging mind and let it burn bright. The dragon recoiled, but not before Khisane plunged Conway's dagger deep into its eye. There were no more words, only a great shuddering disappointment, a longing for the skies, as the dragon closed its mind to her. *** She found Baron van Del in the tavern. Khisane walked over to the table and handed Conway's dagger to the Baron. He took it as if it was only natural for her to return it. "I was wondering where you went after we saved you from the dragon," Baron van Del said, loud enough for everyone in the tavern to hear. He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. "Now, do you remember my promise?" One of the Baron's men cackled. The man was still laughing when the blue flame leapt down his throat. Chairs overturned as the Baron's men fled the table. But Baron van Del sat frozen in place, a rictus grin plastered on his face. A fine mist of Khisane's blood had settled on his lower lip. Khisane raised her right hand. As tears streamed from his eyes, Baron van Del raised his right hand as well. In it was Conway's dagger. Khisane drew her hand across her throat, and the Baron did the same. He gurgled and his hand shook, but he finished the cut. When one of the men screamed, it broke the others' reverie. They all scrambled out the door. Khisane wiped Conway's dagger on the Baron's tunic, then went behind the bar and dumped out a keg. She intended to make the dragon's blood last and needed something to store her first batch. No one showed their face as she rolled the empty wooden keg across the cobblestones. How long until Queen's Quay realized the dragon was gone? How soon until more warriors arrived to discover there was something new waiting for them in the mountains? Would the warriors still come after the town had rotted away with no more dragon's dung to sustain it? Khisane was willing to bet yes. On the outskirts of town, Khisane found Dominus napping under his oak tree. She stood patiently over the old man, waiting for him to wake and see her crimson smile.

xiu2ag

The most beautiful monster in the world

The Pacific coast of Mexican is stunning beyond belief. A carpet of tropical jungle covers the mountainous terrain. A verde rug of fertility, meeting the jagged azure waters of the Pacific. The entire landscape hummed with life. Ants and spiders, jaguars and toucans, and of course the people with their vibrant and energetic Mariachi music leaking like Tequila from every hovel and hotel. Fred had crossed from Cabo San Lucas, where he left the dry arid desert of Baja, and dove into the steam bath of Tropical mainland Mexico. The change threw Fred’s health into a nosedive. A strange chest cold came from nowhere, and squeezed the very breath right out of him. He managed to limp down to Puerto Vallarta, but further he could not go without recuperation. Lying on the bed, ceiling fan lazily shifting the soup about, was the best he could hope for. Fits of coughing wracked his body, and jolted bolts pain through his head. There was nothing to do about it, and nobody to cry too, so he lay quietly in bed, dosed up on painkillers and surfed the net on his phone. He had garnered some followers on a few obscure chat rooms discussing bike travel. He was browsing some threads when a DM appeared. TN: Hey FW, my name is Tina. I was sitting in a cantina when a woman shared a story about a guy on his bike who rode through just a few days ago. From her description I thought it could be you. Where are you? Fred felt a tingle of anticipation tingle down his spine. But it was quickly tempered by a story he had just read online about a traveller being scammed. If it's too good to be true, it probably is. He put the message out of his mind, reminding himself of a pearl of wisdom from a long ago sage he once met - let your subconscious chew on it a while before you act. He had reached the end of the internet - at least the little patch he knew, and succumbed to the temptation of seeing how much he could learn about Tina. So Tina is Tina Nagama, an Israeli biker. Her Instagram account was replete with images of herself - hmm a little narcissistic - and her adventures on her bike. She had a YouTube account filled with videos full of emotive drone footage and entertaining misadventures with locals. Fred binged on her videos, and even recognised some of the scenery of the last week on the road. It's true, she’s just behind me somewhere. Fred was torn. Tina was hot. A short, slim dark haired beauty with piercing blue eyes. Hot, even when she was waking up from a rough night of wild camping. Impressive. What really caught him was her upbeat nature. That permanent sunshine brightness. Everything was always OK, and would work out fine. It painfully made Fred recalled sullen moments of his trip, where the battle with his darker moods would turn titanic. He relented and DM’ed her. FW: Hey, not sure how you think you know me, but true I am in Puerto Vallarta recuperating from a cold. Fred reread and rewrote this simple line many times, antagonising on how she would interpret each word. The last time he had a girl around was years ago. That is ignoring that one spontaneous night of naked craziness with that ballerina in Chattanooga. Five minutes later… TN: Wow, great to hear from you. I am just riding into Puerto Vallarta! Amazing. What hotel are you staying in? Fred's pulse quickened. Do I really want this to happen? The stupid internal question would not resolve itself neatly. But now he was trapped. What impression would it give her if he refused to tell her? FW: Casa La Columna. But I warn you that I am sick. TN: NVM. I need to stop for a day and catch up with some things myself. Would be nice to speak with another biker. Do you know if they have rooms? FW: no idea. I’ll ask. TN: thx He had now passed the point of no return. 30 minutes later… FW: Yes there are rooms. I have tentatively reserved one for you. TN: Oh you are such a gem. I found the hotel on maps. I think I have another hour at most of riding. Fred lay back and tried to relax, but the trepidation and anticipation was too much. He found himself looking at himself in the mirror and prejudging his appearance. In the end he stepped into the shower, but just before he flicked on the water, he stepped out again judging it would be too obvious he’d showered for her. He had to admit to himself that the exchange with Tina and her imminent arrival had put some positive energy into him. The sloth and weariness of the last days was in retreat. A new idea to distract him arose. Wylma really needed to have a service, a job that he had kept pushing away, so now was a good time to tackle it. He wheeled her into the room, opened his tool kit and began with the spoke wrench. He’d lost complete track of time. With music playing in his headphones, the chatter outside reached his very door before he noticed it. The door knocked. He opened it. Tina stood outside beaming her sunshine smile with Francesca, the receptionist in tow. Tina’s hair was matted with sweat with silly looking indentations from her helmet. Her face was still slicked with perspiration and exertion. It was the girl from the images and videos, but now in real life, all upbeat and happy. As she was about to speak, the roar of a jet taking off from the airport next door obliterated all other sound. Fred shrugged, and when they could speak again, all he could say was, “At least it’s cheap!” Fred gave a sheepishly giggle, but Tina laughed out aloud and slapped her thigh with emphasis. This made Fred immediately relax. They sat outside under a nearby palm tree and talked about anything and everything. He could feel himself being pulled into her orbit. He was being gradually seduced by her beaming optimism. At one point Fred found her effervescence almost unbelievable. Surely nobody can be that upbeat, all the time! They parted ways for a few hours till their rendezvous for dinner at the little steakhouse just down the road. He had gone there on his first evening and recalled the breathtaking sunset over the beach from their balcony. Their dinner stretched on much later than he thought he could handle, but eventually he had to crash. When the bill arrived, Fred could not hold back his chivalry and paid for them both. Tina made a token effort to split the bill, but didn’t fight him for it. Fred woke feeling better, but still a little short of breath after taking the short walk down to the beach and back. Another day of rest was necessary, but he felt he had the energy to get Wylma properly into shape for a departure on the morrow. When he shared his plan, Tina thought this was perfect since she also had stuff to sort out. She seemed quite happy with the idea of a riding buddy. The next day dawned bright and clear as they made their way down the coast. Ting ting, Fred could hear from behind. He stopped and let her catch up. “Can I take the lead? I want to take some video” she asked between breaths. She took the lead and they headed off again. Fred had to admit, the narrow rolling road with the emerald jungle almost smothering it like a tunnel, looked amazing. A few kilometres later, Tina stopped without warning. Fred was so close that he almost ran into her. “I want to do a little vlog about a breakdown.” she said “What’s up with your bike?” Fred asked with the seed of concern, looking at her machine. “Nothing at all, but my followers need things to happen. A little contrived hardship is social media gold” she cheerily answered. Laying down her bike, she got some tools out and created a phoney mechanical tableau on the side of the jungle road. Camera on tripod she even spent time tousling her hair in fake distress. It took several takes till she was happy, and they set off again. The rest of the day was punctuated by photo ops, video sessions, and she even launched her drone once. During that session, Fred had to hide under a thicket of trees to stay out of shot. The next few days progressed like the last. Fred began to become a little irked by the completely new rhythm dictated by Tina and her social media career. But it was the lunch stop at a roadside cantina that was the turning point for Fred. Tina finally exposed that she was no guru of emotional control as she publicly portrayed. It all centred around a needlessly heated discussion she launched into with the cantina proprietor about filming. Not that the old fossil minded her filming, but he was not going to allow her to boss him around for the perfect angle and shot. She became terribly upset when she could not charm the old man, and she carried that dark cloud around with her the whole afternoon, except when she would snap into that artificial sunshine optimism for her camera. The day was coming to an end and they found a nice abandoned building pad at the end of an overgrown path which overlooked a postcard view of rolling jungle for their camp. Tina did some filming and then busied herself with her laptop and gadgets while Fred collected firewood to prepare dinner for them. Halfway through his work, Tina whooped in glee from behind her screen. “Good news?” he enquired casually from over his shoulder. “Yeah, I just got my 1 millionth subscriber on YouTube!” she beamed Fred, gave her a quizzical frown as if to say, I don’t really know what that means. “What rock have you been living under Fred” she retorted with genuine incredulity. Her tone hinted that Fred was thick or naive. “It means that my videos will earn even more money for me.” This stunned answer led Fred to ask the obvious next question. “How much do you earn from your videos?” “Last month, on all the platforms, I earned 96,256 US dollars,” she said with matter of fact pride. Fred stood slack jawed. The number didn't make sense to him. So he asked her to repeat her answer slowly. Now with glittering satisfaction, she repeated the huge number. Fred had trouble wrapping his head around the concept of this sum of money. Not only had she earned it in the short space of a month, but she had done it doing what he was doing for free. The rest of the night was spent quizzing Tina about her social media career. Fred absorbed it all like a sponge. There was YouTube, Instagram, Facebook, Tictok, and even Onlyfans. She blushed while trying to keep her explanation of that last one as vague as possible. It was time to sleep, when her tone took a sombre pitch. “In the beginning it was just Bruce here…” she pointed to her bike, “... and me, and the open road.” she mussed. A long lost longing had crept into her voice. “The pure beauty of that open road, and the adventures waiting for me around each corner. I was the happiest girl on earth, then…” she suddenly choked up, and Fred could see her fighting something deep inside. “.., then I began posting some of my pictures on Instagram, and that was when I took my first step on my slippery slope to hell.” Fred could hardly hear the last words, but there was no mistaking the deep regret she was trying to express. She raised her head and looked him directly in the eye, and in the firelight he could see tears pooling in her eyes. There was no sunshine optimism in them at all. It was a haunting look of someone who discovered they had sold their soul to the devil, and realised too late, the true magnitude of the loss. The next day dawned with deep, low hanging clouds. Fred liked these days because of the ominous mystery they draped over the world. Tina wanted to do one of her waking up in the wild videos, but Fred could see that she had her work cut out for her, fighting off a morose mood which she struggled to hide. The production took over 2 hours to complete, during which he stood around inspecting insects in the thick brush, all the while pondering the revelations of last night. He began to understand that the girl he had gotten to know over the last few days, is not the girl who left home on her bike, in search of genuine adventure. Fred pondered his own changes over the years of riding, and what his future held for him. He never saw his destitute poverty as a liability, at least not while he and Wylma were on the road, but he also ruefully admitted to himself that the road will end for him one day. Having a nice fat bank account somewhere waiting for him to start the next chapter was an alluring idea he could not escape. The next day, she showed him just how monstrous her personality had become. A ridiculous string of contrived disasters, all filmed and photographed with perfect lighting and aspects, then the confrontation with a police patrol that almost got him arrested. He vehemently chastised himself for letting his reflexive chivalry escalate to such an extreme level, all for the sake of content. Tina had also begun to enlist Fred as her lackey to speed up her content sessions, after he had casually expressed his chagrin at their slow progress. He felt like she’d played him like a fiddle. The last hour of that riding day, Fred began to hatch a plan. Tina’s toxic vacillations were unnerving him. He began to comprehend the magnitude of her revelation of that fateful night. She had long ago abdicated the true meaning of her trip, and embraced the modern model of an online attention harlot. He began to understand what she had become, and with that understanding, a certainty settled on him. She would corner him to do something he would sorely regret if he hung around her much longer. That evening, they found a camp, but it was a little too small for both their tents. He suggested that she stay there, while he finds a camp for himself nearby and returns to spend the evening with her, once he’s set up. He made this sound so natural, she didn’t question it at all. “I’ll be back in half an hour tops”. He said as he pedalled out onto the road and immediately felt a weight lifted from his soul. He reached into his bag and flicked off his phone and rode into the deepening dusk. He rode on for about an hour till he came across a small cantina. After a short chat with the proprietor, Fred set up his tent next to his kitchen and slept a quiet night of freedom. After a huge breakfast he set off to put as much distance between him and Tina as possible. It was midday when he finally switched on his phone and found a rash of missed calls, DM’s and such. All from Tina. He blocked her number and unfollowed all her social media accounts. Free of her as he was, his time with her had left a mark. As a kid, a wise man once told Fred: “You cannot unknow something you now know”. He’d always taken this as a positive thing, he had even internalised it to justify his nomadic life. It was his way to become wise and intelligent. But those lonely roads, soaked in so much beauty that you sometimes forget to look, have a way of luring you to over analyse life. What Tina had taught him, took on a vague malefic quality he was not sure was good for him to know. That night around the fire when Tina exposed the inner workings of the world of social media, nagged him to no end. It focused a harsh light onto his wayward existence. Fred had given virtually no thought to the end of his road, but he knew that one day, the road would end for him and Wylma. The day after, is what terrified him now. The stunning ride down the coast to Puerto Escondido was a tainted dream. Tainted by his future. A future that had suddenly come into focus like riding off an unseen cliff, seeing the edge too late to stop. A day of rest was what he needed, so he took a cheap room and headed out to explore town. A large electronics retailer caught his eye. He had come to the conclusion some days ago that if he were to try to build his day after cushion on social media, it would all start with a camera. Tina had gone into detail about the pros and cons of different models, so he had a pretty good idea of where to start. Half an hour later, and a lot poorer, he had his camera and began following Tina’s condensed playbook. Three months later Fred was sitting on a beach in Cancun, camera in hand, filming himself with a cocktail. His online following was growing rapidly, and he could feel the drug of popularity course through him. Money had begun to trickle toward him as well. Now he questioned if he could control the beast within, the monster he had now set free. Oh the irony.

x09sql

The Butcher of Yimi

3 years ago, I was a doctor. I absolutely loved every bit of it. Everyone in the town came to my practice. I admit, it wasn’t a very big town. So compared to top doctors in those enormous cities, I would have a significant amount less than them. But still, I had an ample amount of patients come thru. And I can brag that they loved me so much that no one opted for the big city for any procedure. My office stayed rumbling with the sounds of the townsfolk. If a baby was due to be born, I was the OB-GYN and the Pediatrician. I was the cardiologist for some citizens and the neurologist for others. And would you believe, I also dabbled in the dentistry world when the dentist wasn’t available. The whole town trusted and loved their local doctor, Dr. Stan. I tell you, I was the doctor of the people. It was an amazing title that I wore with pride. But one can’t be the doctor of the people if there are no people. Whatever life I brought into this world, it snuffed out. Whatever life I helped elongate to enjoy the fruits of their labor, it shortened and stomped on those fruits. They called it the “Butcher of Yimi.” It came through and decimated my town with extreme prejudice. And by some sort of sick and twisted fate, the doctor was left to view and examine the multiple bodies. I examined the clean slices across necks and the multiple holes that must have come from the monster's immaculate sharpened nails and teeth. As the potent scent of blood started to cover my city, a new rage emerged in my core. I have never felt so much anger at any particular being in my life, until that moment. I needed to see justice for my city, so I waited for a highway patrolman. As soon as I spotted one coming into the city, I ran into the street to stop him. He first drew his gun on me. I guess I spooked him by running into the street with blood on my shirt., which is understandable. I’m sure I looked like a madman. But I explained to him what was going on, and how I found the bodies. Afterwards, I showed him my office which was fairly close. Inside, there was a group of victims sitting with slash and teeth marks. His face turned milky white as he viewed the blood oozing from the victims. He then demanded that I stay inside while he goes and contacts back up. I complied, but I re-live that moment over and over as I pin that memory as one of my many regrets. I wish I had told him to stay, because the monster was still lurking, still hunting, still issuing chaos. I made the choice in that second to stay, because I figured that his weapon was enough to protect him. But I was wrong as another scream echoed through our abandoned streets. With tears in my eyes, I watched the blood stream from the new victim of the butcher. He must not have seen him coming, because his gun was still in the holder as he stared into his new destination. As I closed his eyes, I didn’t know how anybody could stop such a monster, but I also knew that I had to at least try before anybody else was hurt. And to complete my task, it was necessary to kill the title of Dr, and construct the business of hunter. The first year was very difficult. I would be on the trail of the monster, but always one step behind. By the time I reached the destination, the deed was done. The monster would have struck, and I would be left looking at the scene painted red and smelling more potent fresh blood. As a doctor, I have smelled that scent on numerous occasions. But it never enraged me like it does as a hunter. It only made me desire the blood of the monster more. As that year went by and the second year entered, my skills for hunting increased. I came a step closer as I found myself in the same place a few minutes away from the butcher committing its heinous acts. I did have a setback in year two admittingly. I was so close to catching the butcher, that I decided to alert the cops to my location. I figured maybe if I brought in some help, the extra manpower would allow me to apprehend the monster with ease. But it was total chaos. They were shooting everywhere. I was hit twice by friendly fire I believe. There were so many bullets I’m sure a couple of their team was hit also. I’m certain the monster was hit a couple of times too. But I couldn’t find the body, so I knew he also escaped. After that chaotic mess, I decided to work alone, again. I know this may sound weird coming from me, but I was actually glad they didn’t kill the monster. Though yes, it deserved to be shot down, I was hoping I could continue our adventure a little longer. And then when it’s all said and done, I would be the one who takes him down. I’m sure there is some type of award for his head, but I do not want it. Getting my revenge and taking that monster off the street would be my reward. Now let me fast forward to today. You know the butcher of Yimi? Well, I found him. That monster that wiped out so many of my friends. That monster that has unleashed chaos across this land. That monster that I have dreamed of fighting for the past three years. That monster dubbed the butcher of Yimi, I have found him. I enjoyed our adventures, but I have grown tired of chasing him. Judging by how we are sitting together silently at this pond, he must have grown tired of running and killing too. As we sit, no word is spoken, and no threat is made. Just a silent agreement that we have reached the end of the road. I thought about asking him why he killed all those people, but I decided to let the memories fade just like the ripples in the water. In this serene moment, we were not the hunter and the butcher, we were just creatures enjoying nature. To an untrained eye, someone may think we were friends just enjoying the water. But my enemy cannot sit in my presence for long. He must pay for what he has done. But, maybe he had a reason. Maybe someone did something to set him off. I enjoyed the people of my town, but I cannot say they were all saints. Maybe he grew tired of watching the sinners sin. Maybe he had a divine cause. Maybe. Or maybe he is just the monster that people said he is. Maybe people had told him that since he was younger, and he just became what they said. Or maybe he just wanted to silence the noise. Maybe this is his truth because in this silence he seems so peaceful. I look into his eyes as he looks back into mine. I don’t see much going on. I can’t say I see sadness in his eyes. But I also can’t say I see rage. I can’t say I have an answer for why he did what he did. And I’m guessing that as he looks past the mirror of the water, he doesn’t know why I did what I did either. But I do see him, and he sees me. In unison, we take a deep breath as a loud crack echoes across the water right before the source of the sound strikes its target. I love the silence…

norc2p

The Taker's End

The beast stood tall unmoved by my burning hatred. I waited patiently for it to make a move a twitch, something. All it did was stand amongst it's dying garden completely emotionless. I was armed with nearly 19 years' worth of experience in magic, trained by some of the greatest enchanters my country had to offer. Fueled by my hatred at what this abomination had taken from me, from my people. Nothing was standing in my way from taking vengeance and delivering my people from these dark times. The opportunity was golden. A lifetime's worth of preparation was finally going to mean something. Yet I found the courage and determination that had gotten me to this point wavering. After all, I wasn't the chosen one even if I trained to be. Even if I wanted to be. I still remember the day it was revealed that my training was for naught and that the security I once had in knowing that fate was on my side was all a part of an elaborate lie. My people, the of Zeal placed their faith in me. I felt it even in my self-imposed imprisonment. I remember that cold cell, those cold chains that seemed to get tighter every night. My mother visited me every day and told me the stories of what the beast took from our people. The livestock it murdered, the crops it destroyed, and misdeeds against humans that were even worse than death. I remember her telling me I was the only one capable of destroying the beast. Even I wasn't chosen by fate I was chosen by the people. I believed this deep in my heart and yet for some reason I hesitated. Why? "This silence is deafening, yet oh so comforting" whispered the beast. I didn't respond. To me, there was no silence the swaying of the trees and the various sounds of wildlife scurrying about unaffected by the conflict about to ensue combined to create a melody that occupied my mind. I knew the game this monster was playing my mother told me of how the beast pulled the voices from singers. If I spoke it might do the same to me. And so I stood and stared. I watched as it's statuesque figure stood tall and I bothered fur swaying along with trees obscuring its ghastly frame. "Are you a child of Zeal? Tell me have they learned their lesson?" the beast reached down and gently plucked one of the last flowers from the ground. When I did not answer their question they simply answered them for me. "I suppose they have not, otherwise I would have died by now. Then again I have only persisted because you wish it so." The beast lurches forward. The sound of it's bones crackling flooded my ears and caused me to wince. "You wanted a foe just as much as your people wanted salvation. And the longing prevents me from dying in any way other than by your hand." The Beast's tone up until that point had been low and unassuming hardly that of a creature known as 'The Taker'. But something changed. Its voice now reeked of pain. I knew it was a risk but in a moment of poor judgment, I replied "How do I know what you say is true? How can such a terrifying and cruel creature be bound to me and my people?" The Taker only laughed in response. A cold and dry laugh. His laughter sent chills down my spine. Another shift in character. Was the once terrifying force of nature that turned entire fields of crops into dust losing its mind? "Answer me beast!" I shouted "You are the beast boy! Your questions are your own to answer. Deep down you've known ever since you learned the truth I am not the villain of this story you are." The Taker's voice ripped through the trees. The flower once gently held was now crushed in the beast's palms. The birds trying to flee on the wind begin to fall to the ground as if they were stones. I was enraged and insulted by the Taker's accusations. The hesitance I once felt was long gone I lunged with the intent to kill. The Taker made no effort to avoid my attack instead embracing me. "We are alike I take the life from those who mistreat it and you take the hope from those who need it. We are both takers and as such we shall both meet our end right here and now!" The maddening laugh flooded my ears once more. My magic began to crackle like lightning in the palm of my hands and began to spiral in all directions shattering the limbs of The Taker. No matter how hard I tried or how many limbs I destroyed The Taker only grew more and held me tighter. I screamed in utter anguish. I'll never forget that laugh, loud and manic devoid of the dryness it once held. In place of dryness, there was nothing but pure jubilation. I could feel myself growing weaker as my magic faded. Dust cascaded down my body like water rushing down a waterfall. The taste of blood lingered on my tongue and then I heard it, the deafening silence The Taker spoke of. Lying there in silence I found a peace I had not known. For the first time in my life I felt accomplished my struggle against The Taker left me with more questions than answers. It's words lingered in my mind, it's laugh in it's final moments haunted me, The moment of silence The Taker's death offered me time to think. And my last thought was that if The Taker and I were truly alike then I would welcome death but, would I welcome it with he same maniacal and joyus laughter? Or would go quietly in the night like a dove on the wind. "The silence truly is comforting" As the words leave my lips I took what I believed to be my final breath and closed my eyes.

