Datasets:

Mielikki

/

Erebus-87k

like 5

Follow

Mielikki 2

The Sting of the Scorpion

After days of overcoming violent desert winds of epic proportions, Tarek finds himself in a remote fortress on his way to deliver a parchment that he's guarded as the eyes in his skull. The flag of the caliphate waves with strong winds towards the East. He must deliver the parchment to his allies within the fortress if he has any chance of clearing his name. The secret Order of Assassins are surely looking for him as they speak, but he must enter the lion's den if there's ever a chance to succeed in his revolt. He camouflages himself with the sand and scales the walls of the tower towards his ally's quarters with his dark bladed lion's claw gloves. He makes a distinct sparrow's whistle to beckon his friend Ibn 'Abbas. He recognizes the sound and mimics the sparrow's whistle in response. “Ibn ’Abbas is that you?” He sees a large powerful trunk of an arm laden with a leather armlet, with a large scar on his right shoulder: it’s an injury from a mission Tarek completed with him a mere decade ago. Ibn ‘Abbas motions Tarek to come upstairs. Tarek climbs in through the window as he steps into a luxurious home with Persian rugs a peasant could only dream of, of ancient warrior blades hung as artifacts from thousands of years ago, an oak desk brought in from Asia with an endless wall of parchments and books released by scholars and philosophers, scientists and mathematicians. “I see you’ve lived quite the lifestyle, my old friend.” Ibn ‘Abbas, a large man with a powerful muscular stature, seems to no longer engage in spycraft, but rather more transparent work. The scars that fanned the flames of war so many years ago, left their mark on him, serving as a reminder to anyone who dare cross him. “That I have, Tarek.” He sighs with frustration and relief. “That I have.” “Did you receive my message?” “Yes. The fortress has been shooting down messenger pigeons over the past few months indiscriminately. They’ve sent me the message directly to dispose of it, and your fateful bird.” Tarek with a short, angered breath exclaims at the audacity of the new Caliph. “What a foolish boy this new man is. He can’t hide from the world forever. The truth will be revealed soon enough.” “Indeed he is. Educated and trained yes, but he hasn’t seen battle at all, and now his father rots in his grave with no semblance of peace.” Muses ‘Abbas. “Tell me you didn’t forward the information to anyone else! His pride will kill us all, Ibn ’Abbas.” “I know, but you must not backbite a fool, for he makes a mule look agreeable. You cannot beat down a wall with mere words. Your message was destroyed as soon as I read it and I had told no one. Do not doubt my words. I am still your teacher. Wars and leaders will come and go, but we will always remain to cover their poisonous words and empty promises.” “Indeed we will, master. It’s good to see a friendly face.” They shake hands and give each other a hearty rough hug as they smile, despite the guards outside. “Worry not. The walls are thick and the rooms are spacious. My guards outside are with us. There won’t be a single soul eavesdropping on us without my say so.” “You mean, Othman and Haytham?” Tarek asks about his other friends. ‘Abbas nods with a smile. “Are you the head of the order?” “Not quite. I am the head of this branch within the fortress, but be warned, the Caliph is watching my every move. I must comply with his demands if I am to move forth unseen.” He pauses to collect himself “We must create change, Tarek.” “How do you propose we do that, master?” “We will formulate a resistance to appoint a new Caliph. There is a man, a scholar that has been gaining influence further North, beyond the desert. You must move ahead to find him, sight unseen.” Abbas gives him a parchment containing a map of where the scholar is thought to be. “It’s a days’ worth of a ride. I have a horse just outside of the tower with food and water provisions ready for you.” “That would be difficult to achieve if they see you leave.” Muses Tarek. “Indeed. That’s why you must let me arrest you, and you must promptly escape. I must continue to keep my cover. His father was a blessed man. He warned me of treachery from his adopted son, and so it did happened. He murdered his true heir, and now here we are, the spark of conflict will surely bear fruit once more, only this time with no true rhyme nor reason.” Tarek punches ‘Abbas in the face attempting to escape as he calls for his loyal guards “Guards! Get this perpetrator now!” Haytham and Othman bust through the doors as Haytham, the swiftest of all blows a dart towards Tarek as he catches it in mid-air and runs out the window. “I want him found! Now!” Tarek uses the grappling hook at the end of the rope he climbed on and threw it towards a building as the sandstorm picks up once again, obscuring his view as the sound of hoofs beating quickly away from the fortress are suddenly heard. As his three secret allies attempt to chase after him, they smile “Good luck, Tarek. I hope the winds find you well.” “It’s as if the wind followed with him, ‘Abbas!” marvels Haytham, a tall, lean man with a brown beard. “Indeed, he was the best of us all.” Agrees Othman, a muscular boulder of a man with a black goatee, even larger in frame than ‘Abbas, but slower and perhaps not as strong as their leader. Tarek gallops further away as he moves further North, away from the violent desert storms and towards a large city on an oasis, on his powerful black horse. Tarek quickly changes into civilian clothes and wears a disguise, a hat and an eyepatch, posing as a merchant. He sees a young boy running around holding books, walking outside of a school. It’s the end of classes and the children are out playing. “Pardon me, young man. Could you help me? Where is the university?” Tarek smiles politely, his face partially hidden. The boy points further north into the city. “It’s a mere stride, past the bazaar, and the mosque.” He points further towards the tower where the call to prayer is made each day. “Thank You!” He tips his hat and throws a gold coin in his hand. “Thank You, kind stranger!” the boy’s cheerful smile turns to suspicion and fear, as he hides from the strange man and calls a friend of his telling him that someone is looking for the scholar. The other child runs towards the university as well and jumps onto a merchant’s cart which is headed close to the university. He sees the entrance to the university, where only a select few students remain. Tarek disguises himself once again, removing his eyepatch and hat, and shaves his scruffy beard in a nearby bath to appear more presentable, wearing a more scholarly form of clothing. He hears commotion outside of a nearby classroom where he sees an older man, a teacher discussing politics privately among a select few students, speaking of revolution and change and the advancement of new technologies that will ensure the prosperity of society. Tarek hears a strange sound near the balcony of the large classroom, as he uses his monocular telescope to look for anything strange. He notices a dark figure with a crossbow, its tip smeared with a powerful white-coloured scorpion venom, designed to stop a human heart and kill quickly. Tarek climbs further up as he wrestles the assassin knocking the crossbow out of his hand “He yells to the teacher “Get out of here! NOW!! GO!!!” The students gasp unsure of what is happening as they whisper the words “hashasheen!” Without a thought, they err on the side of caution and guard the scholar, as they run away quickly outside of the classroom. The venomous assassin swiftly picks up the crossbow and shoots at Tarek with it, as he knocks it out of the way with his ancient scimitar, the arrow landing on the ground. “Who are you?” Tarek yells at the vicious killer. The assassin doesn’t utter a word, but attacks Tarek even more swiftly with an aggressiveness he rarely sees, using a shorts word as he quickly spins it around in his right hand and rushes towards him. Tarek defends with a violent clash of swords as he sees a dagger also poison tipped held by the assassin concealed in his left hand. He sweeps the killer’s legs quickly as he’s knocked down, dropping the dagger far below the balcony, but still holding the sword, as he attempts to find the arrow that was shot behind him. He sees the arrow only a mere foot behind him as he reaches for it, but the killer still on the ground grab his legs, pulling him away. He dropkicks the killer into the chest in one motion jumping up onto his feet as he backs away, allowing him to attack him once again. The killer still with sword in hand, gets up slowly with a vile rage unlike any other. Still the killer glares with no words as Tarek taunts him, buying the scholar and his allies to run away even further. “Come on, you coward! I’m here! Fight me!” The assassin sees he has no chance to escape. He has met his match. He grunts fiercely with approval, as he clashes swords once again with Tarek, clattering and clashing back and forth, each attempting to kill the other, as Tarek backs away enough to grasp the venom-tipped projectile. He moves close enough to the assassin to cut off his head, as he swings and the killer ducks in time, but Tarek at nearly the exact same moment that the killer ducks under Tarek’s powerful swipe, uses the arrow with his other hand to stab downward into the killer’s back. The killer is shocked and angered further, as he falls from the balcony far below, landing onto a table. Tarek rushes to the balcony to see his body, but there’s no longer a sign of the mysterious assassin. He sees only a broken table now. A victory, nonetheless, the scholar is safe. Tarek aims to find him once again. He will most likely leave the city now. He must track him if he’s to find this new leader for change. And so, Tarek journeys forth, seeking the boy that gave him directions, a student and a member of this mysterious resistance group. The scorpion has stung the unjust, and the righteous once again prevail.