t01iy3

A vampire tale

When I was five years old, I witnessed my parents’ death.  The night of the attack I had awoken to the sound of breaking glass and my father yelling. The clock on my nightstand told me it was a little past 1:00 a.m. Cautiously, I climbed from my warm bed and made my way across the moonlit bedroom. My hands shook a little as I opened my door and stepped into the cold, dark hallway.  I can vividly recall how long the hallway seemed that night and how cold the hardwood floors felt on my bare feet. I remember wishing I had put on my warm, fuzzy slippers. My favorite nightgown suddenly felt too thin, and I shivered, resisting the urge to jump back into my bed and hide there until the sun came up. The house was mostly silent now as I tip toed down the hall except for an odd sound that was coming from the living room. When I finally reached the end of the hallway, curiosity overcame my fear.  I peeked around the corner and stared in confusion at the woman who was effortlessly holding my father up against the wall.  His feet were dangling inches above the floor. I noticed that he was still wearing his work shoes. I remember thinking that he must have been working late again and my mother was going to be upset. My eyes moved upwards toward my father’s neck where the woman’s face was buried, and I realized the noises I was hearing sounded a bit like when you are slurping soda through a straw. The woman seemed to sense my presence and she turned to face me letting my father’s limp body slide to the ground.  The vampire standing before me appeared young and her jet-black hair fell in waves around her shoulders, her eyes were bright yellow, and her mouth and chin were covered in blood. She held my gaze as she lifted one finger to her crimson lips signaling for me to remain silent. She moved quickly across the room and for the first time I noticed my mother’s bloodied body lying on the floor.  I watched, horror-struck as the vampire scooped my mother up and leapt through the window and onto the snow-covered lawn disappearing into the dark, winter night. The police would later find a trail of blood leading into the woods behind our home but there were no footsteps in the snow, and they never found my mother’s body. With over two acres of land separating us from our nearest neighbors there were no witnesses to talk to other than myself.  Of course, nobody believed my full story. Who could blame them, really? I was sent to live with my grandmother in a nearby suburb. I tried my best to act “normal” and well adjusted. However, I spent my childhood researching and planning. When I grew up, I was going to find the monster who killed my parents, and I was going to destroy it. Twenty years later I would find myself standing outside a small, log cabin in the middle of a forest. The cabin was located about fifty miles away from the home I had lived in for the first five years of my life. I shook my head, finding it hard to believe that my parents’ murderer had been this close all along. I had her now though.   I had tracked the monster down the previous day.  There had been rumors online about a few animals (deer mostly) who had been found drained of blood. My internet search brought me to a forest where I had been exploring for hours. The sun had just set, and I had been resting briefly with my back against a large rock formation. I had just put my water bottle back in my pack and had placed my hand on the cool surface of the rock to pull myself to a stand when I happened to glance around the corner. Something in the river caught my eye. About twenty yards away standing naked, waist deep in the water was the woman. Luckily for me, she wasn’t looking directly my way, but I could clearly see her dark, wavey hair and her eyes were glowing yellow. Her image had been burned into my mind and I knew without a doubt that I had finally found the monster I’d been searching for. Barely daring to breathe I remained as still as the stone I was leaning against. I waited for the woman to exit the river and get dressed. Watching carefully from my hiding spot, I noted which direction she took as she walked away. It felt like hours passed before I worked up the courage to finally move and make my way back to my car. Resisting the urge to run and possibly draw attention to myself I moved cautiously through the trees and toward the road where my car was parked. I would come back during the day when I would have a better advantage. The next morning, I retraced my steps back to the rocky formation and made my way down to the riverbank. From there I followed the path I had seen the vampire take the evening before. Not far from the river stood a log cabin with no windows. I had been standing outside the cabin for several minutes, listening for movement inside and had heard nothing but the rustling of leaves in the breeze. I moved toward the cabin pulling my katana sword from its sheath as I stepped onto the weathered porch. After spending years researching vampire mythology, I had decided that cutting off the head was the safest bet. Just as I reached for the doorknob I heard my name, “Anna.” The voice was familiar to me, and I froze in my tracks. From behind me the familiar voice spoke again, “Anna, we’ve been expecting you would find us. Please put the sword down.” I turned around and standing there was the monster. She was wearing a long black dress and was holding an oversized umbrella over her head. Her pale face was actually quite beautiful, and she hadn’t aged a day since that evening when I found her in my living room. Then, I saw the source of the familiar voice. Standing next to her, holding another large umbrella, was my mother. The sword fell from my hand as I stood staring in disbelief.   The two women kept their distance, not wanting to appear threatening. The monster who I had spent my life hunting spoke next, explaining what had really happened twenty years ago. The vampire whose name I would learn was Elif, had been hunting deer in the woods behind our home. She admitted that she had often peered through our windows, fascinated by our human lives. She had noticed the escalating arguments between the man and woman who lived there, and she was worried about the human child. Elif usually hunted well after midnight and on the evening of the incident she noticed the man had gotten home especially late. She had heard the man yelling and had looked across the yard and through the large bay window in time to see him plunge a knife into the woman’s chest.  The vampire moved swiftly and before the man could even remove the knife, she had crashed through the window and had pinned him to the wall. She didn’t usually feast on humans but took exception in this case. Elif had hoped the child would remain asleep in bed and had always regretted that she had to take her mother away in front of her, but it was necessary. The vampire didn’t have the ability to save the woman’s life, however, she could give her a new one.  Elif and my mother had waited for years, hoping I would find my way to them so I could know the truth and so my mother could see me one more time. They had stayed here longer than they should have. It was time for them to move on and find a new home. Although the two vampires were usually very careful to dispose of their prey, the area was becoming increasingly populated. A few times in recent months people had caught them off guard, forcing them to abandon an animal carcass in order to avoid being seen. My mother blew me a kiss from where she stood. She was unable to give me a hug. Her feeding instinct was still too strong. She smiled apologetically before she and Elif turned and walked away into the dense forest beyond the cabin. I sat down on the porch watching them disappear into the trees. Years of vengeful anger slowly melting away. Underneath the anger was the sadness and loss I’d never truly allowed myself to process. I let the tears flow freely. I stayed until the sun was low in the sky. Then, standing up, I put the katana away and I stepped forward, leaving the cabin behind me.

lruvpz

Wamplus

      Tess suddenly sat up in bed, struggling for her eyes to gain focus as she roused herself from her nightmare that had been her close companion since she could remember. Her pink rose snap-down nightshirt was bathed in sweat and her fragile heart was thumping in her chest as she grabbed her two squirt guns in her left and right pockets, displacing the kleenex. She listened very carefully and yelled, "Are you there?" Receiving no answer, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, getting in a position to run, if need be. After a few minutes, her heart rate slowed and she calmed down a little. "That damned Walking Wamplus got me again", she muttered to herself. She was somewhat shocked, because she did the mental calculations and figured she hadn't seen him in over two years and nearly had put him from her mind. "How could I figure he was gone for good?", she wondered as she kicked herself. Indeed, the Wamplus went as far back in her memory bank as her mother, father and sister- which was nearly the last eighty of her eigty-six years. She grabbed her snake head cane that was propped against the side table and pushed herself upright. She made her way across the sparsely furnished bedroom that she always kept well-lit and stepped into her bathroom. She stared into the mirror and remarked, "I could scare a few people off. At least my eyes haven't changed and I didn't pee myself -which is something." Just then, her black Persian cat, Chairman Meow, walked in and wrapped himself around her legs. He was very vocal, and seemed to inquire about her welfare and give a strong hint that he was hungry. She remarked to him, "You should have seen me in my younger days. Never get old! Give me five minutes and I'll get your breakfast. " Chairman Meow seemed to understand every word and headed toward the kitchen. He sensed the Wamplus had been in the house and stayed away until the coast was clear                                                   Tess - Seven Years Old        Tess and her five-year old sister, Lisa, flew into the house to help themselves to the bright red punch from the smiling glass Kool-aid pitcher in the refrigerator. It was a hot July day and their slightly older male cousins and Aunt Diane had just left. The sisters and the boys had explored the nearby future Mechanicville High School grounds. They played hide-and-seek and tag while their mother and her sister had a visit. These were the days that children's play time was more free-lanced rather than supervised. They were flushed from the exertions and heat of summer, but were already casting about for another activity to stave off boredom. As they gulped down their restorative drinks, there was loud thumping, pounding and swearing from their father wafting up from the dark and dusty old basement. They normally would steer clear of any frightening noise, but decided to go down to check it out. Their father just finished slamming the door shut to the furnace room and jumped when they came up behind him. "Whatcha doing, Dad ?", asked Lisa, with her big brown eyes as big as saucers.           Dad said with a strange smile, " I was fighting the Walking Wamplus- the monster that lives in our cellar. He's in the furnace room now." The girls were shocked into unaccustomed silence as the gravity of the situation dawned on them. He launched into a very detailed description of the beast. " He's eight feet tall, with the bottom half of a kangaroo. His top half and huge arms are those of an ogre. He's got a thick neck and gigantic head and ears. There is no hair growing on the top of his head and he has rotten black teeth. He has red eyes that you can't look into or you will be frozen to the spot. He keeps knives and needles in his pouch and he walks like this." Dad demonstrated his gait by first swinging out his left leg way out to the side and then thumping it down hard in front of him. He then repeated the process with the right. The girls gulped.        Tess recovered her composure with her green eyes bright with unspilled tears and peppered Dad with questions. She asked, "He's how tall? How old is he? Can he come out of the cellar? You can't look into his eyes or he'll freeze you to the spot? How fast can he walk? What does he eat? Does he go to the bathroom? Can he talk? Will he hurt us?"          Dad was patient as he was being interrogated. He first demonstrated its height by holding his arm high over his six- foot high frame. He continued, "He's locked up in the furnace room but maybe could escape if he got the urge. He 's been here since the house was built a long time ago. Grass and trees are what he eats but he cleans up after going to the bathroom. I haven't heard him talk, but have heard grunts. He can't sneak up on you and wants to give fair warning that he's coming. He keeps the sharp stuff in his pocket only to scare people. Don't look into his eyes or you'll become hypnotized and can't move. Most importantly, he won't hurt you." He patted Tess's red hair reassuringly.        The younger but more thoughtful Lisa asked, "How do we fight him Dad?"         Dad smiled at this very intelligent question. He picked up a red squirt gun from one of the toy shelves . He said, "You try to get him right in the eyes so he can't freeze you. Don't look at him directly if you can help it. He stinks badly because he doesn't like baths, so you can probably hit him anywhere and he'll turn and walk the other way. " The girls nodded their heads solemnly up and down. Dad knew what he was talking about because he was a police officer. They went upstairs so artist Tess could draw him.        An hour later, the two girls heard more loud noises from downstairs and were waiting upstairs when their father emerged from the basement. Tess showed him the drawing of the kangaroo -ogre and he exclaimed, "You've captured him perfectly. No sketch artist could do any better. You've even spelled his name right. " Tess beamed a smile that lit up her freckled face and ran upstairs to tape the picture on her window. Mom,Tess and Lisa made the long trek down the hill to Amman's Cigar Store to buy a six-pack of water pistols and candy- you name it, they sold it. The rest of the day into evening was spent prowling around the outside foundation of the house, peering in the cellar windows with weapons drawn. They protested loudly when they were called to dinner. Tess later dreamed of the Wamplus hunting for her while she hid in ancient trees. She waited until he got close enough and hit him with a spray of water. She woke up before the dream ended. Looking back years later, that day was her first powerful memory of childhood.                                                   The Week after Wamplus        The days after Wamplus were spent in an enjoyable way. Happy hours were spent prowling outside hunting their quarry, sure that they saw or heard him multiple times. A few nights, they opened the cellar door, shone their flashlights and opened fire with sprays of water. Their dog Sandy was reluctant to join them, to their great disappointment. Tess got into the life-long habit of keeping two water guns under her pillow at night. She dreamed of her and the Wamplus stalking each other in exotic or familiar places- the Alps, Amman's and school. Sometimes he seemed menacing and once she thought he looked happy being hunted. Lisa said she didn't dream of him at all. One week exactly after Wamplus was one of the worst days of their lives.          They were spending the day up at their aunt and uncle's house in Stillwater for a small family picnic of assorted family relatives, about twenty in all. Uncle Don owned waterfront property on the Hudson River and also had the luxury of an in-ground pool. There was boating, swimming, water skiing for the brave and feeding fish from the dock.Too bad Dad had to work. Tess and Lisa were throwing torn- up bread for the hungry river fish. Mom yelled to them, "Tess, Lisa - come eat!" Tess tore off like a shot, grabbed a paper plate and loaded up. She was devouring the assorted picnic offerings for several minutes when her mother suddenly yelled, "Where's Lisa?!" Tess looked around and shrugged her shoulders.        All hell broke loose and the dozen adults and most of the children stopped eating and launched into action. The cries of ,"Lisa, Lisa !", permeated the air as the search party headed to the pool and river. Uncle Don dove suddenly into the deep end of the pool and brought Lisa to the surface. He pushed her up and over the side to her mother and concerned maternal relatives, armed with towels. Lisa gasped, sputtered and gagged, expelling chlorinated water. The cries of, "She's OK, she's OK,!", went up when she cried," Mommy, I saw the Walking Wamplus ", then burst into tears. Tess hurried over to check on her sister and was rewarded with a slap on her backside from her mother. To complete her humiliation in front of the family was the accompanying barb, "I've had enough of this nonsense, you should have been watching her." Tess and Lisa cried themselves to sleep that night, with snatches of their parents quarrel hanging in the ozone. Lisa slept soundly while Tess carried the weight of guilt and the burden of Wamplus nightmares. Lisa told Tess the next morning that Wamplus chased her from the dock and she hid from him in the pool.                                                   Monster Removal        Early the next morning, Dad announced that Wamplus was moving to a permanent home at the dump. He would be much happier there and would have lots of other people's garbage to round out his diet. Lisa was glad to see him go, but Tess had mixed feelings. Although she had reason to want him gone, she was more adventurous than her younger sister and enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. Dad covered their eyes with handkerchiefs and tied them at the back of their heads. Under no circumstances were they to peek. Terrible thumps and clangs emanated from the back of the truck. They drove several miles with the monster in tow and bid goodbye to him when they reached their destination. Lisa remarked,"He'll love all of this stinky garbage." They weren't allowed to remove their blindfolds until they got home. A few nights later, Tess dreamed she was hunting Wamplus in the deep jungles of Africa. When she told her mother, she realized it was a mistake. Her mother said, "For some idiotic reason, your father made up the stupid Wamplus story and it almost killed your sister. He isn't real. Forget him!" Tess dreamed of him anyway.                                                  Tess Age Seven to Eighteen        Tess grew into an arresting young woman. She was smart without being nerdy. She was witty without being malicious. She was attractive without being intimidating. She lit up a room and her peers sought her out. These people-pleasing attributes sometimes got her into trouble. The Wamplus showed up in her dreams enough to remind her he was a permanent fixture. She stopped talking about him even with Lisa, as he was a sore subject with their mother. Tess still kept squirt guns under her pillow-her friends brushed it off as an odd obsession. Her mother tried to get her to give up the practice, but decided to let it go. Every hill wasn't worth dying on. On the eve of graduation, Tess dreamed of Wamplus and it was a doozy. She was frozen to the spot and he towered over her, knife in hand. Her head pounded during the ceremony and continued the rest of the day. She felt too sick and tired to make the round of parties with her boyfriend Joe, and their three friends. She later heard the sirens and learned their car was wrapped around a tree, with no survivors. Wamplus struck again.                                                   Tess Age Eighteen to Thirty        Tess gave college a try at Russell Sage, commuting back and forth. She was still traumatized by the accident and bothered enough by migraines that often accompanied the Wamplus dreams. She dropped out when a relative managed to finagle her a job as a secretary at the State Department of Labor. She continued to live at home until she saved up for a small apartment in town. There was a vague hope that the physical move from the house would put a nail in the coffin of Wamplus. No such luck. She once asked Lisa, who came home from the weekend from Cornell, if she ever thought about Wamplus. "I haven't thought about him in years ", was the reply. Tess dated on and off during this time and hiked the Adirondacks, shopped and read classical novels. She started seeing and married Russell, an old flame from high school, after their ten- year reunion. He pressured her into the habit of drinking more than she liked. During a drunken stupor, she "fessed-up" about the reason behind the water pistols. Far from being understanding, he teased her incessantly about it- mostly when he was drunk. During a particularly bad dream, she sprayed Russell in the face. His response was to slap her in the face. When she apologized, he slapped her harder. They obtained a divorce by mutual consent and she moved back home to regroup. About ten years later, Russell shot and murdered his second wife. Tess wondered if Wamplus was behind it.                                                   Tess Age Thirty to Forty        Tess got another apartment in town and later married Fred, a coworker from Clifton Park. He was kind and shared her enthusiasm for hiking. Their combined incomes provided the opportunity to build a nice ranch home on an acre of land. She trusted him enough to tell him about Wamplus, and he was all in. He started keeping water pistols under his pillow and they roamed thick forests together, seeking the monster out. These adventures reminded her of the way she and Lisa hunted Wamplus during childhood. Unfortunately, Fred became obsessed with the idea and went overboard. He was on the lookout constantly for Wamplus and told all their coworkers about him. He was often unwilling to go to work out of fear of leaving the house or was unable to focus once he got there. He eventually obtained a full disability. Tess transferred to the Department of Tax due to embarrassment. The marriage ended when Fred fell off the ledge on a high point of Thatcher Park, hunting the Wamplus. Tess knew who was responsible.                                                   Tess Age Forty to Present        Tess sold the house in Clifton Park and moved back to an apartment in town. She didn't want the memories or the upkeep of the house. About this time, Lisa died in an auto accident. The report was that she swerved sharply to avoid something in the road, judging by the tire tracks. Tess dated from time to time but nothing serious- her relationships hadn't worked out so well. Her adventurous spirit was now much tamed. Television, movies and books occupied more space in her life. She became a favorite aunt, since she was the only one, to Lisa's two children. She retired as soon as she qualified. She got herself in a little trouble when she was tackled at the convenience store. A coworker had given her a realistic water pistol as a gag and an off-duty cop spotted it when she opened her purse. Both parents passed away when Tess was in her sixties. She briefly toyed with, then rejected, the idea of moving back into the house. She didn't want to take the chance of seeing Wamplus again and sold it with full contents after her mother passed. She was fortunate that kind and caring health aide, Dora, moved in next door when Tess was in her late seventies. Dora even promised she would adopt Chairman Meow if need be .                                                      The Last Hunt        Tess inched her way over to the glider on her back porch and plopped down to watch the sun come up. Chairman Meow had finished his breakfast and rubbed against her legs. Something seemed to spook him and he ran back into the apartment. Tess knew Wamplus was there, and this time was not afraid. He towered over her, but he didn't look as sinister as in her dreams or chance sightings. He knew every question she had and answered them. In a soft voice, he explained he was created by her father's description and her drawing. The water pistols had no effect on him. Lisa would have drowned in the river instead of hiding in the pool. Tess would have died in the car with her friends after graduation. Russell would have murdered Tess if she hadn't left. Fred had a lot of issues and had been thinking dark thoughts until Tess consented to date him. He lived several happy years beyond his destiny. Lisa's fate would have been torture and murder at the hands of the serial killer she had just started dating and was on her way to meet. Instead , she swerved off the road to avoid Wamplus. Somehow, Tess knew there had been joy in the hunts as well as fear and darkness. There was goodness and nobility in the Wamplus as he protected her over the decades. She patted Chairman Meow goodbye, left Dora a message and grabbed her drawing of Wamplus. She said,"I'm ready ", and they walked hand in hand to the happy hunting grounds. 

d4ot34

A Dance and a Deal

[This and the previous four stories are all linked…] An audience with the devil himself. My father uttered these unexpected words and they failed to land in the immediacy of my conscious mind. Despite that, I knew. Deep down I knew and perhaps I had always known. I was different and I had taken a path less trodden. I put this path down to my own priggish and stubborn nature. That way I could claim agency when it came to my life journey. I was never going to be comfortable with the notion of my being a pawn of destiny. That smacks of arrogance, I know. Perhaps a person needs a certain amount of arrogance to make things stick. My arrogance made itself known now, “is this some sort of joke?” Marcus, my maker, gave me a stern look, “since when have you known me to make a joke of something of this magnitude.” “I have not,” I said, “but you have to forgive me for struggling with this.” Marcus nodded, “especially for someone who struggled with the existence of God.” “Struggles,” I corrected him. “Even now?” his eyebrow was raised, “you are both strange and fascinating William. It seems to me that you would rather struggle than lighten your burden.” “That’s a polite way of telling me that I am stubborn,” I told him. He chuckled, “we are all of us stubborn. But tell me, do you not wonder at what else the universe contains if it can hold such as you and I?” I shook my head, “I have seen much evil.” “Oh,” he said simply, “and this has blinded you to all the good in the world?” “It is necessary for me to be blind to at least some of it,” I told him, “I am a danger to all that is good.” “You do yourself a disserve,” Marcus says, “all men are monsters, yet they are also angels.” “But I am no longer a man,” I replied. “And yet the devil would have an audience with you,” he said. “Because I am different?” I asked my maker. “I suspect so,” he said. “What could the devil possibly want with me?” I asked him. “There’s only one way to find out,” Marcus said, “unless of course you wish to remain here.” “The devil cannot venture here?” I guessed. “Let’s just say that it may be unwise for him to do so,” Marcus smiled. “Fools rush in where the devil fears to tread,” I quipped, bastardising a well-worn saying. “You are nobody’s fool,” Marcus smiled again. “And so I must see the devil and find out what he wants with me,” I replied. “You must do more than that,” Marcus said. “I will be tested?” I asked. Marcus nodded, “the devil does have some form on that front.” “I’m not exactly Jesus,” I said. “No one said you were,” Marcus chuckled, “but we all have our habits, and the devil does like to present a person with temptation.” “Two questions,” I said. “Yes?” Marcus said, inviting me to ask them both. “Did he make us?” I asked my first question. A question I had toyed with a number of times. “I think not,” Marcus said, stroking his chin in thought, “I do not think it was ever his place to do such a thing. He is the Great Deceiver. He does not make.  He destroys.” I nodded, this made a kind of sense to me and it emboldened me. Meeting my ultimate maker was too daunting a prospect. The Prince of Lies, I might just about be able to deal with. “Your other question?” Marcus said. “Where do I meet him?” I asked. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” smiled Marcus. There was something like mischief playing across his face. “You think he’ll be waiting for me when I leave here?” I ventured. “I’d put money on it.” * Marcus was right of course. Marcus makes a habit of being right. He puts this down to his perspective on the world and his willingness to fail and accept that failure. I am sure he could be quite annoying in the wrong company. Not that he would care about any annoyance caused. That’s all part of that perspective of his. I took my leave of the Temple of The Elders and walked back through the maze. Daylight and the promise of the outside world greeted me two hours later. Half the time it took to pass through the maze when I had arrived. He was waiting for me a short way from the secret entrance. I’m sure he wanted me to know that he knew where it was. It was, I thought, the sort of thing the devil would do. “You don’t look like I thought you would,” I said to the smartly dressed man with the vulpine features. Truth be told, he looked like an insurance salesman. Or a lawyer. The kind of lawyer that represents the guilty and gets off on getting their clients off. Thwarting justice, whilst earning obscene fees. “No horns or hooves?” he smiled his cunning smile, “I could wear them for you if you’d like?” “No thanks,” I said, “no theatre needed.” “Shame,” he sighed, “but what else would I expect with a father like yours?” He nodded towards the entrance to make his point. I did not take the bait. Of course he knew Marcus, or at least knew of him. “Anyway…” I said pointedly. “Down to business, eh?” he nodded, “shall we?” I nodded, and we walked. We walked just the same as billions of people walk each day. The only difference being that he was the devil and I was a vampire that had caught his eye. That and the fact that we did not encounter another living soul. Nice touch that, it kept our meeting confidential and ensured we were not interrupted. I’d expected to be dragged through a hellish portal to the fiery place itself. But then, that might not have been conducive to the sort of deal the devil had in mind for me. I doubted he was going to sell hell itself to me. That wasn’t how these things went. Hell was the debt you paid to underwrite the deal. The devil sold dreams that turned into nightmares at some point. He was adept at giving you what you wanted, but never what you needed. I’d been around long enough to know this, and also long enough to know that I was far from immune to his charm. Afterall, I still lied to myself and more often than not, I fell for those lies. If I could do that to myself, then just how far could the devil take me into the fires of hell? I don’t know why we insist on hell being this subterranean place filled with fire and brimstone. To me, hell is a soup of darkness that crushes the soul. There may be burning sensations. I imagine that will be how it feels as the black acid of the abyss takes everything of value from a person. I have seen hell on Earth and there is no fire there. Even the spark is gone. Instead there is only ice. An ice cold hatred for the love and happiness that resides in others. That the devil seemed warm and friendly, and quite unlike any of the treacherous evil creatures I had dispatched from this world, was almost confusing. It threatened to disarm me. Which was of course what the devil was very much about. He used silence very well. We walked and walked and he left me to my thoughts. He was using me. Softening me up. My imagination doing some of his work for him. Clever bugger. And of course he was clever, so very clever. He had to be. For in order to lie effectively, he had to know the truth. He had to understand a great many things in order to dress his lies up to look like truth. What he said had to seem like it made sense. He had to be consistent and compelling and he also had to tailor all of this to me. This was not just my arrogance talking. I knew I was different. That was why he was here. My difference had caught his eye. I just didn’t know why or what it was that he wanted from me. “Are you going to tell me why we are doing this?” I asked eventually. I was glad of the silence and the time. I had used it to calm myself after the initial fluttering of myriad thoughts across my fevered mind. I was as ready as I was ever going to be. If that is, you are ever ready to be tested by the devil himself. “Yes, of course,” he stopped walking and turned towards me, but his eyes were downcast, “it’s a bit embarrassing really…” “What is?” I asked. “You…” he said almost coquettishly, “you and your penchant for hunting down and killing my would-be disciples.” “That’s why we’re here?” I asked in disbelief. “Yes!” he cried, “I need you to stop!” “Stop?” I asked, “I can’t. You know I have to feed.” “Couldn’t you change your diet?” he suggested. Then he raised a finger. He raised a finger and in the next moment we were in something like a boudoir. There was always going to be theatre. Of course there was. The devil wanted to turn my head. He also wanted to show off, and whilst he pulled out the stops, he’d be reading me. Testing my defences and looking for a weak point through which he would undo me. The devil walked up to a semi-clad woman and pulled her to her feet. Then he twirled her around, “she’s appetising isn’t she? Couldn’t you just eat her up!?” I shook my head. “No?” he asked. Then, his eyes remaining on mine, he drew his finger nail across her neck. The cut was not deep, but it did not need to be. It beaded at the wound. I could smell it and in smelling it, I could almost taste it. My fangs extended and my mouth watered in anticipation of the taste of her. “Do it!” her voice, not his. A look of naked lust in her eyes, “take me! Take me now!” I was trembling with desire. The Dark Urge rising up within me and threatening to break through. I grit my teeth and retracted my fangs. “No,” I hissed, “I expected better from you!” “Better?” he grinned at me, “I’m the devil, my dear!” “You are,” I said, “and this is beneath you. This is a cheap trick unworthy of the devil himself. I cannot believe that I have wasted my time entertaining a snake oil salesman masquerading as the Dark Lord.” I turned to leave, but a powerful fist grabbed my shoulder, claws digging into my flesh as I was turned back to face a far more fearsome version of the devil. He stared at me with eyes raging with fire. The symbolism was fine, but I wasn’t impressed. I’d seen worse in the eyes of man. “How dare you!” he roared in my face. I shook my head sadly, “you’d resort to shouting?” I watched as he morphed back to his salesman form, “you know, I really thought I could tempt you to try her. She’s got the best blood going you know.” I raised my eyebrow, “you’ve done this before?” “Tempted a vampire?” he chuckled, “of course I have! It’s what I do! We all have our hobbies, don’t we?” I shrugged. “Besides, we’ve got a fair few of your kind back at my place. They’re the ones who sampled her blood and gave it the thumbs up,” he grinned again, then cocked his head in what was probably supposed to be an endearing manner. I sighed. “No?” he snapped his fingers and we were back on the pavement, taking a leisurely walk for all the world looking like two colleagues having a lunch time walk and talk meeting, “look, you’re a problem, OK? You’re a problem that I want to address, so how about I give you something you want in return for me getting a solution to my problem?” So here we were. This was it. “You want to do a deal?” I asked him. I wanted to state the obvious. Overlooking the obvious can lead to all sorts of problems in the normal course of a day, so to miss out something important when the tricksy devil is putting forward a deal is never going to end well. “Yeah,” he said, “why not?” “Because you’re the devil and you’re notorious for doing the worst deals imaginable,” I told him. He looked hurt. He actually looked hurt, “now that is so unfair!” he almost squeaked these words, “I get a really bad rap at times.” “I’d imagine that goes with the territory,” I said. “How do you mean?” he asked. “What with being evil incarnate,” I explained. “That’s a bit much actually!” he stopped and gave me a look, “you know I’m an angel, right?” “A fallen one,” I said. “Still an angel!” he said, “if I wasn’t doing this job, then another of my brother or sister angels would be here right now, trying to clear up the mess you’re making of the cosmic balance.” “Mess?” I asked. “Yes!” he performed a charade mime as he spoke, “hoovering up all that evil. It’s just not on!” “So what do you propose to do about it?” I asked. “Well, I think we’ve established that you don’t intend to stop, haven’t we?” he said, hands now on his hips. I nodded. “There is a solution,” he told me. “Really?” I feigned something like boredom, but I wanted to hear what he had to offer. This was the devil after all, and this was a big deal. The biggest of deals. “How old were you when you were turned?” he asked me. He asked me this question and I knew what his proposal was going to be. I just knew and it hurt me in a way I did not know I could be hurt. Fire and ice cut me deeply. I felt like I could drown in an inexplicable sadness. Somehow I kept it together. “It was four days before my twenty eighth birthday,” I told him with a voice stronger than I was inside. “Sixty more years should be enough, shouldn’t it?” he asked me. “I don’t think I follow…” I said. He chuckled, “oh you do!” he playfully punched my arm, “don’t kid a kidder!” “Human years?” I asked, in order to clarify what he was offering me and also to move things along, as inside I was still a maelstrom of confusion and pain. He was offering me my impossible dream. He was going to give me another chance. “Yes!” he chirruped, “that would work well for me, don’t you think? I mean, as a human, I doubt you’d go around bumping off all my followers!” “There is that,” I agreed. “An elegant solution for both of our problems,” he enthused. “Almost too good to be true,” I said dryly. “How do you mean?” he said slightly defensively. “Well, as my dear Ma used to say ‘if something looks too good to be true, it probably is.’” I shook my head and smiled, despite what I was feeling inside, “good try though.” The devil gave me a look like thunder and he probably could have mustered something of the sort there and then, “you’d pass up the chance to be human again?” I matched his look then. I matched it with a stern look that made it clear that I meant business right now, “you know something… Correction, you knew something that I didn’t and you sought to leverage that to tempt me and stop me from being me.” “And what’s that?” he asked me slyly. “I already am human,” I told him. “No, you’re a vampire!” he said firmly, trying to assert his words as truth. And it was a truth. Of sorts. “I’m a vampire with humanity,” I told him, “and you fear that. You fear it and what it is that I bring to the world.” “Lies!” hissed the devil, and I knew I had him on the back foot then. “When the devil calls you a liar, you know you’re speaking the truth,” I told him, “you’ve made a big mistake here today.” “The only mistake I made was offering that which you desired the most,” and with that the devil disappeared. I know he knew his mistake then. The devil himself alerted me to my calling and my destiny. He showed me that I had been on the right track all along. Now it was time for me to go out into the world and convert my fellow vampires. Time for us to push back the tide of evil by ending those who would corrupt all that is good. I saw it then. The potential for an exponential growth of evil if it was left unchecked. This was why we were created. To stem that flow. To fight. To fight in a way only we could. To provide a justice that humankind was incapable of. Maybe we were angels after all. Whatever we were, we had free will. We reasoned and we could make choices, just as I had done as the devil tried to tempt me into being something I could never again be. You could never go back, only ever forwards. I saw what must be done and I laughed. I laughed at the strange simplicity of it, but mostly I laughed at my father’s unerring ability to always be right. “You bugger,” I muttered as I left that place, and I imagined him winking at me by way of a reply.

peobtb

He Was Called Seven

The cold was biting. Winter holds no snow in these parts, not this far South, but it still bites at my skin. A Northern trapper had bellowed a laugh at my shivers one season, but he had died after two months in the South’s heat. I raised the thick collar of my mantle and pulled the hood farther over my face as the thoughts of the trapper fled from my mind. Where? It had been three days since I had seen a sign of it. No tracks. No traces of its course fur either. In the past, I had caught glimpses of the beast. He had grown in the years since the fire that had begun this hunt. He had been six foot then but now in the passing hunts, I saw his height tower to seven and a half. A true monster now. Glimpses of his true features still alluded me, but I knew his course, black fur anywhere and those horns... Like two black sickles pointing to the heavens, I could never miss them. I dreamt of the day I could carve them from his skull. Walking on, the cold bit at me. South’s winter by the line that blurred the territories was colder than the coasts. My breath floated to the sky and the sun sunk lower and lower. I needed to stop. Stop and get warm. That beast couldn’t escape. No matter how far it traveled I always found its trail again. I slung my pack to the cold soil and leaves crackled under its weight. The wood would not gather itself. ……… Cold. It was my only thought. My feeble fire seemed intent on dying as I threw stray leaves and sticks into it. Growls from my body made me groan. Water had been plenty, but food? Food had been scarce, and I refused to steal.  The fire finally dwindled and sputtered to its pitiful end. Belly empty, eyes weary, I wrapped my cloak and my mantle close to feel any warmth at all as sleep overtook me. Elusive as it was every cold night, sleep evaded me as I tossed and turned until something wet hit my nose. My eyes shot open, and I bolted upright. Snow? Here? I must be closer to the Northern territory than I had thought, perhaps even strayed into it. I was not equipped for snow. I got to my feet and trudged on. I needed to find shelter or just keep myself warm enough to march to the next village... But as hours crept by, no shelter was in sight and my hands felt numb. The Southern heat I could bear on the worst of days, but a light snow a Northerner would scoff at had become my hell. My eyes downcast, I trudged until a rumbling voice almost like a snarl tumbled towards me. “Gonna get worse, you know. You can stay here with me until morning.” I turned on my heel. A massive figure was sitting in the mouth of an abandoned bear den. Hesitating, I observed him in the darkness. Big guy, I couldn’t see his face, but his black cloak spilled out of the den’s entrance where he sat. I froze. He had big, black horns. “You,” I uttered, throat dry and strained from the cold. I drew my knife and lunged for him. After all this time, all this tracking, all this anger, he was waiting for me like a gift from my gods. He leapt aside and rolled in the shallow snow. His cloak fell to the ground in a heap and for the first time, I saw him fully. He was rust-colored and covered in scales. His eyes were a blaring yellow with his sclera being an abyss of black. He had no mane of black fur, but a thick stripe of course fur running from the base of his neck down his spine to the tip of his tail ending in a furry bulb. I lunged again and he moved aside easily. “Damn it,” I growled, and I landed a blow on him only to see his toothy grin. Sharp teeth greeted me, and I realized my knife couldn’t even pierce his scales. “DAMN IT!” I pulled away and threw my knife against a tree. It wedged into the bark with a thud and his gaze followed it. He turned back to me. “Are you done?” I threw up my hands and glared at him only to see he had a soft look on his face, “I often wondered when you would catch up to me, but I had a feeling about tonight.” “Then what do you want? To kill me?” “No, I meant what said, that den is big enough to keep us both warm.” I glared at him again and stomped towards the den. If he fell asleep, I could try again and slit his throat... He chuckled, picked up his cloak and slung it back onto himself before he settled back into his place in the den. His eyes roved over me and I pulled the hood of my mantle over my face. His voice, like boulders knocking together, reached me again. “I know why you hunt me... and you’re wrong, you know.” “What do you know, beast?” “I know that I did not set that fire.” It was like getting smacked with an axe, but my face betrayed nothing. “Why should I believe anything you say?” “If I had set that fire, shouldn’t I be killing you just as you plot to kill me now?” I looked away from him, wringing my hands. He was right. This beast had not tried to attack me once, only dodging my attacks... I shook my head; it was probably a trick. I dared to look up at him and only saw sincerity. If it was a trick, it was a damn good one. “Answer me this then,” I said. “Why were you at the fire?” “Tried to help, couldn’t. Despite my look, I am not immune to fire.” As more snow fell, I recalled that day. Sweet Southern spring and I was young and stupid and had never even dreamed of yielding any blade. My only concerns were my chores and the weekly trips to market with my father. I had gone to pick flowers when I saw smoke rising into the sky. Returning, I found my house ablaze and that beast crouching over my father. I tried to shut it away. Shut away how I bellowed at that beast to get away and how my father had no bite marks or bloody wounds. No. I had just wanted to hate someone for something I couldn’t stop. I put my head into my cold hands and groaned. Had I been chasing a lie? I felt a huge hand on me, and I jolted away. “Don’t touch me!” He moved away instantly and pulled his cloak around himself. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I know,” he began, “it is a lot to take in, but I saw you freezing to death. For hunting me, it is not worth dying.” My body surged with adrenaline, but it was not needed. I knew this. I pulled my hood back; the den was shielding the wind from me and so was his massive frame. The cold did not seem to seep into him as badly as it did me. “Why did you travel this far towards the border?” His eyes lingered on me for a moment. “To end this hunt. I knew the cold would slow you down enough to try and reason with you.” “What do you know of me,” I scoffed. “If you are hunted by a single human long enough, you know what gets to them. Be grateful I did have you follow me into Spider’s Grove, I know you hate them. Hate me or not, you would have begged for me to carry you out of that place!” He laughed loudly, a raspy sound but not unpleasant. I shoved him lightly. “Shove it, beast.” “Are you even aware that I have a name?” Grimacing, I looked away from him again. I had only seen him as this shape of evil for so long that I couldn’t imagine him even owning a name. “No,” I said gently. He rubbed a spot near his neck softly, a spot concealed by his cloak. Eyes distant, he looked at the light snowfall and kicked a clump of it. I cleared my throat. “Then what are you called?” His eyes met mine. The sincerity I had seen still hung in those eyes and he grinned. I did not see his pointed teeth as daggers of death this time, but I saw a smile that felt happy but weighted with something more. “I am Seven.” 