j63y93

Something in the Smoothie.

“What’s the matter? You seem awfully concerned about something,” he uttered. A bead of sweat rolls down Tabby’s face. Staring into the abyss of her newly ordered strawberry milkshake, she fought to ignore the ominous feeling that something was wrong. She refused to drink this, not until he explained everything. Tabby had always been a paranoid young girl. Raised in an untrustworthy household, where possessions were mysteriously “lost” and trust torn apart like paper shreds, she couldn’t help but harbor concern over her every action. Her environment wasn’t any better. Entering her home, the floor yelped a silent creek. Like always, the chairs around the dining room table were strewn across the floor. An ancient lightbulb emits a sickening yellow light, casting a grim glow into the dimly lit living area—the background noise of arguing overpowered anything else that she could’ve done. The near-collapsing faucet dripped murky water that congregated into a small puddle of nonpotable fluid. Walking up to her room, she passed by a basket of unwashed clothes, perhaps sitting there for days. Tabby’s room wasn’t glamorous; it was just a bed with a wardrobe. She ventured through a miserable life, pondering the day she moved out. However, Tabby starts to reconsider when she encounters him. One blazing summer afternoon, Tabby worked delivering pizzas. Mounted on her slowly-decaying motorbike, she navigated the bustling city under the melting sun. Cars of various shapes and sizes commuted down the packed roads to their destinations. Buildings loomed over the civilians that gathered in every corner. It was a busy Saturday, like always. Just beyond her field of vision, she takes a glance at her next destination. Standing over her was a large concrete cube. The sun reflected off the chrome-colored doorframe. Each brick in the wall was polished and smoothed down to the last iota. The perfectly cut grass stretched and coated the building’s entire front yard. Tabby stood in shock at the pure beauty of the building as she slowly stepped onto the slate steps towards the hardwood door. Each knock resonated through her soul; she felt like she was disturbing a god. The door creaked open, and a guy wearing a coffee-stained T-shirt and tattered jeans stood in view. Tabby heart was set aflame. Every vein pumped through her at double time, and her eyes widened.  “Can I help you?” The man stated. A look of concern streaked across his face. “...Here…” Tabby managed to stammer out. Her heart rang out in panic. “My name is Tabby.” “Huh. My name is Leo. I think this is what you’re owed.” After receiving payment, she shuffled back to her motorbike, a smile that stretched from one side of her face to the other. As time passed, she delivered to that house more and more until they grew extremely close. Tabby felt like all her problems had been solved by being with Leo. She'd travel over to his if she experienced torment at her home. Although she enjoyed Leo’s loving embrace, she was still highly cautious. Like always, she walked at a slow pace, careful to scrutinize her surroundings. Tabby still suffered from severe paranoia, unwilling to trust Leo fully. After a long month, Tabby received an unmarked letter in the mail. Panic boiled up in her throat. It was written in shaky writing on a wrinkled coffee paper and stated a cryptic message. The message was a conglomerate of random etches and numbers, which made no sense to Tabby. However, one word seemed to jump off the paper. As she hyperventilated, she skimmed what was written on the paper once again: “Leo…” Several hours pass by in an instant. Leo tried to do everything he could to reach Tabby but to no avail. Tabby was stressing at the nearby park. The autumn leaves scattered around her resembled a plunging fire waiting to consume her whole. She felt her soul scatter on two sides, not knowing what to believe. How could she prove the letter was legitimate? How could she know if Leo was legitimate? As she stressed about the letter, Leo appeared from behind the bench. “Hello!!” Leo exclaimed. “Are you feeling all right?” “Just a little spooked,” Tabby responded. A worrisome expression grew across Leo’s face. “What happened?” A worried Leo inquired. “Look at this…” Tabby unwrapped the scrunched-up paper and smoothed out the wrinkles. Each action she took sent shockwaves through her body. Beads of sweat accumulated atop her head. Her eyes flickered between Leo, the letter, and the leaves on the ground. The world seemed to spin, faster than she could ever perceive, until Leo broke the silence.  “How about this? I’ll take you to the nearby smoothie store and get you a strawberry shake. Does that sound good to you?”  