t73snw

The Correct Way to Use Your Friends

           Luis smacked the mosquito that was trying to make a meal of him. He hadn’t thought he’d be spending his night as a buffet.            The five teenagers trudged up the secluded driveway to the old plantation house, the lights from the large windows guiding them in the murky night.            “Thanks again for carrying my duffel, Nick,” Luis said.            “Yeah, no prob,” the wall of a football player said, and adjusted the two duffel bags strapped to his back.            And it really was no problem for the big lug. Luis smiled to himself.            Rupert turned in the dark. Surely to give Luis another glare. “Typical you don’t carry your share.”            “Now come on, Rupert,” Arthur said, from the head of the group. “It isn’t Luis’ fault that he hurt his shoulder at practice.”            “Very convenient,” Rupert said quietly.            That was the beauty about Arthur. He always believed whatever Luis said. He just had to spin some yarn about being sore from tennis practice and Luis could get out of anything.            It wasn’t like Luis was the one that had gotten them into this anyway. He side-eyed Christian. He was useful when he did Luis’ homework, but it was his fault they were wasting time here. His mom had all these books to deliver to his uncle. Arthur had volunteered them to lug the duffel bags full of them. Christian was always Arthur’s charity case.            The was the annoying thing about Arthur.  “Christian, your uncle better appreciate this. Your mom, too. We’re wasting a Friday night,” Luis said.            “Th-they appreciate it,” Christian said. The little nerd was never any good at talking to people.            “Come on,” Arthur said. “We gotta help each other. Just because you never need our help doesn’t mean we wouldn’t do the same for you, Luis.”            “Oh, Luis would offload something onto us at the first opportunity,” Rupert said.            Of all the baffling things Arthur did, why he had Rupert in the group was beyond Luis. Of course, Luis was useless, too, but unlike him, Rupert didn’t hide it.            Rupert was in the middle of throwing another barb as he set his foot on the first board of the porch’s staircase. The groan of age echoed through the night air, as if it reverberated in the very air. It was as if the house itself was crying out in pain.            “Jesus,” Luis said. “Your uncle’s house is old as hell.”            “Yeah, it-it was built when he, er, um, the family came over from R-Romania. Like a hundred years ago, um, give or, um, t-take.”            Luis’ fist balled. Christian’s voice was always so grating.            The house protested less as the remaining boys ascended the stairs. That same first board was nowhere near as loud with subsequent people, even when Nick the powerhouse stepped on it. Weird. But it wasn’t like Luis knew anything about how old-ass houses settled.            Christian produced an ancient-looking key to unlock the door, and the boys crossed the house’s threshold. The foyer of the massive house wasn’t much brighter than it was outside. A dull, overhead light flickered intermittently over the planked floor.            “Your uncle’s place is creepy,” Nick said.            Luis noticed Nick was bringing up the rear.            “Nick, that’s rude,” Arthur said.            “Un-Uncle Numara?” Christian weakly called out.            “Isn’t your uncle really old?” Arthur asked. “Probably need to be louder.” He took an inhale to yell for himself.            “Ah…Christian.”            Luis felt his skin crawl. The voice came from the top of the central stairwell. But it also sounded like it came from the…left hallway? Right? It was hard to tell.            At the top of the stairs, an old, hunched man sat in a crude, wooden wheelchair. Whatever hair he had left was largely unkempt. A plaid blanket covered his legs. His arm jerked to point at the boys.            As his uncle spoke, he didn’t seem to directly look at them.            “These must be…the friends you’ve told me about…Christian” the uncle said in a raspy voice that seemed like it echoed through the entire house despite its languidness.            “Y-yes…” Christian said meekly.            “Good to meet you Mr. Carmine,” Arthur said, and hefted the duffel bag hanging at his side. “We brought the books your sister had for you.”            “Thank you. I have few…luxuries left to me in my age,” Numara said. “All I can do is sharpen…the mind.”            Luis thought there wasn’t much left to sharpen.            “Christian, show them to the library,” Numara continued. “I’m afraid…I must go eat. I’m positively…famished.”            “Y-yes Uncle,” Christian said. The poor sap didn’t even make eye contact. He just led the group down a hallway to the left of the stairs.            As Luis was leaving the foyer, he passed a last glance at Christian’s uncle. The decrepit codger didn’t seem to be moving.            When they got to the spacious library, they went to work finding space on the shelves for all the new tomes. Nick and Arthur went right to work.            Rupert plopped down on an old, cushioned reading chair. The wood seemed like it’d give away as he did.            “Not gonna help?” Luis chided.            Rupert glared. “Unlike you, I actually had to carry something here.”            “You seem to be the only one bothered by it,” Luis said. “As usual.”            “Because unlike you, I can feel shame,” Rupert said. “And I mind when someone doesn’t pull their weight, even if Arthur doesn’t.”            “Good old Arthur,” Luis said.            “Too good to recognize a leech.”            “Big talk for someone who also doesn’t bring anything to the table.”            Rupert shook his head. “You really don’t understand Arthur.”            “I don’t need to understand any of you,” Luis said as he walked off. Rupert was the only person who came close to getting under his skin. But it was a small price to pay. Someone who’d always had friends would never understand him. High school was torture, but it’d been so much easier after he’d scammed Arthur into joining his friend group.            As he made a show of putting a book on the shelf, the word “leech” kept creeping into his thoughts. It didn’t matter. Rupert could call him whatever he wanted. It was still paradise here compared to before. The lonely lunches, the lack of motivation to do schoolwork, being one of the last to be picked in gym, sitting bored at his dad’s apartment on weekends, the pain of hearing other peoples’ laughter.            He wouldn’t go back to that. So he’d use Arthur and his friends as long as he could. They’d eventually realize he had nothing to add and cast him aside. Until then, he’d milk this.            “Just put them in that cupboard,” Arthur said.            Luis looked back to see Nick opening the cupboard doors to-.            “Whoah, look out!” Rupert shouted as he leapt from his chair.            Luis jumped to his feet as he saw the cupboard lean forward. It happened so fast that Nick was under it in a flash.            “Nick!” Arthur dropped his books on the floor and knelt by the fallen cupboard. He clasped the other side to lift it, but he strained from its weight. “Luis! Help me with this.”            “But Nick is…” He usually had Nick do any kind of physical labor. Luis wasn’t out of shape or anything, but he was just a subpar tennis player.            Rupert ran over from the corner and rounded the opposite side of the cupboard from Arthur and contributed to the lifting effort. Eventually they got the cupboard standing up again, but Luis gasped when he could see under it.            Nick was gone.            There was nothing on the floor or in the cupboard to indicate Nick had ever been there.            “What the hell?” Luis said.            They all stood there in silence for a second until Arthur looked around. “Where’s Christian?”            “Who cares?” Luis asked. “What happened to Nick?”            “I don’t know, maybe there’s some…trap door he fell through or something. Christian’s uncle would know,” Arthur said.            “A trap door?” Rupert asked. He pointed at the faded red rug. “The carpet hasn’t moved. And…” He leaned down and peeled the rug up, to show an undisturbed plank floor underneath.            “Well something happened,” Arthur said.            “Of course something fucking happened!” Luis yelled.            “Let’s just…find Christian,” Arthur said. “Maybe him or his uncle know something…”            The three boys awkwardly shuffled out of the library. Luis knew all of them were having trouble reconciling what had happened.            “Oh, there’s Christian’s uncle,” Arthur said.            At the end of the dark hallway, Christian’s uncle sat there in his wheelchair, unmoving.            “Mr. Carmine,” Arthur began as he walked toward him. “Sir, something weird happened to our friend. He…”            In a flash, Christian’s uncle leapt down the hallway from the wheelchair with his arms stretched out. It was almost like a marionette jerked forward by its strings. He collided with Arthur, knocking him down. Arthur screamed to high heaven, but he was able to knock the old man off him with relative ease. The ancient assailant fell in a heap at the side of the hallway.            Luis nervously took a step forward and nudged Christian’s uncle with his toe. He didn’t react at all.            “Dude, what the hell?” Rupert leaned in and pulled the man’s unresponsive arm up. A big chunk of wood was jutting out of his elbow. But there was no blood or anything. His skin was like a torn sheet of paper.            Their attention on the pile of old man was broken by a whacking sound behind them.            Luis and Rupert turned to see Christian, holding a large wood block, standing over an unconscious Arthur.            “S-sorry guys,” Christian muttered.            And before Luis or Rupert could do anything, the boards below Christian and Arthur silently split open, and they both fell through. The large, jagged hole remained.            Luis realized he was about ready to fall over and caught himself on a small table at the side of the hall.            But Rupert was moving toward the hole, one leg already swung down in. “Come on, we gotta go after them.”            “Are you crazy?” Luis said, knowing his voice was cracking.            “Luis, they’re going to get killed,” Rupert said. “Arthur’s going to get killed.”            “And? The fuck are we going to do? Christian’s uncle just did an Exorcist on us. And Christian just took Arthur through a funhouse floor, or something. And who knows where Nick is.”            “Look, I’m scared, too, but we’ve got to do something.”            “You’re crazy,” Luis said. He turned and started toward the entryway.            “Are you serious? I know I give you crap all the time, but you can’t act like a coward right now.”            “Shut up.”            “They could die.”            “We’re useless!” Luis shouted. His palm hurt as he gripped his hand. “We aren’t useful to any of them day-to-day. What are we supposed to do here?”            “So we just let them die?”            Luis continued toward the entryway.            “Selfish ass.”            Then Luis heard him drop into the hole.            He didn’t understand. Rupert was a pain in the ass, but he wasn’t dumb enough to not realize how useless he was going to be. Suicidal, that’s what it was.            Luis kept walking toward the foyer. He’d just need to slide into someone else’s friend group. It didn’t matter who it was, after all. They were just a means to an end. A survival tool.            He was a piece of shit. That was why he’d never have real friends, he knew that.            All those times Nick forced him to help practice for football. All those times Arthur dragged him around to all those parties. That one time he and Rupert had been the only ones to enjoy a movie they’d went to.            He’d never have had those moments if he hadn’t tricked them into joining their friend group.            All those moments.            “Oh my god,” he whispered.            Before he realized it had happened, he had jumped into the hole.            He thought there would be some sort of sheer drop, but in the darkness of the pit, his velocity became erratic. Unnatural. He fell down, then to the side, then up, then down again. At some point, something grabbed his ankle and dragged him.            Eventually he tumbled onto a floor of dirt, a good amount of it getting in his mouth. The memory of the ankle grab on his way down jolted him to stand up. It looked like he was in some small underground cavern, surrounded by walls of dirt. The ceiling was covered by the same planks as the house’s floor.            Arthur and Nick were being suspended from the ceiling with a wide variety of electrical cords wrapped around them.            In front of them, Christian was wrestling Rupert to the ground. Christian lifted his wooden block over his head.            Luis shuffled his feet to find purchase, then leapt forward. Christian saw him, and gave a shocked expression. Luis tackled him with all the strength a mediocre tennis player could muster, and the two tumbled end-over-end across the dirt.            “You w-were supposed to r-run, Luis!” Christian huffed.            “Holy shit,” Rupert said from behind.            Luis held down Christian’s arms. The wooden block had fallen to his side during the scuffle. “What the fuck is going on Christian?”            “The pathetic boy is but my tool,” a voice reverberated through the space.            Luis frantically looked around. He knew that voice, even though it sounded stronger now. But they’d left Christian’s uncle in the hallway above…            “My former vessel is not here you buffoon.” The planks above them suddenly began to move, and snapped boards began to angle toward him. “You have been snared within my jaw from the moment you entered this abode.”            “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Luis repeated.            “Christian, is your uncle…” Rupert started.            More cords shot out from between the ceiling planks. Luis grabbed Christian’s wooden block, but before he could swat the cords away, he felt them wrap around his waist and jerk him upward. They bit into his skin, and it became hard to breathe.            The cords shot toward Rupert, but he managed to avoid the initial volley, and ran toward their hanging friends. He gripped the cords entangling Nick.            “Nick!” Rupert started slapping their friend’s face. “Wake up!”            Nick jolted awake. “Whuh-?”            “If you don’t get out of these cords, we’re going to die!”            Luis had always thought Nick’s simpleminded nature was a detriment, but in that moment, even with how disoriented he probably was, he immediately listened to Rupert and lifted his arms against the incredible tautness of his serpentine restraints. He got his arms free and grabbed the cords suspending him. With his massive bulk, and with Rupert’s help, they pulled and brought him back down to earth. With some footing, Nick began to pull even harder.            The entire structure violently shook. The reverberations caused Luis to feel like he was going to burst.            “I will consume blood, bones, and soul!”            But Nick kept pulling, and eventually the cords pulled something through the ceiling planks that was like a big ball of flesh. Blood and ooze secreted all over the grotto.            Rupert jumped off and pulled Arthur closer to Nick. As Rupert undid his ties, Nick grabbed his cords as well, and pulled harder.            “Stop!” Christian tackled Nick, but the little nerd was so weak that Nick didn’t even budge.            “Useless spawn,” the house echoed.            Suddenly Luis felt himself pulled toward the fleshy ball so fast he almost got whiplash.            “You will replenish my strength.”            A fleshy maw opened in the grotesque sphere, and Luis could see what looked like a desiccated, shriveled heart.            Luis couldn’t hear himself screaming through the vibrations. Wet, slick flesh closed in around him. But there was still enough room for him to swing the wooden block he clutched. In an instinctive flailing, Luis brought the block down hard on the malformed heart.            As the heart was squashed, the reverberations somehow grew even stronger, like they were at the epicenter of an earthquake. Luis felt the sensation of freefall before thudding onto the ground, still entangled in the fleshy sphere.            “Luis!”            Rupert pulled Luis out of the ball by his armpits, then undid the cord around Luis’ waist. Somehow, the makeup of the grotto had changed drastically in the short time he’d been in there. The planks had collapsed all around them. If it weren’t for the opening Nick had made, they might have been crushed.            “Come on!”            Nick had made his way up a makeshift ramp of planks that had only partially collapsed into the underground area. He cradled Arthur under one of his arms. Luis got to his feet and ran up it alongside Rupert.            Before Luis crested the top of the ramp, he looked back to see the weakened, fleshy ball shoot out more cords that tied around Christian. He clawed the dirt as he was pulled toward it, but his screams were drowned out by the house’s roar.            Luis looked away and ran.            The escape from the house was a blur. Despite carrying Arthur, Nick ran ahead of them the whole time. For the duration of their flight, the house wailed.            Even when they fled beyond the entryway, the teenagers didn’t stop moving until they were well into the surrounding forest.            Eventually Luis and Rupert collapsed. When they did, Nick placed Arthur down and took a seat on a stump.            “I’ll never give you shit again,” Rupert panted.            “It’s fine,” Luis said. “This is the only thing I can contribute, I guess.”            “Why do you think I gave you crap?” Rupert asked. “It’s because you think being friends is some kinda exchange of services or something.”            “But why would Arthur keep me around if I’m so useless?”            Rupert clasped Luis’ shoulder. “Because the only thing you need in a friend is to like the guy.”            For some reason it felt like someone had taken something heavy off Luis’ body. It was still the dark of night, but for some reason it felt so bright with Rupert, Nick, and Arthur there.

1wnwyp

Nouveau Negotiations with a Dia-Bowl-o-Cowl

First, let's set the parameters. He came to me. I did not summon or scry or present any ritual of conjuring. The world was ending, was what the Main (defined listing in French, if ye seek to spell out the meaning of what apocalyptic scripture speaks of in reference to the prowler who oft dons a cowl) of d'veil said. He croaked as if thirsty for water from running, his lips cracked, but the message was so urgent he sought to deliver it before being delivered from his anguish instead. People have a lot to say about deals with the devil. I never really minded those kind of bargains, since my life entails serving conducted contracts for a linear progression of Vision I’ve always kept. It’s the weigh of the platform we inhabit and I can’t get much plainer than that. People often forget that a deal can go both ways. When you mention deals with the devil, why do I not gather from your intonation that the devil could also beg for mercy or a favor? Do you credit him to have any sort of authority in hell, heaven or earth? Do you know the Scripture that is the basis of the Constitution we serve here as citizens in Union America or are you another alien from some other non-terrestrial world that plagued my long-lost still-beloved and prayed-for Confederate brothers? I question thee because I want you to reflect really very closely on your inner landscape to measure if you are worthy of reading the prologue to the monologue that will be issued after I receive compensation for issuing these majestic secrets, for God is the Ruler of all Heaven and Earth and e’en Hell is a Dominion He hath reserved for those that think too highly of themselves as we proceed further in this course of literature. Be careful who you call a devil in the wretched, despicable weigh you’ve all been speaking. Be careful how you split and divide the Testament of God which is holier than whatever you happen to be reading. There’s a Reason to why I so zealously cry out for my Brothers in Re-Union. You can NOT separate what God has linked together in His Scriptural Resolutions of Faithful and Joyful steps of the Kingdom of Judah and Christ be Kept and if you do, that’s your own battle-axe cleaving through your forehead, whimp. I intend to keep myself in Peace as one Body, one Piece, for all of Kingdom Come, so you call me stubborn. I know I am, but not stubborn with God, that’s your stubbed tread on the footstool of His Covenant, ‘but’-friend. Anyways, I’ll draw this out with some lighter speech as you continue to weigh yourself if you’re worthy to hear the ‘devil’ speak. I’d like to share some lovely verses with you that have kept me in good stead as I’ve stood fast at this Monte Vista Homestead. It’s from the Bible, a book I’ve read time and time again, that never gets boring but only more interesting with each season and session of interpretation. Of course, I’ll be paraphrasing, but I’ll credit my cornerstone tome as honorable mention lest I be accused of any plagiarism. I do have authoritative creative license, though, to pull from my influences and prime inspiration. I encourage you that do deign yourselves enough to take up the noble human charge against these non-terrestrial aliens that have presumed themselves as having infiltrated, mayhap even ruling now upon us, to take up the armor of God in all faith that you have basic instinct to execute our survival revolution. For this is just another turn in the pages of our New Jerusalem. Let me catalog our basic gear for you, so you can draw on your family heritages and ancestral gene pools to coalesce some semblance of Abrahamic covenant of Righteousness when we again gather for our Mosaic Law and Order militia rendezvous bands. All the colors of the Rein-bow shall shower Glory and Honor to the Name of One God Forever and Ever once again, I humbly portend. One: Mind your feet. Make sure your footwork treads in the weigh of a go’speller of Peace. Don’t go seeking trouble. Take your crew, your nuclear family units, through drills to escape and evade as much as you may have to when the maelstrom inevitably breaks out all around you. Two: Make sure you have a good belt. It’s good for more than keeping your pants up and from your drawers hanging out. Catch my drift? Three: Make sure you have means to secure your most vital organs. Breastplate of righteousness. Cover your woman, cover your children, and back your two most trusted men. Three’s company, but anymore can get a little crowded for these upcoming triangulated phalanx repositions. Four: Cover your head. The aliens always aim for the head, that means build up your woman. She’s just as scared as the kids, but don’t tell her to be positive. Just reinforce her corrections and submissions. Now’s not the time to be squawking on each other like we do in our free time of leisurely training and discipline. United Front, mind your marriage contract or dissolution. Preserve humanity first and then we can determine altar recourse post-execution. Five: Shield yourselves. Bunker up. Look up. Seek high ground. ‘nough said. Six: Finally, your greatest weapon in this Time of Post-Modern Revelation is the Sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God. Mind how you speak with your children, instruct them, but in these times they need a tone of compassion and perfect love. You need to let them know how precious and valuable you are to them and to all Magne-Kind. Comfort your woman because she needs to feel supported to reinforce your instruction in this most crucial paragenesis time. Ok, now that you deem yourself outfitted … let’s ride. ' Rite down yer wisdom ,' he spitted, as phlegm dripped from his mandibles. " I got none to give, " I flatly replied back. He was dribbling all over my new (freshly-purchased) boots and family heirloom carpet. He did break in like a bandit in the middle of my midnight rumination. ' I beseech ye have it ,' he gagged, spitting up a cacophony of ragged gasps that alerted me to the tumors that had been suffocating his frame and yet he made the passage. " Name the book and I'll interpret ," I requested as I reached to my nightstand and poured out a glass of water 'stead of scotch I often kept near at hand. ' The Testament... know it like the back of His Hand,' the stranger said as he nudged the cup aweigh. " Alright, I'll study. Are you leaving or do you need to stay? " That's how the conversation and the redemptive deal of antebellum started, but if you want the rest, you got to properly appraise me. Show me the money (in advance) and I'll show you the story, ye comprehend? I think we're finished here. Till you prompt me again.

rtdj3r

Wolf Water

Alaris' footsteps crunch against the snow. She tried to even out the weight of her body with every step she took, but the bow and arrows she carried made it hard to walk silently. The council had limited rations again, and her sisters were starving. First, they had limited the townsfolks' water supply, only turning it on every few days, and then they had taken their food. She tries not to be bitter, but it was hard not to be when she heard council members throw lavish parties for their friends while people struggled to survive in the town they had created. A sound echoed behind her, chasing the thoughts from her mind. She ducked, unthinking, as she slid between a tree and a bush and took aim. Her eyes wander, hoping to see a deer or another large animal that would feed her family for a while. She hears it. A growl followed by a roar that shook the tree above her. She shuddered, grasping her bow tighter, and she maintained her aim. A bear if she was lucky. If not, then the creature. Her mind raced with thoughts of the beast that had terrorized their town for years. People had called it a wolf, a bear, something horrid and cunning that had taken many people's lives, including her mother. The shadow of it falls first, closer to the tree than she'd like to imagine. She got the briefest glance of dark fur and sent her arrow flying. She listened for the sound of the arrow sinking against the flesh, but it never came. She stares in horror as it embeds itself in a tree behind the creature, which is more wolf-like than a bear. She refuses to scream as the creature steps closer to her. Her hands shake as she notches another arrow. She scrambles back, making it only a foot before her feet betray her, and she trips over a lone branch of the bush. The creature is almost on top of her. She closes her eyes and shoots. She hears the arrow hit its mark and listens for a howl of pain, but nothing. She opens one of her eyes and sees him. There, lying in the snow, is a man, nearly naked save for the fur pants he wears, staring at the arrow in his leg. He's beautiful, she thinks. His dark skin starkly contrasts against the white snow. His eyes are brown, wide and full of wonder, a sea of darkness she yearns to fall into. "You shot me." His voice is melodious and deep. Shock drips from every word. "I'm sorry." Alaris stutters out, "I thought- You were." She can't finish the sentence, her mind trying to assemble all the pieces before it. "It's you." She grabs another arrow, notching it in her bow, "You're the monster. You've been attacking my people for years." The man holds his hands up in surrender. "I'm not a monster." He sighs, "But I am not human." "You killed my mother." The man shakes his head. "I didn't." He defends, "Your councilmen did." "No." Alaris' hands tremble, but his words ring true in her mind. Despite what they had told her family, she never truly believed her mother would have been killed by the creature. Her mother never ventured into the woods alone and would've never been that far from town. "I can prove it." He says imploringly. "You tried to kill me." Her voice is stern, and she forces her hands to stop shaking, glaring at the man. "I didn't know you were here. I thought you were a deer, I was trying to scare you off." He's convincing. She'll give him that. "Please. You have to believe me." His pleading shifts something in her heart. "What do you know about the councilmen?" She asks, taking the arrow from the bow and placing it back in her bag. "I know how they did it and I can take you there." His brows furrow, serious as he speaks. "But, I can't walk that far with my leg like this." "I can take you to the village-" "They'll kill me." He cuts her off. "What would you have me do?" She asks. "There's a witchwoman who lives up there." He points up the mountain, "help me get to her and I'll tell you how to stop the councilmen." "How do I know you're telling the truth?" "I wwon’t hurt you." The answer is more honest than Alaris expects. "But to make it worth your while," he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few pieces of gold, "I can pay you, my weight in gold, to take back to your village. Even if my information doesn't pan out, you'll be able to take care of yourself and your family." Those few pieces of gold could pay for their family for the rest of winter. Alaris eyes the gold, thinking of her younger sisters' sunken faces as she nods. "I'll help you." She helps the man to his feet, noting how warm his skin feels against hers. She notes how his hands slid perfectly into her own, a sense of familiarity flooding her mind. She ignores it as they walk through the snow, the creature keeping pace with her. They walk silently for a few minutes, the creature pausing occasionally, his head cocked. "What do you hear?" She asks him. He shakes his head. "It's probably nothing. Just blood loss." He gives her a wry grin. She doesn't believe him but lets him change the subject. "I'm sorry about your leg." "You don't sound sorry at all." He laughs. "It's good to know you're still a good shot." She pauses. "Still?" She questions. He looks at her in confusion before he realizes what he said. "Slip of the tongue." He shrugs. Alaris eyes him as they continue walking. They walk for nearly two hours in silence. Alaris had never been this far from the town, never bothered to reach this far up the mountain. There was a break in the trees ahead, and Alaris could see it. The cabin was old, not dilapidated, but it had seen better days. Ivy covered the front of it, except for the two small windows. Smoke rose from the chimney in small curls, making the cabin look picturesque in the winter woods. The man strode forward without hesitation, and Alaris stumbled her way behind him. He opened the door, not bothering to knock and wait. Inside, the cabin was warm. A green couch and red chair sat on a rug in front of the fireplace. Behind them, Alaris could see the beginning of the kitchen, a small wooden table. The walls were stacked high with shelves, each containing many small vials and bottles in various colors. "Yleth, you could learn to knock." An old croaking voice said. A woman stepped out from the kitchen, her body small and frail, but Alaris didn't doubt the power emanating from her. Alaris realized she had never asked the man for his name. She tested it out, relaxing at the ease with which the word came from her mouth. The name reminded Alaris of home. Long silver hair draped down the woman's body. Silver eyes met Alaris' scanning, searching for something Alaris didn't yet have. "You brought her here." There was no question in the woman's voice. "Yes." Yleth answers. "Why?" "I shot him." Alaris adds. The woman looked down at Yleth's leg and laughed. "Quite the reunion. So what do you need me for?" Yleth smiles at her, a beaming smile full of teeth, and rips the arrow out of his leg. He walks to one of the shelves and grabs a clear liquid vial. Alaris doesn't have time to process that he lied. He could walk perfectly fine before he's spritzing the vial's contents on her with his fingertips. "What are you doing!" She shouts. The liquid is cool against her skin, disappearing as soon as it lands, leaving her dry. She wants to yell at him to stop, but memories flood her mind like they have been held back. Her mind is full of memories of her and Yleth. Nights spent in the forest, under the light of the moon. Days spent here in the cabin with the old woman Alaris remembers is named Ragna. "What is this?" She asks as another memory takes over. A memory, but through different eyes. In the memory, she's running with Yleth down the mountainside. They're racing back to her father's home, that's filled with pictures of the two of them. One of the pictures depicts their wedding, something she had long waited for. "Who are you?" She asks Yleth. The sound of a whistle stops him before he can answer. Alaris can hear men shouting outside, the sound of machinery following it. There's a silence, followed by a high keening sound before one of the windows shatters. A flaming arrow embeds itself in the wall behind Yleth, and he runs, tackling Alaris to the ground. Another arrow pierces the air where she had just stood. Alaris looks at the window in confusion. Ragna disappears in a huff of smoke. Just beyond the window are the ten councilmen, all armed with weapons aimed at the witch's cabin. "What's going on?" She cries. "I'm your husband." Yleth holds her tight. She wants to disagree, but the memories flooding her mind say otherwise. She's stuck trying to focus on him even as the memories barrage her mind. "Your town used to be filled with creatures like us, maybe it still is, but these councilmen, they stole the townspeoples memories, they forced them to forget what we are. What you are." He holds her closer, "They tricked the people into believing it was me, they poisoned all of you using their water system, locked away all your memories, and are leaving you all to die." "Why don't I remember anything?" She asks, even as more memories flood her mind. "Ragna helped me, she's the one who locked away your memories and told me how to bring them back." Yleth rises from the floor and helps Alaris to her feet. They stumble towards the kitchen, where only one covered window blocks the view from outside. "Come out, wolf man!" One of the council members yells. "Come on out and we won't hurt her." "You need to free the town. Remind them of who they were." "You lied to me." That is all Alaris can get out. "I'm sorry." Yleth strokes her cheek, "I lied to get you here, but only because Ragna created this place, warded it against all magic, even her own. You would've gotten your memories back even without her potion. I couldn't very well walk into town." "Come out before we burn the whole place down!" Another arrow flies through the broken window. The memories, Alaris allows herself to think, are real. She holds Yleth tightly as the memories of their lives together overwhelm her. Tears spring as she lets the memories dance across her mind. Memories she had treasured so much that she never wanted to let go of them again. "Come out before-" "You kill her. I got it!" Yleth growled a sound Alaris found new and familiar all at once. It was like meeting for the first time again. "Promise me, you'll get this to the people." He shoves something in the pocket of her pants. She refuses to break eye contact with him as he nods. "They won't hurt you if you pretend not to know anything. Pretend as though you don't know anything." He commands. He kisses her forehead and walks towards the councilmen. "Where are you going?" He smiles back at her, a warm, genuine thing that has her heart unfurling in her chest. "To save our people." He takes two more steps before he turns around, "I love you." He doesn't wait for her to respond before he steps out the door. Shock overwhelms her, but she can feel it, the love pulsing through her veins. Excitement fills her body at the thought of being able to say it back. She hears him talking to the council. "She doesn't know anything yet." "Are you sure, wolf man?" Another member asks. "Certain." He growls, "Ask her yourself." "Alaris!" A voice booms, "come out here!" She doesn't have to fake the shaking that emanates from her body. Every one of the council members sits on a horse. Each man has a weapon, from a bow and arrow to knives. She even spots guns in a few of their hands. "Are you okay, my dear?" One of the councilmen asks, he hardly recognizes him, usually, they only see the councilmen when they deliver their tithes or when the council has something to announce. She's too shaky to say anything. She glances at Yleth, whose eyes are trained on her. "Do you know this man?" The same councilman asks. As she shakes her head, she forces her eyes to go wide to do what Yleth said. "No, sir." She lies. "Good." The councilman asks. A shot rings, Yleth stays standing for only two seconds before he falls back, his blood painting the snow red. "Are we to trust her?" One of the councilmen asks as Alaris stands frozen, seeing her husband's body. Tears flow down her face, and she lets out a scream. "She's only a woman." She's given a pelt and sat upon one of the councilmen's horses. Her eyes remain on Yleth's body as they return to town. The councilmen arrange themselves in their seated circle at the Court House. The large room allowed them to put ten thrones in the room set in a semicircle, each in front of a large stained glass window. Alaris stands in the middle, unseeing, as her father is escorted in. "What have you done to my daughter!" He demands as soon as he sees her. He gathers her in his arms. She allows the tears to fall freely, if only for a moment. "We saved your daughter, Mr. Uryist, from the wolf man. You would be wise to remember that." "I apologize." His voice is filled with nothing but contempt as he says it. "Thank you for bringing her home." "Of course, Mr. Uryist. She will return with you for the time being. Tomorrow morning we will question her." "Thank you." Her father turns to guide her out of the room. On the way out, a glimmer of gold catches Alaris' eye. The Well. The town's water source, only used when the council says, sends water into each household, into every spout in town. They haven't used it in days. A courtier is by it, turning one of the levers, allowing water to flow into the city. During tithing, Alaris had seen it happen before but paid little attention to it. Alaris pats her pockets and feels the small bag Yleth had placed in her pocket. If the councilmen had used the water to erase the townsfolks' memories, she could use it to bring them back. She pulls the small bag out of her pocket and walks to the Well. She hears someone yelling behind her, a cacophony of voices screaming as she opens the bag. Arms wrap around her, forcing her back. The dark powder falls, still contained in the bag. She breaks one arm free of the person holding her back and catches the bag. Her mind is on autopilot as she stomps on the person's foot, hearing them yowl in pain as they release her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her father being restrained. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before sending the bag flying. The water in the well sparks and smokes when the bag touches it. "Stop the water!" A councilman yells. The young courtier tries to push the lever back into its original place, and Amaris feels her hopes being dashed. One of the windows behind the councilman shatters. A large creature, nearly the size of a bear but with the body of a wolf, storms into the room. It hurls itself at the young courtier, quickly tackling him to the ground. Yleth pushes his body weight against the lever until it snaps, the broken piece falling to the ground. "Yleth!" Amaris shouts. Yleth transforms from wolf to man with a smile on his face. The councilmen yell from behind them, but the damage is done. "Those people will never see you as anything but a monster!" One of the councilmen yells from his throne. "That may be so." Yleth rises to his full height, towering over the council members. "But at least they are free." Alaris hears a roar outside, followed by several others. The ground shakes as creatures storm the Court House. The townspeople, she realized, were those who got their memories back. The council never stood a chance. Alaris knows they're exiled, never to be seen in their lands again, but she doesn't give much thought to them a few weeks later. The people have been working hard to restore their town and re-learn the powers they had once forgotten. They voted to begin anew with a council of their own. Members of the community arrange laws to keep the townspeople safe. They offered Yleth a position on the board that he refused. "My wife would make a much better councilwoman." It is a few months later, as she's alone in her father's home when Yleth enters the house. They had seen much of each other since everything was settled. Still, the rekindling of their marriage was something Alaris looked forward to. "My Lady." Yleth's voice was sweet. "Yes?" Alaris answers in kind. "Care to go on a run with me?" He asks. Alaris walks outside with him and smiles. She shifts into her wolf form and sees a smile on her husband's face before she takes off running. 