Leo seemed to know more than he let on. Tabby had loved strawberry shakes as far as she could remember. Even if her gruesome parents shattered her trust on an unfathomable amount of occasions, she would still half-forgive them as long as they brought her a strawberry shake. Leo had found the key to her heart. Tabby slowly tilted her head upwards to face Leo, and he outstretched his hand. “I’ll walk you to the stand; we can discuss this on the way there.” Leo soothed. Tabby stood up and slowly walked over to the smoothie stand, with Leo following shortly behind. They had approached the stand and received their drinks when Tabby saw a ragged man just beyond the peripherals of her vision. His shirt hung loosely around his shoulders, his hair unkempt. He walked with a limp, and he held up a sign with a familiar set of scribbles. Just as she realized what the man held up, he stared directly at her, signaling her to read the sign. His crazed glare stabbed deep into her mind, pulling her in with all his might. Just as it happened, he broke contact and strolled off. As she reached up to grab her newly-ordered strawberry smoothie, panic erupted from her mind again. “What’s the matter? You seem awfully concerned about something,” Leo uttered. Beads of sweat form rivers down Tabby’s face. Her vision blurred, and it was hard to concentrate on the situation presented at the moment. Starting with the thick concoction of what could be a strawberry smoothie, her adrenaline builds up. Up until this point, Tabby had bottled up her emotions around Leo. Unwilling to fully trust him, she refrains from acting out on her feelings. However, Leo still didn't seem like the guy he thought he was. Tabby noticed his flaws due to her immaculate ability to single out small details, a byproduct of her immense paranoia. After about a month of observation, she saw Leo sometimes act extremely strange, especially around Tabby. She had hoped it was a figment of her imagination, a side aspect of her stress and nervousness, but with the man and the letter, she couldn't justify such an answer. Leo was about to poison Tabby, and Tabby knew she had to do something.  “WHO ARE YOU?” she had exclaimed. Nearby pigeons took flight, their feathers falling as they frantically fled the scene. Parkgoers spun to see the commotion that had formed at the smoothie stand. The air around the duo grew sharp and dense.  “W-whats going on Tabby? You can’t just erupt like that in public!” Leo retaliated. His face grew to a sickening red hue. As onlookers gather to see the problem, Tabby shows Leo the letter. She glanced at the pedestrians as she watched Leo skim through the note. They seemed just as distressed as she was. She knew domestic abuse was common in this neighborhood, and the looks on their face were nigh too familiar.  "Oh, Tabby… You can't listen to a random note you found in your mailbox." Leo said. His tone seemed to harden, which Tabby took account of. Leo's body language suggested something else might be at play. "What were you going to do with me?" Tabby replied, her voice reaching an octave higher. "Nothing! I swear!" "TELL ME THE TRUTH" The scream resonated through the entire park. Trees shed their leaves, autumn petals falling gently to Earth. The amount of bystanders around the two had reached extreme numbers. The smoothie store attendant slid the metal grate shut, refusing to get involved in their heated discussion. Leo's eyes started to water. "What is there possibly to say? I tried to lighten your mood by buying you your favorite drink, and you yelled at me, seemingly for no reason at all." Leo's voice was barely a whisper. Tabby felt broken. Yet again, she let her self-worriedness ruin another excellent relationship.  "I'm sorry… Can you just explain what the letter is? And the fact that there was a weird guy holding a sign with the same message?" A smirk began to form at the corners of Leo's mouth. Shortly after, he let out a bellowing laugh. The spectators of the quarrel let out a nervous chuckle, unsure of what to do next. Tabby's mind sank deeper into confusion.  "What in the world are you laughing at?" she demanded. Tabby had long forgotten about the distress she had just experienced and nearly knocked over her shake.  "I'm suprised the amount of times you've been at my place you've never seen him!" Leo said. Tabby raised an eyebrow in confusion. What on Earth was he talking about? "The guy with the sign, he's Niko. He's gone off the deep end after claiming to 're-establish society from the Big Three' or whoever those guys were. He lingers at my place since I offer his hospitality."  Tabby was astonished. As always, she didn't bother to consider both sides of the scenario and instead jumped to conclusions. Embarrassed, she decided to chug down the strawberry smoothie he bought for her. It was perfectly mixed, flowed nicely, and tasted good. The specific amplification of strawberry against all other ingredients made her want to cheer. After all that debate, the smoothie was just a regular smoothie. No thought of assassinating Tabby had ever crossed Leo's mind.  "I'm- I'm sorry…" Tabby stammered. "It's all good. Let's just forget about all this and head back to my place, yeah?" Leo responded, his voice softened.  As the observers of the quarrel dispersed, Tabby followed Leo back to his complex. However, one last question lingered in the depths of her mind. "How did you know I liked strawberry smoothies?"

hczp5i

Skins and Shirts

“Oh dear.” “Not again.” Ben and Thom exchanged a look that asked a rhetorical question. That question was really existential in nature, but mostly it was a contrary bugger intent on making their life as interesting as it possibly could. “You know,” said Ben, “this reminds me a of City game I went to. Or rather the end of the game, when I was leaving the ground with my ex-girlfriend’s boyfriend.” Thom utilised another look in his repertoire. This look edged towards a rolling of his eyes, but that rolling never actually transpired, instead it merged with a look of loving indulgence that only a special kind of friend can successfully bestow. Thankfully, Thom was just such a friend and so the look landed fairly well. Wars had been started with an ineptly landed look. As his bestest friend told him about the rivalry between City and Rovers and how this was always going to bubble over into a friendly exchange of thumps, kicks and light-hearted taps with sticks, punctuated with a well-intentioned lob of a half brick, Thom marvelled at just how extensive Ben’s library of anecdotes was. This was not entirely surprising because Ben’s list of ex-girlfriends was also extensive and many of his anecdotes seemed to include reference to at least one of these lucky ladies. And Thom wasn’t being flippant with that word luck. He’d encountered many several of Ben’s ex-squeezes and they all loved him and the time they had shared together. This, Thom knew, was quite unusual. Nearly as unusual as Ben. “So there we were, me and Phil, walking towards the Bell and Brush, talking about how Brenda could do this interesting things with her toes, right in the midst of…” Ben was saying. Thom shook his head, “is this going to take long?” “It never took long, not when she did the thing with her toes,” chuckled Ben. Thom raised an eyebrow, but he knew better than to bite. Ben would be right in there with a vivid description of a sordid toe-related act that would indelibly etch itself on the inside of his eye lids. Ben had defiled the inside of Thom’s eyelids one time too many and Thom wasn’t for any more of that erotic eyelid graffiti. Ben sighed, “well we had a moment like this. Where we unwittingly stepped out from a battle line and into the no man’s land of two opposing sides.” Ben and Thom gazed about them. This was a very nice spot for a picnic. A green and pleasant hillside with a line of trees gazing down upon a field that spent most of its time indulging a handful of ruminating mammals. Today though, it was busy and a picnic was probably not the wisest of ideas. However, the lack of ideal picnic conditions was not an impediment for Terry Bull and his team of dedicated food purveyors. This enterprising team were doing a roaring trade selling eggs wrapped in meat. The purchasers of said meat eggs were wise enough not to enquire as to the source or provenance of said meat. Suffice to say that if the field were sentient, it would miss its ruminating chums, and in this loss it would be entirely wrong in its thoughts of the source of the meat wrapped around Terry Bull’s eggs. Interestingly, no one thought to ask about the eggs. Which was just as well really. Ben and Thom watched the proceedings from a spot that afforded them a good view of the two opposing battle lines. This was one of the best seats in the house. Unfortunately, these seats were about to become a stage and the acts upon this stage were going to be very violent indeed. “At least there’s not a police horse about to mow one of us down,” mused Ben, “I had to pull Phil out of the way of an impressively well-hung stallion.” Thom’s eyes widened with this todger-related revelation. Only Ben would notice a horse’s willy in a moment of dire peril. Observation was one of his many gifts. “Whoa!” This was wailed by a ducking Thom. “Wow!” gasped Ben as he watched the dragon swoop over their heads before crashing into enemy lines. The boys watched the trail of destruction that the dragon created. The trail exposed the depth behind the initial lines. There were a lot of soldiers. Or rather, there had been a lot of soldiers. There weren’t quite so many now that a battalion or three had been cremated. “I don’t think that’s very fair,” muttered Thom. Ben held up a finger, “I know what you’re saying, and possibly what you’re thinking, but give it a moment before you jump to their defence, OK?” Thom’s brow creased, but he stayed his hand. Between the two of them they seemed to have a knack. Neither of them knew how the knack worked and they hadn’t tried too hard to suss it out. It was enough that they had the knack and they didn’t want to push it, force it or do anything that might upset it and make it think about leaving them for pastures new. The knack appreciated this and it wished it could communicate its thanks and reassure the lads that it was going nowhere, but unfortunately, the knack would never be able to convey these sentiments or that it too supported City and would like to go to a few more matches with Ben. Nonetheless, Thom felt an itch that was a prelude to action and only action would scratch this particular itch. His left leg lifted his foot six inches in the air as he tried to remain calm and patient. “Do you need to pee?” asked Ben. “What?” asked Thom, then he looked up at his raised leg, “no, I…” he began to explain. But Ben’s attention was already elsewhere, and when Thom noticed that attention of Ben’s, he swiftly followed suit in time to feel the ground under his right foot tremble in an announcement of a pending eruption and emergence of what looked like a gargantuan worm, because that was exactly what it was, a worm. This mighty and corpulent worm smashed into the front line of its enemies and thrashed this way and that in what looked like a messy and undisciplined manoeuvre but was in fact highly efficient at reducing the numbers of the enemy in tragically brutal fashion. “Is that…?” said Thom, stifling the remainder of his words with his hand. Something about what he was seeing made him gag. “Some sort of mutated acidic slime?” ventured Ben as he looked on in fascination at the partially dissolved corpses of the fallen soldiers. Thom had composed himself sufficiently to speak again, “that’s deeply unpleasant,” he said. He’d not yet caught a whiff of just how unpleasant it was. In twenty second’s time, he was destined to lose his breakfast. “Yeah,” agreed Ben, for there was no disagreeing with just how unpleasant the acidic slime secreting worm was, “but then, so is that,” pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the fire breathing reptile barbequing vast swathes of humanoid life. “Bleurgh!” said Thom in the stead of a more suitable form of agreement. “You should have had a bacon roll,” observed Ben, “muesli really is not a suitable breakfast in circumstances such as these.” Thom scowled at Ben. They both knew that these circumstances had not been foreseen, let alone planned for. Ben met that scowl of Thom’s with a shake of his head. Thom would have been best served with a breakfast of bacon in any case. Bacon was the plan and bacon was the answer, whatever the circumstances or the questions that those circumstances may conjure. “So…” said Ben surveying the carnage all about them, “I was in two minds as to what we were doing here, let alone which side we were supposed to help out.” He put his hands on his hips and nodded in determined fashion. He now knew why they were here. Thom was behind the curve. The discombobulation of his breakfast loss was to blame for this. And this delay left him a witness to Ben’s actions. Trailing in his wake, he desperately attempted to catch up mentally and see if he could find a discarded programme that contained an order of service, or whatever it was that they called the itinerary on battlefields. What remained of the two battle lines rippled with grim and violent intent. Generals rode three-legged steeds along their lines and prepared for the fatal action their men would take. It was all about to kick off, and then some! STOP! Ben shouted this, and yet he did not. It wasn’t a shout and it was far more than a shout. What it most certainly was, was a noise that got everyone’s attention. The strange man rose up into the air between the assembled warriors. This was a man who was strange