wbsnk0

An Unfortunate Turn of Events

“You’re sick, Jason,” I said playfully, punching his arm lightly. We both laughed, sitting on a swinging bench. It was a family vacation, and this was our first evening at our cabin. I loved the cabin as much as Jason, who’s my cousin. We were very close, inseparable as some people would say, especially my sister Kayla. But little did we know that this family vacation would take an unfortunate turn of events that would change our lives forever. We were watching the sunset on the second floor balcony. We had an admirable view of the forest below, perfect for taking instagram photos as Kayla would say. Jason turned to me, smiling. “Yeah I am, but not as sick as you!” I stared into his amber eyes as he stared into mine. Jason was fourteen, and very good looking with light brown hair and a million-dollar smile. ”Jason! Hailey! Dinner!” A familiar voice-my mother’s voice-called. “Coming!” I hollered back, glancing over my shoulder. “We’d better go, before we get yelled at,” I said to Jason with a smile as I turned towards him. I wasn’t met with his eyes and smile back at mine as I expected, but instead he was looking towards the driveway below us. “What are you looking at?” I asked, following his gaze. There was a white Honda Civic pulling into the driveway. Oh no… “Who’s car is that?” Jason asked me, his eyes full of worry. I recognized it immediately. It was a family member my mother didn’t invite on purpose, since she was psychotic and refused to be put in a mental hospital. I looked back at him, more worry in my eyes now. “That- is Aunt Kate’s car,” I said. His eyes widened. “We have to tell your mother-and fast!” He said. We ran inside and were met by Kayla in our path. “Woah, what’s up with you guys in such a hurry?” She interrogated, pulling her earbuds out of her ears. The quiet hum of a Taylor Swift song came from them as she lifted them in the air. She flicked her long, black hair off of her shoulders, looking at us with a curious expression. “We saw Aunt Kate’s car,” I panted, out of breath from the scare and running. Kayla’s eyes widened, still with a flash of curiosity. “But, we didn’t invite her, so how is she here?” She asked. “I don’t know, but we have to hurry!” I yelled. All three of us charged into the kitchen. “Ms. White!” Jason hollered. “Where are you!?” My mother popped out of a corner. “I’m right here, what’s wrong? Why the urgency?” “Aunt Kate is here!” He told her. “What?” She hollered, her eyes filling with rage. “But-how? We didn’t invite her!” This time I spoke. “We don’t know… but we have to act fast! What do we do!?” “Hm…” Kayla said thoughtfully. “Maybe we could inform everyone since they’re all in one place-at the dining room table?” “Yes,” my mother agreed. “And we can tell them to lock the doors and windows. This lady is psychotic.” “I’ll inform them,” I offered. With a sense of urgency and no further explanation, I rushed to the dining room where our family was gathered. Jason followed close behind me, and Kayla stayed in the kitchen with mother, calming her down. As I burst into the dining room, the warm chatter abruptly halted, and all eyes turned towards me, filled with confusion and concern. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice as I shared the unsettling news. “Everyone, Aunt Kate is here!” Everyone gasped, standing from their seats. “What do we do?” A woman-Jason’s aunt who definitely is not crazy- asked me. “We need every door and window locked-now!” I urgently yelled, my heart racing with fear. The room plunged into chaos as everyone scrambled to follow my instructions. Amidst the chaos, I spotted a flash of movement near the window. My eyes widened as I realized someone was trying to enter from outside. I frantically raced to the window, locked it, and Jason helped me guard and lock the surrounding windows. Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the room as the intruder forcefully smashed open the front door. Splinters of wood flew everywhere, a large one hitting Jason’s eye. It started dripping blood onto the hardwood, and I ran to help him. “Aunt Kate is here!” A lady hollered. It was the lady who broke in through the door. And, to no surprise, it was Aunt Kate herself. I placed my shaking hand on Jason’s back, leading him away from the screams and chaos. “Let’s get you out of here, before you get hurt even more!” I whispered urgently. Nodding in agreement, Jason clenched his hand tightly around mine as we hurriedly made our way to the master bedroom door. We couldn’t leave anyone worried about where we went, so I decided we would stay in the cabin and not run through the emergency exit, and I would keep Jason hidden. As we entered the dimly lit master bedroom, I carefully closed the door behind us, shutting out the sounds of Aunt Kate’s rampage. The room was connected to a bathroom, that had an emergency health kit. Relieved to have found a source of aid, I swiftly grabbed it from the bathroom shelf as Jason sat down on the bed. I took a bandage out along with some ointments. “It’s going to be okay, Jason,” I whispered, trying to calm him down through my racing heartbeat. “She will be gone soon.” Jason looked up at me, his good eye filled with fear and uncertainty. I applied ointments and medicine to his bad one after removing the massive wooden shard. It was bloody and gruesome, and I immediately gagged as I saw it and threw it in the trash. Jason wailed in pain as I removed it as he did whenever it sliced through his eye when Aunt Kate broke into the cabin. I bandaged his eye, and he looked up at me gratefully. “Thanks, Hailey. You’re useful for a thirteen year old,” he said, grinning. I grinned back, looking at the door. “I’m going to help everyone outside,” I said. “Lock this door whenever I walk out. If I knock frantically, screaming, open the door for me. I love you, be safe.” “I love you too. Be even safer.” With a quick nod, I walked out of the room and shut the door softly. I stood by it until I heard the “click” of the lock. Taking a deep breath, I ventured outside, greeted by a chaotic scene. People were running in all directions, shouting and crying out in panic. The screams never died down, and as I walked farther and farther, I saw more glass, and Aunt Kate had a broken wine bottle in her hand. There was blood splattered here and there, and Kayla wasn’t anywhere.” “Probably hiding,” I mumbled to myself. I didn’t blame her. I looked around for a phone to call the police with, and lo and behold I saw my mother’s phone. I ran towards it, and when I turned it on, it was dead. I felt a surge of anger, and then a sense of urgency as I heard footsteps approaching behind me. “What are you doing, Hailey?” Aunt Kate asked from behind me. She still had the broken bottle in her hand menacingly, and I screamed. I dropped my mothers dead phone, and ran. The broken bottle soared past me, colliding with the wall and shattering into a million pieces. Aunt Kate had thrown the bottle at me, and I was only an inch away from death! A glass shard landed in my leg, and it started bleeding rapidly. “Psst, Hailey, in here!” A voice belonging to Kayla whispered from around the corridor. An arm reached out to grab me, and pulled me into a dark room. I remembered from my mental map of the cabin that this was the game room, which had a pool table and a foosball table. “Thank you,” I whispered to Kayla. She put a finger over my lips until we heard Aunt Kate’s footsteps fade away. “You’re welcome,” she whispered back. “Do you have your phone? You were listening to music earlier,” I asked. Kayla gasped. “I left it on the coffee table in the living room! Oh, it probably has wine splattered all over it from that broken bottle. Or, more reasonable, it’s probably destroyed. Or maybe it has-“ “Kayla!” I interrupted her, and then realized I had said that a little louder than I intended to. “Kayla,” I said, turning my volume down. “Please, I could care less about the hundred reasons your phone could be damaged or ruined. I need to call the police. I’m going out of this room to grab your phone, and that’s final.” “But you can’t! It’s too dangerous!” She protested. “And it will continue to be dangerous until everyone is dead if I don’t grab your phone. I have to do this, Kayla!” I took her hands in mine, and kissed her cheek. “I promise I will be safe, I’ll come right back after I call the police with Jason. Please, promise me that you won’t worry.” “I promise,” she sighed. “Oh, by the way, where even is Jason? That splinter in his eye looked pretty bad.” “He’s in the master bedroom with the door locked. I bandaged his eye, so he’s okay.” “Okay, then, see you soon,” Kayla finally said. I nodded my thanks, and slipped out of the door. Again, the screams and chaos erupted louder. I looked towards the living room, and made sure Aunt Kate was far away before bolting towards the coffee table. I saw the black phone case of Kayla’s phone, the earbuds still connected to it. I grabbed it and ran back to the master bedroom, making sure Aunt Kate didn’t see me nor cross my path. I ran to the oak door of the bedroom and knocked frantically. “Jason, it’s me, Hailey,” I whispered. After a few seconds the door opened and I ran inside. Jason saw me, and immediately wrapped me in a warm, tight hug. “I’m glad you’re okay, even though your leg is bleeding. What happened?” “Aunt Kate threw a glass at me but missed, and one of the shards landed in my leg. But, I got Kayla’s phone,” I showed him the phone and his eyes lit up with joy, well, the visible one. “I can call the police with it. Could you dial the number while I get this glass out of my thigh?” “Of course,” he said, taking the phone. I heard his fingers tapping as he pressed the buttons to dial the number, and I gathered the tweezers and ointments I needed. The phone vibrated as I applied the ointments after I took the glass out. I had the same reaction with it that I had with Jason’s splinter. I bandaged my wound as I heard a lady on the other end of the phone say, “nine one one, what’s your emergency?” “Hello, I’d like to report a psychotic intruder,” I said, standing up and sitting next to Jason on the bed. “How serious is it?” The phone asked. “Very serious. Glass, wood, injuries-everywhere.” “Okay, what’s the address?” I told her the address, and she told Jason and I that the police were on their way. “Keep me on the phone until they arrive,” she ordered. “Jason, I’m going to Kayla. I promised her that I’d be back,” I said, turning to him. “Same procedure. When I walk out, lock the door, and let me in when you hear me.” Jason nodded. “Will do.” I got up from the bed and trekked towards the door. I slipped out of the room into the chaos once again. I walked across the place where everyone was fighting for their lives while trying not to step on glass or slip on champagne. I finally got past the dining room table, and was in the kitchen about to open the door to the game room until a hand grabbed me and yanked me away. I looked up to identify the person, but only found the grinning face of Aunt Kate. I screamed, and tried to pull away, but the more I struggled, the more tight her grip became. “What are you doing, Hailey? Why are you trying to pull away from me?” She asked through gritted teeth. “I-erm-well-“ I stuttered, trying to figure out what to say. I noticed that one hand was behind her back, and my heartbeat quickened. Slowly she pulled out a club from behind her back and raised it in the air. “Now,” she said. “Answer my question, or else I strike.” “I just, have somewhere urgent to be… I have to do… erm… homework! Yes, homework.” “It’s the middle of summer, Hailey. Tell me the truth. I’m giving you one last chance.” This was the scariest moment of my life. “I-well,” I couldn’t come up with a good lie fast enough. She struck me square on my shoulder with the club, and I felt like it was broken. I wailed in pain. “Help!” I screamed. Before Aunt Kate could strike again, she got pushed away from me, and someone else grabbed me, and dragged me into the closest room-the game room. My rescuer turned the lights on, and I saw the faces of Kayla, Jason, and my rescuer herself… my mother! “Oh…” I said. “My shoulder… gah, it hurts!” “Sit on the floor,” my mother suggested. “The police are arriving soon.” As she said that, we heard sirens in the driveway, and they were coming closer. It was the police! The chaos of Aunt Kate would be over! “We’re safe now. The cops are here,” Kayla said in between breaths. I sighed of relief, as did Jason and my mother. “By the way,” I started. “How did Jason get in here?” “Oh,” my mom said. “I got him. I was going to go in my room to hide, but it was locked, so I knocked then said my name. Jason answered, and I saw his eye was bandaged. I asked him what happened, and he explained the splinter incident, and I told him about Kayla being in here. So, I took him here, and then I got you.” “Wow,” I said, flinching at the pain on my shoulder. “Thank you.” Outside, we heard the screams die down as loud footsteps boomed throughout the cabin. “Police, put your hands in the air!” Then, an eerie, bone shrilling scream echoed through the cabin and, of course, it belonged to Aunt Kate. We heard a taser go off and a loud thud, so I unlocked the door, peeking through it. Aunt Kate had been tased, and we were all safe! While she was stunned and unable to move, the police put cuffs around her wrists and forcefully stood her up. They pushed her through the front door as medics crowded inside, examining everyone. Two people were badly injured (besides Jason and I), one dead from the wine bottle, and everyone else had a few cuts here and there. The person who was dead I wasn’t very close to, since he was on my dads side of the family. Jason, mother, and Kayla didn’t know him either, and the medics came rushing towards us. They looked at Jason’s eye, then at my shoulder, and took us both to the hospital. Jason is now forever blind in his left eye, and my arm is forever paralyzed. In the end, everyone was okay, Aunt Kate was sentenced to life in prison. Because of this near-death experience for pretty much everyone, the whole family is now much closer than before. Aunt Kate is now just a story, not a threat. Jason, Kayla, and I hang out a lot more now. So, that was a thrilling adventure. I’ll see you in the next one.

f3z5yq

In death there is only death

Pain shot through her shoulder, the blow was overwhelming even for Sira, she gritted her teeth and stood back up to face Karim grinning at her as if she’d just handed him his wings. Well that look wasn’t going to last long, the match had just started and she was not going to let her one chance to become a true demon slip away into Karim’s grasp, especially not Karim. So she stood and swung her staff in command, instantly the spell worked its magic, knocking Karim out his weapons reach, which stood leveling him on the base of the arena. Which was currently in pieces, due to their match. Slabs of rock narrowly missed Sira as she maneuvered to get closer to Karim, her sudden blast of energy caught him off guard and he stumbled even further back. Big mistake in Sira’s mentor’s opinion. He had always told her to go with the flow. Besides, Karim tired himself out in the first seconds of the match, he wasn’t the best with energy management. The second Sira’s thoughts wandered Karim must have seen his chance because he pushed off a rogue slab of stone and launched himself straight at her! Even though it was a very good attempt Sira had to admit, training reflexes saved her from what would’ve been a straight blow to the chest. She swung her staff at Karim’s colliding with his and causing them both to fly backward, Sira felt the burn of the large fresh wound on her back as she slammed into a bolder, she would get him back for that later. “What’s the matter? Feeling weak? Because you are” Karim snarled, half gleeful, half looking like he wanted to quit. “Well you don’t look much better gelpa, or are you always like that?” She knew that calling Karim “gelpa” would irritate him and he would most likely get a surge of dark energy from the comment, but the word hadn’t triggered anything of the sort. Instead he smiled “I’m honored to be thought of as a friend to you” he said more gleefully, and it finally came to her, he was distracting her while he was regaining enough energy to finish her. Oh no you don't, you little slimy angel, Sira privately thought and pushed off. What happened next surprised them both, Sira felt a surge of energy, stronger than the usual power of dark energy. Due to this she realized it would be a lot easier to take out Karim and get to the firestone, the original reason for their sour bickering. Whoever got to the stone first would be able to go through the gate and claim the next title of demon. Sira and Karim had been nominated as top two, but there can only be one graduate. So here they were, fighting over a gemstone that would give them enough power to wipe out half of Ruinsaer. Sira hit Karim in the jaw, knocking him out with a mild sleep spell that worked better than usual, she noted. She flew toward the crystal and as she did she felt the mysterious energy leave her hands and she suddenly felt so weak she could barely keep her eyes open. But she wasn’t going to give up that easily, she felt the blood dripping down her back and her shoulder that Karim had sliced earlier screamed in pain. But she had no time to focus on that, she had clumsy feather wings that barely knew how to fly but, surprisingly enough she was able to get up to the platform, before landing she checked for hexes that the coaches may have placed on it, but there were none. So she took the jewel and walked over to the gate. She looked back one last time at Karim’s unconscious body floating amid the boulders and stones of the once full arena. “May you find your way here again” she whispered in the ancient prayer tongue and crossed through. Sira awoke from her nightmare to find the hut on fire, again. This wasn’t an uncommon scenario for Sira. One moment she is dreaming in the demon’s quarters room-the next she is in a battle with a mysterious voice that never shows its face. Before she knows it the hut is once again on fire and her arm is throbbing, she is conscious of the fact that her firestone, which had been branded into her skin all those ashes ago had been the source of the pain. But when she had used a spell to check it, everything seemed to be fine. Sira looked to her gelpa for help, but Cima only gurgled and rolled over. Sira hadn’t meant to start a fire, it just happened. Sira managed to smother the flames and somehow got around to cleaning the burnt patches of clay around the hut. “When are you going to start controlling that?” Cima asked her in Ruin, still groggy from little to no sleep. “We can’t keep cleaning and recleaning this place forever you know” she seemed annoyed, probably because she had to put up with the constant light of Sira’s flame. It bothered Sira how Cima could never get a grip and just help her. But of course little lazy Cima wasn’t even half awake. “Cima Where if you don't wake up now I will pull your little horns off and throw them into the Hellfire itself” Cima Ground and reluctantly got up, she seemed very unhappy about the fact that today was their last day in Demon training, suddenly although Sarah understood that he had deserved it she remembered Karim’s lifeless body, limp and tattered floating between life and death. She shuddered, It had been Five ashes since the incident to be exact only three ashes after Sira had destroyed Karim in the battle for demon training. Karim had been sent to stop a war between two aligning forces that were destined in one of Hornail’s prophecies to destroy Ruinsaer. He had failed, and because he had, he was placed in combat with the black blooded lady herself, and although Sira knew he had died with true honor and that he had felt no pain. She understood that if she hadn't beaten him that day he wouldn't have been dead and she could have completed the assignment to full capacity, because everyone knew that she was very much capable of destroying an army. Even though everybody had told her that it had not been her fault and that she had rightfully claimed her place beside the Hellfire, he still felt like she was responsible for Karim’s death. Even though she felt like it had been impossible and the very suggestion of it was against every law they obeyed as demon trainees, Sira knew there was a way to bring Karim back. But for that, she had to make a deal with the devil Sanza, the outlaw who ruled from on high, to get to him would be hard, but not impossible. When Sira told Cari of her troubles, her sister in arms said that if she were to do something that insane, then she swore on lava blood that she would stay by her side no matter what. The journey to Scale Mountain was tough, Cari whined the whole way but since she had sworn and she was a devoted sister, she never asked for a break unless Sira permitted. By the end of the journey Sira could see why only the ancients made the journey to prove their ever devoted worth, it was very challenging and demanding. But somehow, after countless rest stops, they arrived. Sanza sat on his throne, like a true Devil king. Although originally the third sister of the Occulum was destined to rule the Hardlands, he had taken up the position after the Black Blooded Lady, and the Ice lady gave up their search, or rather the Black Blooded Lady gave up her search and being the oldest the ice lady followed her older sister. “Sanza the Great, I come to bargain with you almighty”,Sira had read many ancient texts about the words that opened the gates to the kingdom of the eternally tortured and dead. But saying the words, despite all the exhaustion and discomfort she was currently feeling, the words made her release a small chuckle, it felt wrong calling a prisoner of The Black Blooded Lady, who was truly great, almighty. “Enter,Demon Sira, but leave your friend there, only one can come.” Cari looked ready to protest-then she stopped, this was Sira’s test-not her’s and even though Sira could see that she wanted to argue, Cari retreated. As soon as Sira stepped in the realm of Sanza, she felt the otherworldly presence in the air. As if she had crossed into an entirely different world, although that's just how realms felt. “I understand you have come to make a deal with me?” Sanza’s tone was daring-teasing almost. He seemed amused that Sira had come “I want you to bring back Karim '' Sira said, losing all sense of formality. “Ah well, if you would be so kind as to bound us by blood, the deed will be done and the deal holding us together until death.” Sanza named his terms, which were strange ones at that. Sanza had only one demand, that Sira let him continue ruling this realm. Since it was in the hands of the black blooded lady to decide where he was to be, Sira made no sense of this demand but nevertheless she agreed. They signed with lava blood using the unbreakable seal. The following day, once they returned a scroll arrived at their doorstep. Unlike the usual morning briefing scrolls, marked with the Hellfire seal. This peculiar one was marked with the black blooded lady's seal herself. Sira froze with terror once Cari read it over to her, their leader wanted to talk about her deceased son, Karim Black Blood.