wherever he went, but was even more strange on a planet that had never come up with the concept of a clown, let alone executed it. This was a man made stranger still by his casual contempt of the force of gravity. Thom watched his friend and considered joining him in the air, but decided against it. His aerial abilities were no match for his friend, and he was still to catch up with what Ben was intent upon. HOLD YOUR HORSES! Bellowed Ben inside the minds of everyone assembled. There was much puzzlement at this. Only two of those present knew what a horse was, so there was something quite disconcerting about being asked to hold an object of indeterminate shape and nature, more so by a floating man garbed in a garish and odd manner. A really pale and hungry looking man at that. This last was because Ben also happened to be a zombie. Ben looked about him and picked up on the confused consternation of his audience. WAIT! This order was far clearer, but the confusion remained. These warriors were here to do a job and up until a minute ago, they thought their blood was up. It still was, but now they weren’t sure what they were supposed to kill. The prospect of killing the strange floating man was something that went beyond daunting, popped into a dark and unsavoury alley and whispered promises that were most unsavoury. The brave, but not entirely stupid, warriors decided waiting was a good idea, but were not clear as to why it was a good idea. This avoidance strategy was largely wise, barring the dragon and worm wreaking awful destruction in the ranks of these soldiers. There remained a huge desire to run and keep running. Swinging an axe or sword or hammer and shouting a lot was also a desirable course of action for all assembled. “Take your shirt off,” Ben whispered to his chum. “Why?” asked Thom. Thom was one of those sorts who wasn’t comfortable with mindlessly obeying anyone, even his bestest friend. He’d have made an awful soldier and he’d been a poor employee according to the sorts of bosses who only wanted people to mindlessly obey and of course take the blame in the aftermath of a set of badly executed and ill thought out orders. “Your skins and I’m shirts,” explained Ben. “Oh,” said Thom, not quite so mindlessly removing his shirt. This was a habit born of a childhood of playing team games that required one team to remove their shirts in order to be differentiated from the other team. This was why girls did not play with boys. For slightly different and even more sensible reasons, there were no girls present on the field right now. Not unless you included the dragon and the worm. RIGHT YOU LOT, YOU’LL WAIT HERE AND WATCH WHILE WE SORT THIS OUT, OK? Ben looked around him for a response that did not materialise. OK?! The assembled nodded and shuffled around uncomfortably. Most of their discomfort was being generated by the ongoing carnage being wreaked by dragon and giant worm. “Right mate,” said Ben, and before Ben went on with his plan, Thom knew that he had drawn the short straw, “you grab that worm and follow me.” Thom wanted to protest. He also wanted to cry. His overwhelming urge to cry silenced him and secured his wormy fate. Shaking his head in disbelief, he took to the skies unsteadily, muttering the immortal words, “not again.” From his elevated position he saw the worm bestowing wrigglesome death upon the amassed ranks of soldiers, and he knew he had to act. Just as he was about to dive down and do his worst, or his best, or something somewhere between those two, he heard a voice. His friend’s voice. “Here mate! Use these!” cried Ben as he threw two objects towards Thom. Thom caught them and examined them for just one moment. Gauntlets! Top notch! He would thanks his friend later. These hand garments were just the ticket. He donned them and swooped down to battle with the wriggly-war-worm. Grabbing its tail, Thom pulled for all he was worth, backwards and upwards he pulled, removing the worm from the ranks and saving many a soldier from a slimy death. There was a chorus of cheers as Thom removed the worm related danger and he realised that those cheers were being echoed from behind him. Risking a look over his shoulder he saw his bestest friend dragging the fearsome dragon away in a similar manner. Ben turned to his friend and grinned, but his grin was short-lived, “look out!” he shouted to Thom. Thom heeded that warning and in the nick of time. The huge worm’s tail was opening up before his very eyes and the revealed aperture contained row after row of pointy teeth. “You have got to be kidding me,” sighed Thom, but the worm wasn’t, and as though to prove its point, it swung it’s other end around to show Thom another gaping maw containing far too many teeth. A dentists dream was that second mouth. “Swing it this way!” cried Ben. Thom nodded affirmation, now understanding Ben’s simple plan. Let the titans fight and save the warriors pointless deaths against creatures they had no hope of defeating. Or something like that anyway. Thom braced himself in readiness for the swing that would bring the goliaths together and enjoined in a bitter fight to the death. SPLOOP! Thom’s world was transformed in a thrice. In his past life, Thom had been floating in air and unencumbered by anything other than the worm in his gauntleted hands. Now he was encased in a moist material that made him feel about as unclean as he had ever felt. Worse still, he could feel a strange fizzing sensation and too late did he realise that this was the effects of the acidic slime that the worm not only secreted but apparently also spat from its many toothed gob. Thom would have given forth with an EWWW! But had the presence of mind not to open his mouth. With a grim and blind determination, he swung the wriggling menace around towards his friend and the dragon. SLAP! Even in his blind state, Thom was safe in the knowledge that worm had come together with dragon. His slime muffled ears heard the roar of the dragon and he felt the struggles of the worm as it fought for its very life. He thought it about time to let go of the hideous creature and gently fall back and away from the danger it and the dragon presented. “Oof!” Thom cried involuntarily as he landed heavily on the ground. “Oh sh…” he began as the folly of his initial utterance made itself known and the slime entered his mouth. “Bleurgh,” was the sound of him expelling said slime and last night’s tea. Not dinner. Dinner was for special occasions. Rolling to his hands and knees, he attempted to shake the slime from him in a fashion approximating a dog ridding itself of rain drops. Thom was no dog, but somehow he did a good de-sliming job of it all the same. As he dared open his eyes, he saw the familiar oversized shoes of his chum, “has it worked?” he gasped. “It’s working” was Ben’s reply, “and everyone’s watching the fight. Those guys are back with the meat wrapped eggs. Fancy one?” Thom gagged, “not right now, no.” “Think I’ll have two,” said Ben. Ben always seemed to be hungry. “Ben?” said Thom, “before you go?” “Yes,” asked Ben warily. “Why’d I get the worm?” asked Thom. “It was your turn,” replied Ben. “But you have the everything-proof and self-cleaning clothing,” pointed out Thom. “That’s why I got you to be skins,” Ben told him. Thom smiled and a flame of hope ignited within him, with that hope came energy and purpose. Almost springing to his feet, he reached out his hand for his shirt, asking, “so where is it?” “Ah,” said Ben. “Ah?” enquired Thom. “It’s there,” said Ben. “Where?” asked Thom, before looking over at where Ben was pointing, “under that pile of slime?” “Unfortunately, so,” Ben confirmed, “you sure you don’t want a meaty egg?” “Can I wear it?” asked Thom tersely. Ben shrugged, “not unless you want to sport a pretty obscene and quite likely illegal look,” he grinned before wandering off to find a purveyor of meaty, egg based snacks. Watching him go, Thom became acutely aware of his nakedness. Later, he would wonder and worry at a few things that vexed him. Why he always ended up naked. Why he didn’t think to ask Ben to provide him with clothes when his bestest buddy always had garments available in his pocket. And what kind of meat it was that surrounded those eggs. Surely something so tasty shouldn’t have fizzed as you bit into it?

kxieqw

It's all Swedish to me/Naked and Furious!

It was 1999 and Finn and I had been living and working in Sweden for a couple of years. Sweden is about as far away from our home country of New Zealand as you can get. Due to our experience working with Swedes in the company in New Zealand, we thought their culture wasn’t so different. How wrong we were! We were surprised and frustrated at how hard it was to make new friends and socialise with the locals. As world travelled Kiwis, I thought we understood about different cultures and our place in the world. We came to discover that Swedes were extremely open physically, sexually and intellectually. Very formal, structured and made decisions via consensus . However they were very closed emotionally, unless they felt extremely secure, which took a very long time. Kiwi's by comparison are about as open and informal as you can get! We’ve been known to pick up hitchhikers and bring them home for dinner, share our life stories and find out theirs whilst we’re at it! I thought we were intellectually, physically and sexually open too, but that was about to be thoroughly tested. Marcus, an expat Kiwi acquaintance we’d met at work in Sweden, invited us to join him and his beautiful Swedish wife, at their summer house for Midsomer celebrations. Midsomer in Sweden is a HUGE celebration, usually outside and involves crawfish (fresh water crayfish or Koura), vodka, schnapps and lots of singing. There’s an expression that Sweden has 3 winters, the white, the grey and the green. Our experience in Sweden found this to be very accurate. Summer, the green winter, lasts 6 weeks maximum and doesn't always mean it's hot, but it sure is light and bright until the wee, wee hours. In fact it's never pitch black. So after months of darkness and 20 degree below zero temperatures, the locals come alive! Clothes come off, being outside at every opportunity is absolute and socialising becomes a full on frenzy of "Making hay whilst the sun shines". We’d had a Midsomer dinner with friends before, but this was a whole weekend away, staying at the home of these new friends, their friends and family. To be honest, we were grateful for the invite as we'd been working incredibly hard, long hours, traveling for work most of the time, and really needed the social break to fill up our up our coffers again. We'd missed the more balanced lives we'd left behind in New Zealand, where you worked hard but played hard too and had large supportive social networks. We didn't know Marcus well or for long, but Finn and I had been in sales and marketing for years, so were pretty adept at covering whatever awkwardness we had with outward relaxed confidence and interest. So we packed up our rented Volvo and drove miles out of Stockholm to their beautiful summer house on a river. It was surrounded by dwarf Scandinavian forest, with only one other dwelling in view far away in the distance. The property was vast, with a large two story main house that reminded me of a Swiss chalet, along with several outhouses, a boat shed and a jetty on the river. There were rolling green lawns scattered with skinny white barked birch trees, flowering bushes and all edged with ancient forest. I expected deer and rabbits to be frolicking with us at any moment, it felt like a scene out of Bambi or Pippi Longstockings. Our day couldn’t have been more beautiful, warm with not a cloud in the sky. Finn and I were excited to get to know our hosts better and make new friends. We put our bags in our assigned room in the main house and set about to join the gathering groups. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the people that came out in excited hordes during the Swedish summer. So too did millions of mosquitos and midges at dawn and dusk Most people find a way to live with them. Not me. I'd developed a severe phobia earlier in life and couldn't be outside when they were there. This meant that I managed, barely, to share the main meal with everyone outside but as soon as we'd finished I excused myself and went inside to safety. Finn however was enjoying every minute and reassured me he'd be in an hour or so. All good, I was glad he was having fun. I helped out with the dishes and sat in the lounge conversing with the stragglers for a while. The evening became late and no sign of Finn. I could hear raucous laughter coming from the boat shed and curiosity (and let's face it, a bit of suspicion) got the better of me. I found my hooded jacket and covered as much of me as possible with it, as I walked briskly outside in the masses of insectoid madness. I didn't need a torch because with summer in Sweden, being so far north, there is never really a night. Just a long dusk. So I reached the outside window of the boatshed, which had its own sauna, and then my stomach started to churn. I could hear Finns laughter amongst the others, and when I got to the large window of the sauna, I could see naked bodies within. My heart started pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. There he was, sat in the middle of naked statuesque, beautiful, blonde, Swedish women. He was outnumbered by them 3 to 1. There were 2 other men in the huddle and to me the energy was palpably sexual. Our host Marcus was one of them, with his wife nowhere to be seen. My insecurities took over. I felt incredibly angry and disappointed, but underneath that there was the fear I had lost him to this race of supermodel women, who had won the genetic lottery. It was then Finn saw me out the window. I walked into the large main room of the