gm8g5m

Take Out Some Trash And Take In A Little Paradise-On-Earth

I don't even know how to tell this story. ‘Cause when I’m done, you probably won't believe me. For a time, I couldn’t believe it myself. And I lived it. Looking back, I guess there were clues, hints about what was really going on, but, I don’t know, it’s hard to say. You really live in your own world when you’re a kid.  I guess I’ll start with that summer. The summer of my 16th birthday. I had just broken up with Julia (not my first love, but I was pretty crazy about her), so I was really looking forward to getting out of my home town for another amazing summer vacation. My parents never failed to pick the most breath-taking places.  That year it was Sardinia.   As far as I knew my parents were photojournalists. We were going there so they could snap a few shots of Su Nuraxi, a Bronze Age archeological site on the island. Then we’d all frolic in the Mediterranean for a week. I was sooo hyped for it.  On our third day there, I was soaking in the balmy waters at Is Arutas beach (a place so beautiful that it looked like a Roman goddess had carved it by hand. All around, gorgeous white sand gave way to warm, crystal blue waters). My parents were “meeting with their agent”, so I thought I had the dazzling place to myself for a few hours.  The phone rang in the bungalow. I pulled myself away from the beach to answer it.  “Hello,” I said. “Mason, honey, thank god you’re there. I need you to listen to me very carefully.”  “Mom?” I said. She didn’t sound right. “Mason, I need you to go into the nightstand in our bedroom and grab the red bag that’s in it. Do it now,” she said. “Mom, wait, what’s going on?”  “Mason, just do what I say.” “Mom –.” “Mason!” she yelled.  I was freaked. I could count on one hand how many times she’d yelled at me in the 10 years prior to that day. This wasn’t good.  I went into my parent’s bedroom and grabbed the felt bag. I pulled the draw string open. In it were 1,000 Euros, a map and a folded up piece of paper.  I raced back to the living room. “I found it, Mom, but –.” “Mason, I know I’m asking a lot of you, and I’m sorry that I’m doing this, honey, but you gotta listen okay?... Do you see the address on that sheet of paper? I unfolded it. “Yea,” I said.  “I need you to meet us in Cabras, at that address. It’s 20, maybe 30 minutes, but it’s three turns at the most and you’re there. “Okay.” “Alright, be careful, honey. And hurry.” “Uh-huh.” “I love you,” she said. I paused. “I love you too.” I said and hung up. A pit bloomed in my stomach. What the hell was going on? I looked out onto the water. The idyllic scene that was there a moment ago had faded into something daunting, oppressive. I had no idea where I was. I was on a beach 4,000 miles from home, and my parents were… somewhere on this island; Mom sounded freaked and were my parents even okay? Was I gonna be okay? I tried to calm down. I realized that spinning like this wasn’t going to help. I focused on our conversation and my mom’s voice rang in my head like a bell: “Hurry,” she’d said. I changed into jeans, threw on my favorite Hawaiian shirt, slapped on my Ray Bans then jumped on the Vespa. I wound down dirt roads lined with cork and juniper trees which blurred by in splotches of brown and green. I zipped past old shepherds with their bleating flocks; past horse-drawn carriages with weathered, aging men urging their beasts of burden along at a snail's pace. They slapped lax rope-whips on their steed’s backs and commanded them in their native Campidanese. It was like stepping into a time machine.  After a half-hour of whizzing through the Sardinian countryside, I made it to Cabras. The small town was the closest thing to civilization on this part of the island. But it was also another piece of Italy trapped in time. Ancient ruins dotted the area all around. Squat buildings and time-worn churches sat up against cobblestone streets.  I turned down a narrow street and felt the offshore breeze. It carried on it a taste of the sea, which sat in the distance, spinning its frothy waves. I pulled up to an old stable and parked the Vespa, got off the scooter and knocked on a worn, oak door. My mom answered. “Mason!” she cried. She wrapped me in a vice-grip of a hug and spattered the side of my face with kisses. And that was the hardest I’d ever hugged my mom, too. I don’t know why. I think I just hated hearing her so scared.  “You okay?” I said. “I’m fine, honey”. “Where’s Dad?” “Inside.” I entered the stable. Time had had its way with the place. I could tell that it hadn’t been used to keep horses for some time too. Someone had converted it into a garage a while ago. In the middle of the space sat an old, beige Mercedes. It had distinctive 80’s style headlights and matching beige logos on its wheels. The rear passenger side door was open. I walked around.  “Dad!” I said. His face was slick with sweat and his jacket had dark stains running down its side. He was holding a bloodsoaked rag over a wound in his shoulder. “You should see the other guy,” he said.  “What the hell happened??” My mom walked over. “Mason, your dad’s going to be okay. Listen to me. Right now, you need to get in the car.” “What?? What do you mean??” I said. "What happened to him?” “We don’t have time to explain, Mason,” she said. “Don’t have time??” “Yes, Mason”, she said. “You need to get in the car.” I stared at her. She cocked her head. “Any minute now some bad people are going to be snooping around this town,” she said, “people we’ve been trying to avoid for the last three hours.” “The same ones who gave me this little souvenir,” my dad said, nodding to his shoulder. “Why would anyone shoot you?” I asked Dad. My mom sighed. “Just get in the car, Mason.” “No, tell me what the hell’s going on.” “This isn’t the time or the place.” she said. What? “When we get out of here and get home we’ll talk about this,” she continued. “Why the fuck can’t you just tell me?!” “Mason!” Dad yelled. Mom sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Remember when we came back from the Maldives last year,” Dad said, “and the Turkish ex-Foreign Minister died of natural causes while we were there? Or the year before that when we were in Fiji and the police were running around like idiots looking for the people who killed Bergine?” I eyed them both. I was waiting for the punchline. They offered none, so I wryly threw one down for them. “So, what, are you, like, assassins or something?” Mom looked down and brushed a clutch of brown curls over her ear. Dad cocked his eyebrows and looked at me silently. “C’mon,” I said. “Did you guys lose it? Christ, why can’t someone just tell me what the fu –.” A pop rang out in the space. I looked down. A wisp of smoke was whirling from a silencer attached to a gun in Dad’s hand.  “Holy shit! You were serious?!” “Are you done?” he said. "'Cause we gotta go." I was stunned, flummoxed. I was a little light-headed when I got in the car. Mom started the engine. I stared at her: mom, the killer ??  I was bobbing in a sea of confusion when she hit the gas and we headed for the hills. ************************** The green slopes of Barbagia rolled by my window. Mom was restless behind the wheel, continuously checking her mirrors. Dad was shifting and uneasy in the backseat. I stared at the ridges of the ancient island hoping for answers. I struggled to piece together the shattered image I’d had of my parents. I stewed on it. And an inner heat began bubbling up. I broke the silence that had commandeered the car since the garage. “Assassins?” I said. Mom looked at me. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know this is a lot.” “You kill people… for money.” “And for pleasure,” my dad said. “Gil!” “What? It feels good to bag these assholes sometimes.” “Jesus, Gil, you’re not helping. It’s not what it sounds like, Mason.” It’s not what it sounds like??   I shook my head and stared out the window. My parents were Gil and Nancy Howard, freelance photojournalists from Aurora, Illinois. They weren’t killers . My dad had a stamp collection for chrissake. What kind of stamp collector kills people?? This was nuts.  “Why?” I said. “It’s a long story,” Mom said. “Cause the world is a screwed up place,” Dad chimed in. “And sometimes you have to do bad things to make it better.” WTF? I looked out at the hills, trying to make the pieces fit.   My dad shifted in the backseat and moaned. I turned to him. The towel he was holding over his wound had turned several shades of crimson now. “What?” he said. “I must look like a king back here in all this red, huh?” “No, Dad, you like shit.” He chuckled, then winced. “How long?” I said. “How long, what?” he said. My eyes were locked on his. He peered up at my mom. She was busy keeping her eyes on the road. “Since before you were born,” he said.  I turned back around. I put my feet on the dash, and stared out the window.  My mom reached over and placed her hand on my lap. “I know this is crazy, sweetie. I don't know, hopefully, you’ll understand one day.” Not likely. “Sooo, where are we going?” I huffed. “To Uncle Jack’s,” Mom said. I turned to her. “Does he know about your… real jobs?” A silence blossomed in the car again. “He’s not your uncle,” my dad said. Pfffft… Life was unraveling right before my eyes. This was some bullshit. I was thinking about how I was going to say my piece, you know, really speak my mind, when something shot through the back window and shattered the rearview mirror. Glass flew everywhere, cutting my face. “Jesus!” my dad screamed.  Mom swerved in a huge arc, then got the car back under control. She looked at me and threw the shoulder harness of my seatbelt over my head, leaving the lap-belt attached. Then she shoved my head between my legs. She leaned on the gas pedal, pinning it to the floor.  “Gil!” she yelled.  I could hear my dad already lowering his window. He popped off a few rounds from his Glock, then there was a series of clicks. “Shit, I’m out!” he screamed. My heart was thumping against my ribcage. I gulped mouthfuls of air as the seatbelt squeezed my waist like a vice. “Faster!” my dad screamed. Mom whipped the car to one side and slammed on the brakes instead. I peered over the dash to see what was up ahead. We were closing in on a hairpin turn, a gnarly one. Beyond it was a cliff, and it looked like a long way down from where I was sitting. “Mom!” I screamed. “Hang on!” she said. She swung the Mercedes into the bend. The seatbelt caught me before I could tumble into her lap. Dad let out a scream as he crumpled into the opposite corner of the car.  She pushed the car to its limits, then pulled it out of the turn. As she did, a current of dread rippled through my belly. A horse, possibly the laziest one in all of Sardinia, was ambling down the center of the road with a cart filled to the edges with potatoes. It’s enormous ass swung to and fro while the driver, completely unaware of the two-tons of aluminum and steel bearing down on him, languidly arced a rope-whip across the steed’s back. Mom shifted gears and swung the rear of the car around. Dad’s feet kicked my headrest as he somersaulted back across the seat. I watched the steed rear and kick frantically, spilling the cart, the hapless driver and bushels of potatoes onto the road.  Mom drifted past the horse, then straightened the Mercedes out, leaving a plume of smoke in her wake.  “Is everybody okay?!” she said. I turned to check on my dad. He was holding his shoulder and gasping for air. That’s when I saw it: a black SUV barreled around the bend behind us. Its wheels spun fiercely struggling to catch the pavement. Then they cut at a sharp angle when the horse reared again. I could see the driver’s face the moment he knew what he’d done. The car zigzagged wildly then careened off the road and sailed into the gorge below. A loud and sickening crunch followed. Mom downshifted the Benz and sped past a row of cork trees. She continued down the road for a while, still vigilant for pursuers, until she finally pulled over by a line of Rosemary bushes in a quiet valley. Twilight was coming. The blues and pinks of the sky were beginning to blend together over the horizon. “Are you sure you're okay, sweetie?!” she said, looking over the cuts on my face.  “Yea, I’m fine, Mom,” I said. I got out and opened Dad’s door.  “Still hangin' in there, Dad?”  He was lying with his back propped up against the opposite door. “Ahhh, I should’ve let them shoot me,” he said. He was a mess. He was clammy and pallid, and looked completely worn out. Mom got out of the car and leaned into his window. She gave him a kiss. “Nice driving, miss,” he said. “Good job not dying,” she said.  Mom looked at me, and gave me a tentative grin. She walked to my side of the car. “Oh God, I’m so sorry we got you wrapped up in this, sweetie,” she said. The guilt in her eyes brought a lump to my throat. “It’s alright,” I said. “I survived.” I smiled at her. She kissed my forehead and wrapped me in a hug. ************************** I found out later that Mom was the de facto driver in their little, clandestine duo. And the kind of driving she did that day, the kind that shaved years off of your life, well, that wasn’t uncommon for her.  She drove at a much more sensible speed to Uncle Jack’s place, getting us there sometime after 10pm. Uncle Jack’s place, by the way, was a safehouse in Olbia. Also, Uncle Jack was my folks’ handler. That’s why we saw him every year on our “summer vacations”.  I’d known the man my whole life. He’d always had gifts for me when we saw him, sweets, toys, that sort of thing. I just thought he was family. I had no idea that he was part of a syndicate that kept tabs on the megalomaniacs of the world.  I guess Uncle Jack’s ability to conveniently materialize anywhere on the planet was just another one of those clues I’d missed. Just goes to show you that when you’re a kid, you really do live in your own world. I’d thought that we hit all of these exquisite spots because they were mind-bogglingly beautiful. Turns out they were mind-bogglingly beautiful places so that’s where well-connected sociopath-types liked to kick it for vacation, you know, autocrats, war profiteers, sex-traffickers. And every trip was a quick one-two punch for the Howard cleaning crew: take out some trash and take in a little paradise-on-earth. This particular trip hit a bit of a snag, but there were no more baddies the rest of our time there. A doctor at the safehouse tended to Dad’s wound (it was a flesh wound, thank god). And after a few days, Uncle Jack got us on a military flight home out of Rome. I don’t think I said two words on that plane ride. I don’t even think I tried processing what happened. I was just… numb.  The people who had held me as a child, raised me, taught me right from wrong killed people for a living. That took a few years to chunk down into bite size pieces and get down my gullet, know what I mean? But I did do it, over time. The last thing I remember before nodding off on that plane over the Atlantic was my mom’s voice. I had my head against a window and she was resting hers on my shoulder. “We love you, sweetheart,” she said. And I knew they did. And still do.  And I love them too. It just took me a while to finally forgive them, but I did. And my mom was right: over time, I did understand. Well, like I said, I don’t know if you believe me, but, there it is: the craziest summer of my life! It was bonkers then, but now it’s one of my fondest memories.  You know, I take that back: that was the craziest summer of my childhood , because things have gotten a bit crazier since then.  In fact, I just booked a vacation with my wife and kids to Dalmatia on the Croatian coast. A nationalistic billionaire is funneling money and guns to some extremist groups in the Balkans. My folks have retired from the Howard family business, but after training me up, they handed it to me. So, I’m gonna clock in and do a little work while I’m out there. Then get some R&R.  

l0xlz8

Captain Dave’s Folly

Stepping onto a gorgeous baby blue Eastbay 44 at the Liberty Landing Marina with “It’s 5 O’Clock Somewhere” by Jimmy Buffet playing, our spirits were high. The sun loomed large in a cloudless sky and shone like a new penny. The marina docks were full of boaters arriving, departing, tending their boats, and having cookouts on the dock—all telling one another what they were up to and well satisfied with their exploits. There was a slow and steady breeze over the Hudson River. It was a perfect August afternoon. As we boarded, Maria was complaining about our Uber not being fancy enough, and I was ignoring her. She said, “Baby, I need to get a solid photo for my social media coming out of a black car, you know this.” I smirked, “Baby, I may be a lawyer, but I’m not made of money, and this isn’t a promo video—we are boarding a yacht—that should be enough for your social media.” All I wanted was to have a good time with Jo-jo and Christy, a couple of my favorite people, and to forget about all the problems I was having with my soul-sucking career and my money-sucking girlfriend. These two succubusses consumed all my waking hours and competed against one another like jealous mistresses. Something had to give. And I knew it was coming soon. The problem was that I loved Maria and I loved helping people—I just hated being a lawyer and hated being treated like a human ATM. Jo-jo was wearing a Johnny-O shirt, crisp chinos, and Ray Bans. Grabbing my hand and patting my shoulder, Jo-jo said, “Thanks for inviting me. Our daughter Ava is a terror. I really need this.” Christy was tall and elegant. She wore a fresh white sundress over a black bikini. All her features were dark and capable, which contrasted Jo-jo’s soft and affable manner. But make no mistake, Christy was a pistol. The two of them shared a love for getting into trouble—that and stray dogs. She was on the phone asking her mother-in-law, “Did Ava’s fever come down,” walking back-and-forth in front of the gang-plank while Jo-jo and I caught up. Zoltan came over and grabbed our luggage to bring it below deck. I saluted him and said, “Oh Captain, my Captain.” He laughed and said, “remember that trip up to Yale with Sean Dowd and his Korean mistress where we were calling him Captain the whole night?” I said, “Remember when you just walked up and made out with that blonde outside the movie theater?” We both laughed. After stowing the luggage, Zoltan gave me a conspiratorial glance as he poured two strong gin and tonics and said, “A quick splash for the road?” It was more than a splash. We toasted. The girls shot disapproving looks. Before we reached the palisades, Zoltan was puking off the side of the helm of the Captain’s deck. Whatever stomach bug he’d contracted had laid him low, and in his weakened state he couldn’t fight it off, even on the open seas. It was a shame because Zoltan was not only our Captain but also the life of the party, and it looked like maybe the whole trip would need to be abandoned. “I can’t carry on Johnnie,” he said steadying himself on the rail, “but I have a plan, we are going to scoop up Captain Dave for a tag-in at the Dyckman Marina in Fort Washington Park. It’s a little bit out of the way but will give us a chance to take a quick trip up the palisades and get a view of the West Side of the City—the girls will eat that up—and can get some sun since we will be taking it slow.” I nodded. What the hell. As long as someone knew how to drive the boat, what did I care. * * * When we docked at Fort Washington Park, Captain Dave was waiting for us like he was reporting for duty. Even from a far off, Captain Dave gave off the vibe of someone who shouldn’t be trusted. Captain Dave was a big Irish fella, a solid 6’4” and then some, with a regal aspect to his Captain’s uniform. Captain Dave wore a Captain’s cap with a traditional gold embroidered wreath on the lid. He had a full white beard like Hemingway in Havana, Cuba. He wore the barrel gut of a lifelong drinker. The way he strode up to the boat, you’d never know he was a clean 750 ml of rum deep. I could tell that there wasn’t a thing about him that inspired confidence in the girls. “Is everyone ready for a voyage they’ll never forget,” Captain Dave asked as he gave Zoltan a big hug, stepped aboard, and took the helm. Zoltan shuffled off to get medical assistance and we shoved off back down the Hudson River. “What are we drinking,” Captain Dave said as he revved the engine, in earshot of the girls who were sunning themselves on the bow. I stood out on the bow holding the railing and overheard Christy saying to Maria, “Ever since we had the baby, I do everything, and he only wants to go out with his friends and leave me alone with the kid—I’m tired. I talk to myself, I just keep saying, I love my life, I love my life—as if saying it will make it true.” And Maria said, “I really want a little girl, but John is so busy, and I love him, that he never even has time for me—and I want a man that adores me, that is low-key addicted—I’m used to being the center of attention. It’s crazy that men stand in line for hours to see me perform and it’s pulling teeth to even set a date with my man.” I ducked back inside with a sigh to hear Jo-jo debating with Captain Dave, who had a little Yeti rambler cup in seafoam he was shaking, which smelled of rum. “You think you should be drinking while you’re driving the ship,” Jo-Jo asked. “Ohh, sonny,” he laughed, “you wouldn’t deny a salty old sailor a drink of water out on the open seas, would ye,” Captain Dave said. The skipper sat down at the cockpit bench and looked out the three cabin windows at the pink splashes threading the horizon. Maria and Christy began to make their way in as the rush of wind kicked up. Captain Dave pushed the throttle over 25 knots. He headed South toward Staten Island and zoomed beneath the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and out to the Bay and turned East by Breezy Point. The light blue hull popped against the steely blue hue of the water it sat in. We sat on leather couches in the cockpit, the girls were draped in their beach towels. I dashed down to the saloon to grab some seltzers for the girls and gin and tonics for Jo-Jo and me. When I turned around, Jo-Jo, Christy, and Maria had all scuttled down to join me. Maria said, “This is not ok.” “What, babe?” She pointed at Captain Dave. “It is still drinking and driving, you know, even if you’re driving a boat—and it is a lot more dangerous.” “I think we’ll be ok,” I said, “he looks like he knows what he’s doing.” But he really didn’t if I’m being completely honest. “They’re not wrong you know, Jo-jo said,” and patted my arm as we all headed back in. * * * Captain Dave gazed at Christy as if the two of them were alone in the cabin and said, “I’d never guess you were a mom with that figure.” He gave a big toothy grin that revealed two rows of slightly crooked teeth. “Don’t mind me, I don’t mean to offend you, I am just accustomed to speaking my mind—you know us old sailors can jabber on.” Christy smiled politely and looked over at Jo-jo for help but he was engrossed in conversation with me. The three of us had all been in a writer’s group back in college. I’d gone on to get into law. Jo-jo had gotten into marketing for the ASPCA, and Christy was an Editor who worked at a publication that put out exclusively Yong Adult Fiction. Fortunately for her, with her job she could work from home most days. They’d adopted three stray dogs that had been abused before finally making the leap and having their own kid, Ava. Maria was the odd man out, but she was spending most of the boat ride alternating between texting, taking selfies in the magic hour lighting, and working on her social media posts. She had her phone raised and was making duck lips and then switching to a composed profile photo, to see which came out better. “You know, you remind me of a special Guyanese lady I met in the Bay of Biscay in the ‘90s. A mesmerizing creature, that one. I was taking tourists on voyages along the coast between France and Spain. But I washed up at a watering hole off the Cantabrian Sea. I found her at a, uh, Burlesque Show… and she spoke in both French and Spanish... and seduced me with her charms. To hear her sing during the show was to be transported. Later, walking on the beach, she began to speak in what she claimed was Mermish. It carried the sounds of whistles and clicks—muffled as if underwater. I don’t know if such a language exists. And to this day, I debate whether she is just some crazy con-woman or if she could be an actual siren. What I do know is she follows me and haunts me to this day; always showing up in various sea side towns. And every time she leaves me with not a dollar to my name and not a care in the world.” “Wow,” Christy said, not knowing what to make of this strange story. “I had to take extreme measures like leaving talismans with voodoo practitioners in hedge shanties by the sea, as a means to neutralize her charms. But she always finds her way back to me,” he said. “I don’t believe in mermaids,” she said. Christy’s towel slipped down her shoulder and Captain Dave looked over and said, “What’s the story with you and the young pup,” referring to Jo-jo. “What do you mean,” she said. “Nothing really. Just noticed the two of you have barely said one word to each other. A spry fireplug like you, if you were my girl, and I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I always speak the truth—I’d hardly be able to keep my hands off of you, especially in that bikini.” Christy looked back at Captain Dave in uncomfortable silence. Then she looked back over at Jo-jo and said, “Hmmph. That’d be the day.” * * * Our motley crew toted our luggage from the dock of the Davis Park Marina down the boardwalk to our hotel. I thought Captain Dave was just helping with the luggage. The Palms Hotel, where we were staying, had twin white stucco two-story townhouses with pink awnings and a huge communal patio—one for Maria and I, and one for Christy and Jo-jo. The girls oohed and awed and said, “cute” as we approached. Captain Dave took his free arm and put it on my back and said, “I’ll be bunking up with you two, ehh?” Maria and I both looked back at him but didn’t know what to say. I had assumed he’d bunk up on the boat in the marina, but I guess I’d assumed wrong. Maria started getting dressed, and said, “honey, can you help me tie the back of this dress up?” It was a low-cut shimmery dress with sparkling sequins. “Babe, I haven’t seen you in nearly a month, you know,” I said. “And you have so much free time—you don’t even check-in on me while I’m on the road. I’m lucky if I can even get you to return a phone call,” Maria said. “You’re not in your twenties. I want you to be successful, but how long are you going to keep this up. You talk about marriage and kids. But where does that fit in to your life,” I said. “I know, hunny bunny. It certainly is tough, but what can we do. Look at Jo-jo and Christy. Are they really different? Ok. They tied the knot and had a kid, but they can barely even look at each other. It’s like Jo-jo didn’t even notice that booze-swilling lech was all over Christy, or he just didn’t give a f**k,” Maria said. “Something has to give, babe. You live on the road. I live in the courtroom and live by deadlines. Something has to give,” I told her. She finished her makeup and turned dramatically, pursing her lips, and said, “I’m ready. Let’s go have some fun.” “Sure babe.” “Can you ApplePay me forty bucks, I need to get some cigarettes and supplies,” she said. I smirked, knowing that supplies meant weed, and took out my iPhone. Just then Captain Dave came out of the bathroom and called up the stairs, “We’re all waiting outside.” * * * It was just a short walk down the boardwalk to the night life. A band was playing at the deck of the Casino Bar. They were covering “Hey Ya” as we arrived and singing, “What is cooler than being cool—” and the crowd screamed back “Ice Cold!” As they got to the part that went “shake it, shake it, shake it [shake it like a polaroid picture]” two girls were shimmying back-and-forth with their breasts nearly touching one another, to the general amusement of the crowd. We sat out on the deck and enjoyed the cool night air and the upbeat music and drank our sorrows. Captain Dave was in the middle of a Conga line and making fast friends of all the party girls out on the town. Christy got up to dance, leaving he three of us at the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Captain Dave being cheeky and giving Christy a twirl and shook my head. He’s absolutely shameless. “What’s up with the two of you,” Jo-jo said. “Did you notice Captain Douche trying to make a pass at your girl,” Maria said. Jo-jo nodded and said, “It didn’t escape my attention.” “What a creep,” Maria said. “I guess the man knows what he likes,” Jo-jo responded. “And you aren’t even going to do anything about it,” Maria said. “Honey, it’s not like anything happened,” I said. She crossed her arms as if it was really eating her that Jo-jo let this violation slip. Christy came back from the dance floor and plopped down next to Maria, saying, “Why so glum guys?” But none of us were in the mood to do anything but drink and listen to the music. Captain Dave stumbled back to the table, arm-in-arm with a Guyanese woman. She had deep espresso colored eyes, full lips, and thick black hair and moved in a captivating rhythm. “Hi, I’m Marta,” she said in a melodic voice, shaking hands with Christy and Maria a little longer than was comfortable, and making introductions. “This is the lady I was telling you about,” Captain Dave said to Christy, tipping his hat and chuckling. “She’s gone and found me again!” “Oh stop,” Marta said, punching Captain Dave’s arm. “You will ruin my surprise.” There was a bonfire going down by the ocean. The orange flames pulsed with the slow roll of the black and inky waves, kissed by the thin light of the moon as a layer of wispy clouds dappled the moonlight. Marta began singing and humming to herself, clinking her shell bracelets against the wooden table like shaking Morocco’s. Every movement of her body was fluid and seemed animated by some underlying music. “I love your jewelry,” Maria said, petting Marta’s arm. Captain Dave was massaging her shoulders and leaning forward and hugging Marta around the shoulders. Christy, who was usually more reserved, said, “where did you get that bathing suit?” Jo-jo said, “You remind me of someone I work with, she also has a really good voice.” As I looked into Marta’s eyes, I felt stunned. It was like I was standing on the edge of the shore on a starry night looking into the star-filled sky, frozen in awe. I felt like she had released a desire inside of me that I couldn’t put a name on, that desire that wells up at the end of spring when the first warm days of summer stir something inside. Marta said, “our desires are like questions. We can satisfy them by answering. But we can only answer once. So choose carefully.” We were all feeling really good all of a sudden as we headed back to The Palms Hotel. I was pretty sure this was going to be my last trip with Maria. Might as well enjoy it. I saw her kissing on Marta’s neck as we all walked back along the boardwalk, but I didn’t care. In the eerie moonlight, I was pretty sure I saw Captain Dave necking with Christy too. Everything was a blur. We stumbled back into our rooms. Maria fell into my arms, or was it Marta? * * * I woke up with a cottony taste in my mouth. I saw my wallet lying open on the dresser. Jo-jo walked up the stairs and into my room. “They get you too,” he said. Maria sat up and said, “I feel like I’ve been drugged.” “Jo-jo, where’s Captain Dave,” I asked. “Long gone compadre. We’ve been played,” he said. Christy said, “Can’t say it wasn’t fun though.”

vpll30

Warn the Others

The smog of the city sat comfortably on top of the hills of San Diego enveloping the palm trees and houses in a dense haze. The view had become commonplace as the Baileys’ found themselves in San Diego once again for the fourth time in a matter of sixth months. Not that it surprised Gavin. He had long suspected that his parents would come back to San Diego to complete their assignment. The truth was that he had been keeping a close eye on his parents for the past two years and he finally felt that he could comfortably tell the rest of his siblings that his parents were, indeed, assassins.  He watched through the window as his parents drove off together in their black rental towards the busy intersection. He closed the blinds and let out a sigh of relief. “Guys?” he called. “Can you come here for a second?” Minutes later, the four of them were gathered in the living area of the house that they were renting. His older sister, Ashley, was the last to make her way to the dark leather couch. “What do you want, loser?” she said furiously texting away on her phone. “I’m not a loser!” Sierra responded. Ashley rolled her eyes, “Not you, dummy,” she gestured with a head nod in Gavin’s direction, “Him.” As much as Gavin wanted to respond, he decided against it. Puberty was not being as kind to his sister as it was to him. While he could boast of bigger muscles, a deeper voice, and growing at least three inches, Ashley had been given suspicious body odor and a forehead riddled with so many whiteheads that it resembled a Crunch Bar. He smiled to himself and silently hoped that she would never grow out of it. “There’s no easy way to say this,” he said as he took a deep breath, “I think our parents are assassins.” Jordan snickered, “Dude, what?” Gavin straightened up in his posture and placed his hands on hips. He knew that it would be hard to convince his siblings. Everyone in the family knew that he had a penchant for lying so he was prepared for an uphill battle. “I’m serious,” he stated once again. “Mommy said you lie too much,” Sierra cautioned. Ashley put her phone face down on the table adjacent to the couch and crossed her arms, “Please, I have got to hear this crap.” Gavin took a deep breath. It was now or never. As he looked at his siblings, he saw the similarities in their quizzical faces. Two years ago, when he started his fact finding, he hoped that nothing came of it, but now that he had the truth, he knew had to say something. He had to warn the others. “Yes, Mom and Dad kill people for a living,” he continued, “and I have proof.” Jordan groaned as he pulled his hair, “You are so effin weird dude.”  “We are so not related,” Ashley added, “and if we are, I don’t want to be anymore.” Gavin held up his hands in a form of a plea, “Just hear me out. Please.” He paced back and forth in the living room, presenting all the information that he gathered so far. Like the fact that their parents never worried about being laid off or complained about bills like other parents do or that for as many vacations that they went on their parents never took any pictures. Ashley sighed, “That doesn’t prove anything…at all.” “Except that you are a loser…and maybe a bit of a stalker.” Jordan laughed. Ashley and Jordan high-fived themselves as they cackled. Sierra looked up at him expectantly, “I believe you Gavin.” Gavin smiled and thanked her. He appreciated her vote of confidence but knew that it meant little to nothing. Last he recalled, she still believed in Santa Claus. “What about the fact that they both have the same friends? Every time we celebrate something at the house, the same people always come, and they all know each other.” Gavin offered. “Those are called mutuals,” Ashley responded nonchalantly as she picked up her phone from the table, “Friendless moron,” she added, shaking her head. Gavin smiled to himself as he thought back to how he made sure to pack the most solid piece of evidence that his siblings couldn’t refute. “And there’s this,” Gavin said, waving a manila file in the air. Jordan stood up and snatched the folder from his hand, “Way too much Law & Order, my guy,” he said as he opened the folder and dumped its contents onto the floor, “What is all this?” Sierra reached for the picture, “Who is this?” Ashley looked up from her phone, taking interest in the conversation once again, “Mom and Dad’s target, apparently.” Jordan read the paper, “His name is Edgar Tavarez. 38 years old.” Sierra’s mouth went agape, “Thirty-eight?” Ashley shrugged her shoulders, “He’s kind of cute.” She returned her phone, “What did he do?” Gavin scratched his head, “Not sure. I just know that he’s next on Mom and Dad’s hit list.” “Says this guy lives in San Ysidro,” Jordan added. Ashley typed in her phone, “That’s like twenty minutes away.” Jordan shook his head and handed Gavin the rest of the papers, “This is too much even for you.” “Exactly!” Ashley added. “Mom and Dad can’t be assassins.” “Why not?” Gavin asked. “Why is it so hard for you guys to believe me?” “Because they’re old dude!” Jordan yelled. “Have you heard Dad’s knees when he bends down to get something? And don’t get me started on Mom, she has this slight tilt when she walks. Hip issues for sure.” Gavin shook his head, “You’re acting like Mom and Dad are ancient. We both know that’s not true.” “Might as well be!” Jordan mimicked his father bending down to pick something up from the floor causing them to erupt in laughter. “That’s probably why they are having trouble catching this guy,” He took the picture from Sierra and waved it around, “I tell you what this is no regular Speedy Gonzalez.” “That’s racist,” Gavin scolded. “I’m taking Spanish as a fine art. Hola? Not a racist.” Ashley stood up from the chair and began to circle Gavin, “And so if you are telling the truth and our parents are assassins…what do you think they do with people that get ahold of classified information?” Sierra took her forefinger and slid it across her neck. Gavin shuddered at the thought. He hadn’t considered what his parents could do to him for blowing their cover. They couldn’t do anything to him. He was their child. Almost as if she could pull the thoughts from his mind, Ashley added on, “Family means nothing in this business.” “Maybe we could help them somehow,” Gavin quickly offered. Ashley smirked, “Now there’s an idea.” She said as she patted the top of his head. “But you have always annoyed me. From the way you smell to the way you speak. I could do without you.” Jordan nodded, “I’m in the same boat as her.” “Wait, wait…are you guys blackmailing me?” “You’re worth more, you know, than alive,” Ashley offered. They turned on him. He expected them not to believe him, but this…this he didn’t expect. He now understood why Batman had a file on each member of the Justice League. The information you shared was no more important than who you shared it with. Always have a contingency. He was at the mercy of siblings and there was nothing he could do about it. Or was there? He let out a sigh, “I mean, with names as basic as John and Nicole Bailey, everything about them is probably made up. Maybe they aren’t even American. Maybe they’re from Britain’s secret service.” Jordan blew smoke from an imaginary gun, “ Bond. Jordan Bond. ” “Or the Mosad,” Gavin suggested, “Not that it matters, but how long do you think it will be before they notice that you all are blackmailing me? And how long do you think before they figure out what it’s for? You knowing is just as dangerous as me.” Ashley and Jordan exchanged looks amongst themselves. Their get out of jail free card was taken from them almost as quick as it was given. Gavin inched closer to Ashley, challenging her with narrowed eyes, “If you blackmail me, I will tell on you. Mutually Assured Destruction.” The stare down continued until both parents walked through the door, laughing as they carried several shopping bags in. “Whoa, you guys, okay? It feels like an intense showdown in here.” John Bailey said. Nicole Bailey smirked, “If I didn’t know any better, I would say that you guys were getting ready to kill each other.” “That’s breaking the rules,” Jon added, shaking his head disapprovingly. “What rules?” The children asked in unison. “The one that says we’re the ones that brought you in this world, so we’re the only ones that can take you out.” Nicole said with a wink.

l2i5lh

I Went to Italy and All I Got Was this Shocking Secret

The sticky July heat plasters my hair to the nape of my neck as we sprint through Vatican City. Angry outbursts follow us as shocked tourists jump out of our path to avoid being barreled over. St. Peter’s Square is inundated with people, making it difficult to move. I risk a quick glance behind me and see a black-clad figure push their way through a tour group, determined in their pursuit of my brother Simeon and me. Shit, shit, shit, I think to myself.                “Go left!” Simeon yells, making a sharp turn around the columns flanking the Square. We weave around families with screaming children and couples walking hand-in-hand, the shade a welcome respite from the hot sun beating down on us. I did not wear the right shoes for this . If I had known we’d be running from muscular cronies, I’d have opted for something with a stronger sole. If the strap of my sandals snapped and I stumbled, the men chasing us would catch me. If they caught me…I wasn’t sure what would happen, but I knew it would be very, very bad. Especially since they looked they came straight out of a Bond movie, short-cropped hair and bulging biceps with permanent sneers slashed across their faces.                Simeon and I round the corner of the columns and reenter the sweltering heat of the open air. The kerfuffle behind us tells me that our pursuers aren’t far behind. We look around wildly, searching for a way out, but it’s too crowded to get to the street. I spot the line to enter the Basilica and grab Simeon’s arm, dragging him with me. The line is condensed enough that we may be able to hide in plain sight. We thrust ourselves into the fray, keeping our heads down and our backs to the Square as the line slowly shuffles along. I’ve been looking forward to seeing St. Peter’s Basilica since my family arrived in Rome three days ago, but this isn’t exactly how I pictured my tour going. How did we get to this point? Things were fine, normal, until my parents left for a private dinner last night and didn’t come back. All Simeon and I got was a blood-spattered note: We’re being followed. Meet us in Vatican City tomorrow at noon. Be careful, be quick. This vacation was turning out to be unlike any other.                We’ve had a lot of unique vacations over the years. Ever since I was a child, my parents have insisted that we be exposed to as much culture as possible. I’d been to ten countries by the time I was three, and now, at 19, I’ve been to every continent and to multiple countries therein. My friends envy my lifestyle, but I don’t know anything different. We’re wealthy enough to afford our frequent travels, but I’m not exactly a trust fund baby.                “The real riches lie in what we can learn in every new place we visit,” my mother would say. It’s the kind of thing that you roll your eyes at when you’re young, thinking your parents are being naïve and optimistic. She hasn’t been wrong, though. I’ve seen Paris from atop the Eiffel Tower. I’ve walked along the Great Wall of China. I’ve stood in the shadow of the Pyramids of Giza. There was a time when I wished we could have a typical family vacation, fighting with each other and trudging along at some theme park designed to drain you dry before you leave. The older I’ve gotten, though, the more I’ve come to appreciate the emphasis my parents have put on travel. I’m becoming self-aware, finding an identity in the social structure of my coastal hometown, and I’m finding that there’s a stark difference between Those who have Left and Those who have Not. When you’re from a small town, you think the world is as big as Main Street and Friday night football games. Well, I’ve seen a lot of the world, and Main Street and touchdowns can’t even compare.                Every third night, my parents take some time for themselves to be alone. They go to dinner, they go for a twilit stroll, they do whatever it is parents do when they manage to get a second away from their children. When Simeon and I were young enough to need supervision, we’d bring our au pair, and she’d be stuck watching after us while Mom and Dad got a kid-free night. By the time we woke up in the morning, our parents would be back, snoozing away in bed as if they’d been up for all hours of the night.                “Why do you go out every third night of our vacations?” I asked Mom once. “Why not the first night? Or the second? Or not at all?”                She smiled at me benignly, like I was being precocious.                “The first night is for all of us. The second night is for you and your brother. The third night is for me and dad,” she answered.                “What about the fourth night?”                “That’s when we all come back together again, before we go home.”                I remember feeling jealous that our parents would want time away for themselves. Wasn’t this supposed to be a family vacation? But, like clockwork, they’d be ready to go out on the third night, dressed to the nines.                “You guys look like Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” Simeon joked once. Our parents gave him a strange look, like he’d said something surprising, but then the look was gone and they laughed about it a second later.                “So full of imagination, you kids are,” Dad said.                Last night, before we’d found ourselves running for our lives, Simeon and I sat at the dining table in our hotel suite. We didn’t need a babysitter anymore, so we’d be on our own until our parents got back in the morning. Once they were ready to go, they hugged us goodbye.                “Remember the rules,” said Mom. “No booze, not too much TV, and, most importantly, under no circumstances should you leave this hotel and wander around the city.”                I rolled my eyes at her warning. They never let us go out on our own, even though we’d traveled half the world and were old enough to make adult decisions.                “Nellie?” Mom said, waiting for my confirmation that I would follow her rules and stay put.                “Yes, Mom, I know,” I huffed.                She studied me for a moment, an emotion I couldn’t place passing over her eyes, and then she kissed my forehead and walked out with Dad. Simeon and I ordered twice as much room service as we could eat, just to spite them, and fought over what to watch before landing on Spy Kids, a nostalgic film for us. We speculated as to what our parents were getting up to.                “I bet they save all the cool exclusive tours for themselves,” Simeon said.                “I bet they eat the most expensive food at the most prestigious restaurant,” I guessed.                We played this game for a while, until the film ended and we’d eaten our weight in pasta. We ambled to bed, and I wondered what exciting thing my parents were genuinely doing. When we woke in the morning, our parents weren’t in their bed. We ate some breakfast at the hotel restaurant, figuring they’d be back by the time we finished, but when we got back upstairs, they were still missing, and a note with stains that looked suspiciously like blood had been slipped under the door.                Now, we stand waiting in line, hoping to slip into the Basilica unnoticed. I glance around surreptitiously and see the black-clothed men looking around intently. I quickly avert my gaze and nudge Simeon, trying to get him to look like a normal tourist rather than a confused teenager running for his life.                “Smile,” I say, talking as if I’m relaying a funny anecdote. He grins awkwardly. “Less Joker , more Disney,” I tell him. He moves his mouth into a more genuine smile. “That’s better. Now laugh like I’ve told you a joke.” He laughs loudly, too loudly, and in my peripheral I see the men looking towards us. He turns his laugh into a cough. “Very smooth, Simeon.”                “Well I’m sorry, but I don’t know how the proper protocol on how to act after your parents disappear and leave a cryptic note to meet them in Vatican City. I feel like we’re in a Dan Brown novel.”                “Ah yes, the age-old question: What Would Tom Hanks Do?”                He pinches me. “Ow,” I say, still smiling. The group in front of us looks back with furrowed brows, noticing something is off about us. “Alright, when we get into the Basilica, let’s do a quick look around for Mom and Dad and if we don’t see them, we leave and go back to the hotel until we hear something else. We can’t keep running all day.”                “But they told us to come here.”                “We don’t even know if the note came from them. Clearly someone was waiting for us.”                “How do you figure?” he asks me.                “These guys found us almost as soon as we got into the City. Maybe whoever they work for left the note.”                “It was Mom’s handwriting.”                “Forgery isn’t that hard, Simeon. We faked Mom’s handwriting to get out of P.E. for years.”                He looks around worriedly, and soon we’re at the front of the line to get into the Basilica.                “Tickets, please,” an attendant says to us.                “Oh. Uh, we don’t have tickets,” I say to them. Their eyes glaze over, as if they’re desensitized to ignorant visitors.                “No tickets, no entry,” they say, looking behind us to the next group. We hesitate to move, looking back to see where the men looking for us are. I see them walking up the line, checking every face for ours.                “Listen,” I say to the attendant desperately, “we’re in a bit of a predicament and we need to get out of the Square.”                “No tickets, no entry,” they repeat in a bored voice. I look behind us again and, to my horror, I see the eyes of one of the men locked onto mine. He points and I see him mouth “there” to his companion before they start pushing their way towards us.                “RUN,” I yell to Simeon, and we push past the attendant.                “Hey, you kids, get back here!” they yell after us, but we’re already inside the Basilica. Excellent , I think to myself, now we have deranged men and security on our tails .                “Do you see Mom and Dad?” Simeon says. I look around, but I don’t recognize anyone.                “Not yet,” I respond, trying to keep calm. We try to walk calmly around the Basilica, hoping to blend in, and I can see the men wading through the crowd and looking around for us.                “Okay, we have to go,” I say to Simeon. “Mom and Dad are probably fine, and we should go back to the room to wait for them.”                “But –“ he starts, when we hear a security guard shout “there they are.” The guards make their way towards us, which draws the attention of the cronies.                “Shit,” I say. “Let’s go.” I pull Simeon’s arm and we run to the exit, dodging people who look between us and the guards and the cronies in bewilderment. We push our way forward, slipping more than once on the waxed floors. I don’t even have a moment to appreciate the beauty of the Basilica before I’m back outside and running for the stairs that will take us back down to the Square. If we can just make it out of Vatican City, we can get a cab back to the hotel and we can –                “Well, well, well,” says a voice I don’t recognize. I skid to a stop and look up at the person who is suddenly blocking my path. I see a man dressed in a smart suit with a matching trilby, a thick mustache on his tanned face. He’s average looking, but he has a presence that makes me freeze. He smiles at us, and behind us I hear the guards and the cronies come to a stop. “Your parents will be most excited to see you,” he says. He jerks his head to his henchmen, who come and grip our arms as the mysterious man has a whispered conversation with the guards. I see him slip some money into their hands, and my stomach sinks as they walk away. He turns back to us. “Let’s go,” he smiles. They lead us to a sleek black car waiting at the front of the Square, putting us inside the backseat. The windows are tinted, so I can’t see where we’re going.                “Where are our parents?” I ask the mustached man.                “You’ll see them soon,” he says.”                No one speaks again for the remainder of the trip. Soon, we pull to a stop. When the door opens, a nondescript building is in front of us. There are no other cars around, no other people. This isn’t good . The mystery man walks ahead of us as his henchmen walk behind us. Another crony opens the metal door to the building, darkness behind it. I stop.                “I’m not going in there until you tell me where my parents are,” I demand. He turns around, tilting his head at me with a small smile on his face.                “They’re inside, waiting for you.”                           I look at Simeon, who looks back at me with some fear and trepidation, but he nods his head once and takes my hand. We follow the man inside and the dark hall in front of us lights up as we’re led to a large, circular room. In the middle are two chairs, and on each chair are our parents, still dressed in their regalia but looking worse for the wear. I see spots of blood and some bruising on their faces as my heart squeezes in my chest.                “Mom! Dad!” yells Simeon, going to run towards them when the henchmen grab his shoulders to keep him back. “Let me go,” he demands.                “No can do, kiddo,” says the mustached man. “You see, your parents tried to kill my cousin. Obviously, they were unsuccessful, but we needed some…collateral…to make them talk. Them: killers. You: collateral.”                We stare at him, dumbfounded. “Why would they try to kill your cousin?” I ask incredulously.                He raises his eyebrows at us, looking from our parents back to me. “You don’t know?”                I just stare at him.                “Your parents are assassins.”                For a moment I just start at him. Then, I guffaw at the absurdity of his statement. “Assassins? Get real.”                “Haven’t you wondered at the many exotic vacation you’ve taken? Why go to Prague when Disney World is closer?”                “To expose us to new cultures.”                “Or because they had contracts in those cities.”                I look at him like he’s lost his mind. I’m suddenly struck by a line from Spy Kids – my parents can’t be assassins, they’re not cool enough!                “Mom? Dad?” Simeon says quietly. They look up at us, their lips split and eyes swollen.                “Sorry you had to find out this way,” Dad says, his voice cracking. I’m stunned into silence.                “What a lovely reunion this has been,” says the man, “but let’s go on with this. I have dinner reservations. Tell us who sent you,” he says to my parents.                They don’t answer, so the man grabs Simeon and yanks his arm behind his back, making Simeon cry out in pain. My Mom looks like they’ve physically struck her at his yell.                “Don’t hurt them,” she cries. “I’ll tell you everything.”                “Finally, some cooperation,” the man says, approaching her. It’s a split second, but I swear I see her pass something to my dad that flashes in the dim light.                “The person who sent us,” she says slowly, drawing out every word, “had a message for you.”                “Which was?” he says impatiently.                She’s quiet for a moment, looking at the ground. “Speak!” the man shouts. She slowly raises her eyes to look at him.                “That you’re dumber than you look,” she says, and before the man can react, she thrusts herself to her feet as my dad brings his hands forward and slices the rope binding her wrists with the knife she must have slipped to him earlier. Everything seems to happen in slow motion as she karate chops the mysterious man in the throat, his cronies rushing forward to defend him. Mom sweeps her leg under one of their legs, knocking them to the ground with a “hi-yah!” Dad punches the mustached man in the stomach, who doubles over as Mom hits the second crony with a series of punches that leave me dizzy trying to follow her hands. Dad grabs the man in the trilby as mom picks up their discarded ropes. They push him to a chair and tie the rope around him, bounding him to the seat. When they’re done, they stand up straight and face Simeon and me. Our jaws are on the floor. Who are these people?                “Hi kids, how was your night?” Mom says nonchalantly.                “Uh…better than yours I guess. What is going on? Who are these people? Why did you try and kill someone? Are you really assassins?”                Our parents look at each other, a silent conversation passing between them.                “Why don’t we go back to the hotel and get cleaned up. After that, we’ll tell you everything.”                We just nod dumbly. They limp towards the exit and we follow after them, still in a state of shock. The man in the seat groans faintly as we walk away.                “By the by, how do you kids feel about going to Amsterdam in the fall?” Mom asks. “There’s someone we want to pay a visit.”                I think I can confidently say that this has been the wildest family vacation yet.  