boat shed, which was open to the river in the front. Finn walked out of the sauna, towel around his waist, and greeted me. "What are you doing here? I thought you were asleep?" he said sheepishly. I glared at him. "What do you think you're doing?!" He moved his feet uncomfortably, looked down for a second and then met my eyes and said with force "What do you mean? I'm not doing anything wrong!" I could see I was not going to get anywhere with this conversation. So I turned around to storm out and he defiantly walked back into the sauna. What could I do? Let this happen? Not on your bloody Kiwi life I couldn't! So I let the anger take over, and despite feeling incredibly self-conscious and more than a little afraid, I stripped off my clothes, put a towel around my waist and opened the sauna door. All of a sudden the laughter stopped. I greeted the eyes of one of the other men and asked if there was room for me. His eyes lit up and he beckoned me to sit next to him, as he made room for me. I didn't know this guy from Adam, but I didn't care. The anger had emboldened me to action as I put on the act of my life. I smiled broadly, straightened my back, lifted my head and sashayed over to the spot beside him. I tried not to look over at Finn and began a conversation with… whatever his name was… trying to sound oh so causal and cavalier like the rest the room. It was then that I noticed that Finn was not completely naked. He still had his togs on underneath, but he hadn't removed his towel. “Ha!”  I thought. “ You're just as uncomfortable as I am! ” I met his eyes finally and I saw annoyance and bewilderment at my presence. This made my blood boil. I turned back as the guy next to me asked if I wanted to come with him to dip in the river to cool off. I didn't need any further encouragement. I was already acting so out of my comfort zone, why stop now? I followed the small group of which I was the only female, out of the sauna. I dropped my towel and jumped quickly into the river, hiding my nakedness as fast as I could. It was freezing! But at the same time, wonderfully refreshing. I enjoyed the swim and the company, however soon enough I realised I couldn't stay in it for much longer. I faced the awkward fact that I was going to have to climb out again, in full view of my fellow skinny-dippers. I made them go out first, as I climbed the ladder, grabbed my towel and shot straight back into the warmth of the waiting sauna. Suddenly I became aware of the appreciative looks of my river companions and realised that this petite dark haired kiwi lass was sexy after all! Maybe it was the difference that made me appealing, but I took it. Why not! I needed that shot of confidence. I turned to catch Finn looking at me with admiration… and maybe a hint of shame? We certainly had a lot to talk about the next day, when the schnapps and vodka had warn off. I reflected and couldn’t get rid of the feeling. Was Finn about to betray me? Had I interrupted him in that endeavour? Or was it as he claimed, simply that he was experiencing a divine moment of non sexual freedom and self expression, that he's never dared or had the chance to experience before and my presence had stifled that. Hmmmm, perhaps I'll never know for sure. But come on, human nature being as it is and men being as they are, I don't think it's far fetched to believe he thought 'Why not!' I may have thrown a spanner in his 'liberation', but for me the experience liberated me in way I didn’t know I needed. Who knew kiwis were as repressed as it turned out we were? I never, ever thought before this experience that I might have rather prudish views after all! People who knew me back in New Zealand would never in a million years think of me as a prude. But compared to the Swedes, I got the rude awakening that we were. This experience opened up a can worms I didn't expect. Travel and living amongst other cultures truly is an experience that, if you let it, will evolve you. Sure, you get to learn about the differences and are reassured by the similarities at the core of what is to be human. But it’s in discovering our differences that you are able to put the mirror up to yourself, to your own culture, and ask, “Why do we do what we do, the way we do it? Is it the right way?” It's obviously not the only way. You get to ask yourself, now that you recognise how we are different, does that still work for you? Or have you found a better way? Could you modify and take the best of what you've discovered and improve the way you live? The answer for me and so many who travel, is yes. Some things are worth changing, whilst others get reenforced as being the best to begin with. So, how did this experience change me? I've decided that, whether the betrayal had been about to happen or not, I had acted initially to save face and my relationship. And what happened instead was that I found a spirit and strength in myself, my own sense of worth, that I hadn't felt before. I'd learnt that whilst some in that sauna may have found nakedness neither threatening nor sexual, there were others who took advantage of that cultural understanding to prey and cheat. Finn had not, but our Marcus had. Was that because our Kiwi culture sees adult nakedness as nothing other than sexual? Or was it simply opportunism? Culture is no excuse, for it always takes 'two to tango' and everyone knew who was single and who wasn't. Suffice to say, that was the last time we hung out with Marcus and his soon to be ex-wife, and Finn and I have been happily married for 24 years. Yup, it was worth it!