mx122w

Monsters Eat Cakes?

This is a world like no other, brimming with mystery and teaming with danger. Filled with hundreds of islands stretching across vast seas to those who live according to their own rules. Seeking a life of freedom and advantage. This is a world of monsters, and some eat cakes. Not Sweeney Todd style cakes, but fluffy cakes decorated with sprinkles. Unfortunately, not everyone lives. Mrs Otter had been half-elf and half-Otter after helping the king of Otters from under a fallen rock. As a gift, he had given her Otter shape-shifting and the ability to either be water elf or Otter at will. Shape-shifting Otters moved around elf towns during the annual Heritage Day Festival to see the loud plays of the Red Dragon banished to the human world with flame red hair and gaunt pale skin. The elves laughed at the former dragon king Qenya in his human form as he looked strange in the quiet English village selling pumpkins at Halloween, wearing orange and black long socks and a green elf costume. Especially when the elf Queen had erased his memories of the elves. During the Red Dragon war, Mrs Otter's family was bombed into hissing mounds of burned flesh in the water elf home world of Tanea. This memory haunted Mrs Otter in her nocturnal nightmares. Her favourite happy memories were with her sweet family: Splashing near the new dam they made together as a family that morning, Mrs Otter chirped her joy at her playful children. Cute, shiny paws chase a pebble and roll it around each other's noses for fun. While Mr Edward Otter flapped his tail to splash them all while adjusting his red-check bowtie. "Ha ha Bernice, your chirp is so infectious I will smile for a month." Called Mr Otter. A fish came to see what all the fuss was about, and was caught for dinner. Shredding its flesh into thin, tasty strands, so that her children can gobble up while grinning and wavy their paws. "What a game of pebble that was mumma. You find the smoothest pebbles, you’re the best." Beamed little Herbert Otter. Chuckling, Mrs Otter laughed at the fading last bright memory, before relinquishing her elf-half, along with those precious memories of her family, to the elf Queen's Blue Stone Magnifier to keep safe. Mrs Otter's close friend was a head mistress at the water elf prestigious Elhellen School of Magic. She had agreed to remove the essence of the magic elf from Mrs Otter, so that she could be a full Otter monster and leave her sad elf memories behind of her burned family. The elf Queen had offered to help, as Mrs Otter had suffered so much. Strictly speaking, Otters are not seen as monsters unless they scare humans or grow larger than black bears with their sharp fangs. However, once Mrs Otter relinquishes her elf-half essence, her unfettered shape-shifting abilities would lead her to develop into the size of a large tree. Mrs Otter still preferred to wear fine clothes once a year to attend the elf festivals and enjoy the cake shops selling pretty little cakes. Thanks to her shape-shifting, she would shrink to the size of a human, so as not to scare the elf villagers while enjoying their cakes. Looking at the neck of the customer and avoiding their gaze, she froze. Her stomach knotted, and the familiar feeling of wanting to hide in her room upstairs rooted her to the ground. Her warm tray of fragrant baked cakes had the customer lick their lips. "Julie lay out your gorgeous cakes, the line is out the door." The oven timer beeped and called Julie Straphorn back into her haven. Releasing the knot in her stomach, Julie took hold of a glass of water and gulped down some to ease her dry throat. Clicking open the oven door, the sweet steam hugged her face, and her previously taut expression spread into a radiant smile. "Let me look at you, my beauties. Oh yes, golden and warm, ready for icing in a jiffy." Leaving them on the cooling shelf, Julie expertly slid in the next four trays of cakes. The smell of warm cakes grew the line of customers around the corner. "My Annie loves Julie's cakes. Though I know she's a bit of an odd one that straphorn. I have never seen her mutter a word to a customer. I once said good morning to her, and her hairline sprang a leak. Her sister took the tray of lush cakes from her and ushered her back into the kitchen. All a bit odd if you ask me." "My older sister knew her at school, and Julie was like it then. The only time she spoke was to say what the ingredients were in one of her cakes. Then she stared at my sister’s neck, choked, and ran to the drinking tap for water. We avoided her after that, which she seemed to prefer." "I know those straphorns like goat blood, but like to replace their blood-craving with baking, but she isn't hiding it that well, I can tell you." Mrs. Samantha Goatgrass said, folding her arms and leaning towards Miss Dolly Goat, her cousin on her mother's side. "Well, at least her cakes are good, but once a year they attract these strange elves and otters. That Julie Straphorn can nod to those weirdos, but I expect she is weirder just like them and nothing like us nice grass eating goats.” "Talking of grass, Mrs. Goatgrass, the grassmongers have a special on grass cakes today, ten for a groat or fifty for a grass rock." Daisy nudged her cousin's elbow as Julie Straphorn slowly shuffled into the shop with another batch of warm grass buns and blue cupcakes. Both the elves and the goats in the line breathed in the swirl of allure that tempted them closer. Julie's sister Bretta was confident of keeping this throng calm. “I have bagged ten grass cakes, so next customer please. Right behind this bag are ten blue cupcakes that sing when you bite into them, so keep your place in the queue so you can munch these beauties.” Those who had stepped out of the queue slid back to their place and licked their lips. The timer went off, and Julie's tense face and white knuckles released to return to her no-customers-allowed-neat-quiet kitchen bakery. Mrs Otter asked for her special order in a white cake box, with a blue fish emblem of her water elf and otter shape-shifting self on it. “Thank you Julie for your wonderful baking. I shall eat these in the park with some cold milk.” Mrs Otter knew Julie hated crowds, and their bakery was always packed with hungry customers. 'Oh, we're now selling milk from Bertha's hog. Mabel had a litter of three hoglets, so there is loads of milk to spare," Bretta explained, holding up a covered white jug with blue muslin fabric stretched over it. "Yes, please, that would go with my annual treat Bretta. How much is that?" Mrs Otter lifted her blue silk flap to reveal her woven grass bag, ready to pay. “That’s two groats please, as we have a special on today because of the festival. The water elves have kindly put a spell on the jug so it doesn't run out all day. So don't push, you can buy some for one groat a cup. Here’s my cup measure ready.” Beretta held up the white thin cup with the water elf blue Moon vine emblem on it which was one of Elhellen’s water elf Houses. “Oh that’s a bit posh Bretta you getting help from one of the royal houses near Elhellen.” Mrs Goatgrass nudged her cousin, who giggled. A water elf lifted her head to stand over both goat monsters and stare closer at how sharp their front claws were. The water elf scrunched up her face and rolled her eyes as she stepped back in line. Mrs Otter nodded to Julie and Bretta and flapped her tail from her blue, well-made dress to hold her cake box. With two small brown hands, she held the lush yellow milk and sipped it as she moved towards the bakery exit. Mrs Otter's webbed feet feet made a flip-flap sound on the dark blue tiled bakery floor, causing a low echo which made the two goat monsters giggle. Sighing with joy at the moment, when she would bite the fish sponge, drizzled with sticky blue icing. Mrs Otter moved towards the nearby park. Sitting on the dirty wooden park bench, Mrs Otter licked each paw after each mouthful until the box and cup had no crumb or dreg. “Excuse me,” a tiny voice in her ear surprised Mrs Otter, causing her to flap her tail on the path in surprise. "Who's there?" Mrs Otter could hear wings, but could not see anyone. "Look ahead, I'm right in front of you. I am an earth elf and need to know how to bake cakes, so that I can help free my sister from the bedroom of the water elf Queen." Mrs Otter then noticed the hovering clump of moss with eyes. "Hello to you," Mrs Otter smiled. “Can you help me?” The earth elf said in a high voice near Mrs Otter’s face. “I know a baker who doesn't like crowds who will think about helping you. Tell her what to make, and she will make it for you.” “We earth elves love water elf sponge cupcakes, can she make them? My sister hasn't been fed since Queen Elvina left to go to Elhellen in September last year. The family has forgotten to feed her, so I have to get there quickly before she fades to soil." “What’s this little morsel of otter? Are you waiting for me as a snack?” Mrs Otter knew the elf village was dangerous, but to be thought of as lunch was far beyond what she expected. So Mrs Otter changed her shape to show her whole pelt, so that the dress wouldn't be ripped. "Taking off the wrapper, how thoughtful.” the hammerhead monster sneered, shaking the sea from his wide nose. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?” Mrs Otter returned to her full size and looked down at the hammerhead: "Time to send you back to your mother to learn some manners." Lifting her tail and sliding it behind her, Mrs Otter flung her tail at the hammerhead, who pinged off towards the sun with a very long yell. "That's one way to deal with the rudeness of the hammerhead," the earth elf smirked. "It's a nuisance if Hammerheads don't even try to be less monster and use their manners," Mrs Otter sighed, returned to her human-sized Otter self and changed her full pelt for the thin gleaming blue dress. “Where to next and what’s your name?” Mrs Otter asked, returning to the park bench to rest. “My mother named me clot when I was a baby, because my hair looked like a clot of grass sticking straight up. We are going to your baker friend, right?” “Right, but it will be tomorrow, as I need to sleep now.” “Good idea, I can give you an invisible moss bed to sleep on if you don’t mind sharing?” Clod smiled and sneezed. "I like to sleep near flowers when they sing at night, it's the perfect lullaby to me," Mrs Otter smiled yawning. Clot's moss bed was on top of the park bench, so Mrs Otter shrank to half a human size to fit on to the little moss bed, but her tail still flopped over the edge. "Hang on a minute, I'll just expand it for you," Clot said yawning. As the sun whispers farewell and she chases the next day, evening quietens to night and a little round circle of light grew. Perfect for the flowers to showcase their night singing talents. Earth elves appeared and gathered in a crescent to hear the twilight choir. A soft sound carried in on the dead of night, whispering to their minds while caressing their ears. Harmony of such soothing magic that every earth elf was quiet in slumber when the glistening orb of night was at its highest. The choir of flowers closed their petals to rest, after receiving slumber as an ovation. The park was almost quiet, except for the soft wind carrying the last murmur away.

echc97

Family Trade

Family Trade Vacationing in Italy is like a dream. Mark got to hike along scenic sloping vistas with his older brother and father. He and his grandfather got to gorge on the finest Italian delicacies in various holes in the walls all around Sicily. They’d sit on the cobblestone streets, basking in the sights and smells of another foreign land. The country seemed alive with an awe-inspiring beauty. Mark and his family were settling into their hotel room, a lofty suite fit for a family of five. Mark was going for some wine. His elders all held their own stern gazes as he reached for a bottle. “I thought we came here so I could drink-” Mark’s mother shook her head. Her blonde waves swayed elegantly. “It’s not that, darling.” She reassured her son in a honey-smooth voice. “We need you sober for this. For what we’re about to tell you.” Adds his father. Mark blinked and he looked at his family. “Have you ever wondered…what we do? And WHY we always go on such extravagant trips?” Mark’s mother, Mel, asked delicately. Mark shook his head once. “You and Dad…work for the state, right?” He repeated what he’d been told for the past eighteen years. Mel and her husband, Mac, exchanged glances before shaking their heads in unison. “That’s…not exactly true.” Mac responded. “We DO work with the government, yes. But it’s more…off the books than that.” The adults continued to stammer about. They struggled to find the right words and tested the boy’s patience. “What are you even talking about?” Mark crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. “We’re assassins.” Mark’s older brother, Matt, chimed in fron the back. He dropped the news on his brother's in his usual hard and blunt way. “Mac pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes, while Mel’s head snapped to her eldest son’s. Her face was decorated with her usual furious scowl. Meanwhile, Mark was left in disbelief. He thought his older brother was messing with him As he was prone to doing. But his family’s reactions to what he said lead him to believe otherwise. The eldest man in the room, Mic, wheeled himself toward his youngest grandson. “Your brother’s right.” Even with his strained, old voice, he still commanded everyone’s attention. “Our family has been working undercover with all sorts of state governments for generations. Like the spies in your superhero comic book.” He explained. “We started by stealing secrets from the Nazis for allied powers. And since then, we’ve been working to make the world a better place from the shadows.” Mark listened intently. As his grandfather alluded to, it all sounded like something out of a comic. Almost too fake to be true… But it made sense. It explained all the flashy trips they’d been going on together since he was a baby. And it explained the family’s more flakier behavior at night. “Why…” He began. “Why are you telling me about this now?” Mark managed. “Because you’re finally old enough to join the family trade.” Mic replied. “What…what if I don’t want to kill people? I mean, I’m not even trained to do anything like that!” Mac shook his head. “All we ask is you try, once. You won’t even have to spill any blood tonight. We have a plan for you.” Mel followed with, “You’ve been raised for this, baby. That’s part of the reason you and your brother have always been in better shape than other boys your ages. All those…” She cleared her throat, “‘Special shots’ you guys got as you were growing up were to prepare you both for this.” She admitted. Mel felt guilty having lied to him for so long but hoped her son would understand and forgive them. Matt got over it pretty fast. Hopefully, his younger brother would too. Mark blinked. It all made sense. Even as a kid, he was faster and stronger than others. He could have gone pro playing football if he actually liked having his brain rattle around his skull. A moment’s hesitation before he nodded. “Fine. What do I have to do?” Asked Mark. Mac and Mel exchanged satisfied smiles before turning their attention to their youngest again. “All you need to do…” Began Mac. “Is slip a poison into a meal. You’ll be masquerading as an apprentice chef. When no one’s looking…” Mel pulled a small vial with a clear liquid in it out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Pour this into the soup.” He finished as Mel handed her son the vial. Then she delicately placed her hand on her son’s cheek. Mark felt a pinch, his face vibrated, and he saw a blue sheen slither across his vision. “Ow-?!” Mark stepped back half a pace, rubbing his cheek. “What was that?” Mel giggled. “Just a disguising device, baby. It’s like a digital mask. Now no one can track you.” His mother beamed. “Still ugly, though.” His brother chided with a smirk. Especially ironic considering they’re both the spitting image of their father in his prime. Thick, black hair and narrow, confident eyes. Matt’s features had just become more angular like their father’s due to age. Juxtaposed to Mark’s being more rounded. He tossed his younger brother an earpiece. “Put that in your ear so we can all chat. When you fuck this up tap the side and start crying. Someone will bail you out-” “Enough.” Mac sternly interjected against the boy’s barrage of insults. His gaze went back to the younger of the two, squeezing his hand. “You’ll do fine, bud. You’re in no danger. The man you’re killing is an awful arm’s dealer. Grab the change of clothes in the bathroom and head down to the kitchen.” Mark obliged, stripping out of his clothes and into the white chef’s outfit. He stole a look at himself in the mirror and frowned. Despite the alleged tech disguise, he still looked the same. “Hey, Mom?! Did your mask thing WORK?” Mark called from the bathroom. “Ya, hon!” She hollers back. “You’ll still see you, but everyone ELSE sees something different!” She replied. As Mark returned to the main room, he watched his family transform it into a small command center. His grandfather and father were setting up some laptops and other tech, while his mother and brother donned sleek all-black combat outfits. “We’re gonna be plan B, bud.” Mel said. “We’re gonna work on taking out security while you do your thing. And in case it goes south-” “When you fuck up-” His brother mocks before being silenced by his mother’s glare. “IN CASE THINGS GO SOUTH….” She began again. “We’ll be there to extract the target. Your Dad and grandfather are gonna be on tech support tonight.” Mark nodded. “Right, right.” “Good luck, kiddo.” Mac said to his son. His grandfather waved, and Mark was off! He slipped through the halls of the hotel and down into the kitchen area like it was no one’s business. As far as any of them were concerned, he belonged there! Mark worked in food service for a week or two before deciding it wasn’t for him. He’d been in a kitchen before, but this was nothing like Pizza Hut. Everyone was so busy. The joint was alive with a hustle and bustle as chefs ran about with ingredients and dishes. Yet, the lace was spotless! The dozen or so chefs running the kitchen could easily serve the meals here and now. Mark could make out some French and Italian, but all the overlapping voices made actually distinguishing anything a chore.’ Anxiety bubbled up within him. He’d never killed anything, or anyone, for that matter before. His feet suddenly got cold. What if he screwed up? Or got caught? Or-? “Excuse me, you?” A girl’s voice took Mark’s attention. She’s a bit older than him, blonde twin tails done up in a braid. Her accent leans European, as do her facial features. “You, c’mere.” Whistling and twitching her manicured index and middle fingers as though she were addressing a dog. “I needed help preparing Malukko’s soup YESTERDAY-” As she yapped on, Mark’s grandfather chimed in his ear. “That’s your mark, Mark.” An amused cackle, as Mark exhaled through his nose in annoyance. He trudged towards the chef. “Hey, at least she’s cute.” Mac mused. His son rolled his eyes as he got to the woman. She immediately began to bark demands. “We need basil, and fresh mini tomatoes, PRONTO.” Clapping her hands. “That’s on you.” She didn’t even bother asking his name! Probably works better with anonymity or something. In his ear, he’d listen to the family speak back and forth, talking about where guards were and their routes. Men taken down and where to hide their bodies. It was almost like listening to a video game podcast or something while he ran back and forth grabbing tomato soup ingredients for the woman he wished he was killing tonight… As the meal drew closer to being finished, Mark touched his earpiece. “Hey, think you can get her away from the food?” He whispered. “Leave it t’me, bud.” His grandfather replied with an unseen mischievous smirk. As Mark returned to their workstation, the girl’s phone chirped. She sighed and took it out. “‘Scuse me-.” Shuffling past Mark without a care. He scowled. “No one’s watching you, go ‘head.” Mac replied. Mark hesitated for a moment. His uncertainty came back to rear its ugly head. Unfortunately, he didn't have long to fester in it. Mark heard her return, squawking in annoyance at her phone from the other end of the kitchen He did as he was told to do without question, pouring the poison into the soup and mixing it in real good. as he finished. “Good job. Now beat it.” Mac said. Didn’t have to tell him twice! “Food’s on, and I’m going on a smoke break.” Mark said hastily, hurrying away before his temporary boss could say anything. He fled the kitchen through the back, as he was instructed. There was a backpack waiting for him there with a change of clothes and instructions on how to ditch his disguise. After slipping on an innocuous pair of sweats and a hoodie, his first mission was done. Mark walked off, looping back to the front of the hotel and then meeting his father and grandfather upstairs. He didn’t feel any sort of way about this. It was pretty easy, actually. No direct bloodshed or confrontations. “Nice work! Very, very good!” His grandpa gushed, making Mark smile. “So, how do you feel about joining the gang, kiddo?” Asked Mac. “We could use ya. You did good tonight.” Mark hummed in consideration. “Honestly…I think I could get used to this. So long as I get to do cool shit like Mom and Matt.” The older men laughed. “With some training, that can be arranged.” Mic reassured. He grabbed the wine Mark had been eying up earlier in the night. He popped the cork with a satisfying ‘pop’. “Ad un lavoro ben fatto!” He praised his grandson’s work, raising his glass. Mac grinned. “E al futuro.” He added his hopes for the future, raising his glass next. Mark grinned. He raised his glass finally. Their glasses clinked. “Saluti.” Mark cheered. His father and grandfather repeated. 

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