aepxg8

Murphy's (Against the) Law

Let me introduce myself, I'm Murphy, a gal whose clumsiness is as legendary as my charm. I'm the sort of person who could trip over an ant and somehow manage to knock down a skyscraper in the process. My friends often joke that I could turn a simple walk into a slapstick comedy routine. Despite my constant mishaps, my wide-eyed innocence and never-ending apologies make it hard for anyone to stay mad at me for long. One bright afternoon, I decided to visit an antiques store. The store was a maze of delicate trinkets and priceless artifacts, a place where one wrong step could lead to disaster. True to form, I, with my usual lack of grace, managed to knock over not one, not two, but three glass vases. The vases teetered on the edge of their shelves, wobbled precariously, but miraculously, they didn't break. However, my luck didn't last. The wobbling vases knocked into a solid wooden table. The table, sturdy and unyielding, didn't stand a chance against my unintentional domino effect. With a loud crack, one of the table legs gave way, and the antique table shattered into pieces. I was left standing amidst the wreckage, a look of horrified surprise on my face. Despite my propensity for unintentional destruction, I harbor a profound love for art. The allure of brush strokes, the vibrancy of colors, and the emotions that a single piece can evoke captivate me. I am irresistibly drawn to art galleries, entranced by the beauty that humans can create. I yearn to bring this beauty into my home, to immerse myself in the creativity and passion that each piece embodies. However, my desire to own beautiful things is persistently challenged by my clumsiness. The numerous instances where I've accidentally knocked over a sculpture or sent a painting crashing to the floor are painful reminders of the delicate balance between my love for art and inherent clumsiness. This dance, one that often concludes with a broken piece of art and a broken heart, is a rhythm I've yet to master. The financial implications of my clumsiness are significant. Art is not cheap, and the cost of replacing the pieces I've accidentally destroyed is escalating. While I'm willing to pay this price for the joy that art brings, it's becoming increasingly difficult to justify. I find myself trapped in a cycle of purchasing and breaking, a cycle as costly as it is heartbreaking. The incident that led to the decision to attempt to steal a piece of art from the museum was a combination of admiration and a sense of injustice. It began on a regular day at the museum, where I was captivated by a vibrant landscape painting. However, the tranquility was shattered when a sculpture was destroyed by a group of unsupervised children climbing on it. The sight of the ruined sculpture, a piece of art I had admired, filled me with a deep sense of loss and anger. This incident sparked a thought - if I could have the painting that had so captivated me in my own home, I could protect it from a similar fate. This thought grew into a decision, a decision to attempt to steal the painting to save it from potential destruction. As soon as I made up my mind to steal the painting, I knew I had to become an expert on the museum's security. I spent countless hours observing the guards, noting their routines and shift changes. I scrutinized the placement of the security cameras, identifying their blind spots. I watched the visitors, paying close attention to the security checks at the entrance and exit. I understood that knowing the museum's security inside out was crucial for the heist's success. I also realized that this was not a one-man job. I needed a team, people I could trust. So, I reached out to some old friends, individuals who had left their criminal pasts behind, just like I had. It took some convincing, but they agreed to help. We were all in this for the love of art, not for the money. Once the team was assembled, we began to plan in earnest. We mapped out the museum, marking the location of the painting, the security cameras, the guards. We planned our route, the quickest way in and out. We discussed every possible scenario, every potential obstacle. We left nothing to chance. We knew we needed a diversion, something to distract the guards and the security cameras. After much deliberation, we decided on a fake fire alarm. It was risky, but it could give us the few minutes we needed to grab the painting and get out. The next few weeks were spent in intense rehearsal. We practiced our movements, our timing. We ran through the plan over and over, until we could do it in our sleep. We knew we only had one shot at this, and we couldn't afford to make any mistakes. As the day of the heist approached, I felt a mix of fear and excitement. I knew what we were about to do was wrong, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it was the only way to save the painting. I reassured myself that we were doing this for the right reasons. The night before the heist, I couldn't sleep. I went over the plan in my head, again and again. I thought about the painting, the way the colors seemed to come alive. I thought about the broken sculpture, the senseless destruction. I knew I was making the right choice. On the day of the heist, I stood in front of the museum, my heart pounding in my chest. I looked at my team, saw the determination in their eyes. We were ready. It was time to put our plan into action. Looking back at the meticulous planning that went into the heist, I realize the importance of understanding every aspect of the target and its surroundings. The success of a heist depends not only on a well-rehearsed plan but also on a reliable team. Our meticulously crafted plan had accounted for every conceivable scenario, every potential hurdle. We had practiced our moves and timing repeatedly, ensuring precision. We believed we were prepared for everything. However, my inherent clumsiness, a trait I had always possessed but never considered as a potential risk, proved to be our downfall. As we navigated through the museum, everything proceeded as planned. The decoy fire alarm had successfully created the desired chaos and confusion. The guards were preoccupied, and the security cameras were diverted. We were in and out within minutes, just as we had strategized. But then, catastrophe struck. In my rush to exit the museum, I stumbled over a cord strewn across the floor. Despite my desperate attempts to regain balance, it was too late. I fell, and in doing so, knocked over a display case. The case housed an invaluable artifact, a priceless Ming Dynasty vase. It shattered into countless pieces, the sound reverberating through the eerily silent museum. The moment the Ming vase shattered, a wave of panic washed over us. The sound of the priceless artifact breaking echoed through the museum, a chilling reminder of our failure. We froze, our hearts pounding in our chests, waiting for the inevitable alarm to sound. We braced ourselves for the deafening blare, the flashing lights, the rush of guards. But to our surprise, nothing happened. The museum remained eerily silent, the only sound being our ragged breaths and the distant chaos caused by the fake fire alarm. We looked at each other, confusion etched on our faces. The alarm should have gone off, the security system should have been triggered. But it wasn't. There was no alarm, no rush of guards, no immediate consequence. It was as if the museum itself was in shock, unable to comprehend the destruction of such a priceless artifact. In retrospect, my clumsiness was actually a blessing in disguise. While navigating through the museum, I bumped into a plug. At that moment, I didn't give it much thought, being too engrossed in the task at hand. However, unbeknownst to me, that plug was connected to the computer running museum's alarm system. When I bumped into it, I inadvertently disconnected it, disabling the alarms without even realizing it. It was only after the vase shattered and the expected alarm failed to sound, that I began to piece together what had happened. The cord I had tripped over, the alarm that didn't go off - it all started to make sense. My clumsiness, which had caused the vase to shatter, had also saved me from immediate capture. It was an unexpected twist of fate that none of us could have predicted. Our daring escape from the museum with the painting still sends a thrill down my spine. My team and I skillfully navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the museum, successfully absconding with the painting despite the unexpected obstacles that came our way. The painting, a priceless masterpiece, was meticulously handled and transported by one of my teammates while I spearheaded our escape. Upon breaching the confines of the museum, our inconspicuous getaway van was strategically parked a few blocks away, seamlessly blending into the surroundings. Our driver, an indispensable part of our team, was on standby, primed for a rapid departure. We swiftly loaded the painting into the van, ensuring its safety and security. With a final, lingering glance at the museum, we executed our getaway, leaving behind a silent museum and a shattered vase as the sole testament to our audacious venture. In a regrettable twist of fate, my inherent clumsiness led to a disastrous outcome. While making a swift getaway from the museum, I inadvertently jostled the driver's arm, causing the van to swerve uncontrollably. Tragically, an off-duty police officer’s unmarked car happened to be in the van's erratic path and was struck before we could steer the vehicle back on course. Within a matter of minutes, the area was swarming with law enforcement. Despite our desperate attempts to evade capture, my accomplices and I were apprehended, and the stolen painting was swiftly recovered. Consequently, I found myself behind bars, my clumsiness having transformed what initially seemed like a successful heist into a catastrophic failure.

g9soqc

Demoted

Trick had checked the carabineer himself. Twice. But has he pumped his gloved hand, cinched tightly around the rope at the small of his back and, through that slack, began to lean over the edge, he made eye contact to Chirp who had a look on his face that smoldered with malevolent satisfaction. Chirp had been awarded his mountaineering badge last year on this same campout and the troop had since looked at him as a sort of legend, well half the troop. And really, he was the source of his own fame, as he liked to remind the Webelos and Tenderfoots of his First Class status. The rest of the troop, the Second Classers, and Glen Junior, a real-life Eagle Scout, we were not as impressed. But now, leaning against the tension of the rope and his feet against the lip of a sheer face of rock, Trick had to put his trust in loathsome Chirp. Scout Master Glen, or SM Glen, as he wanted to be called, had put Chirp in charge of the top team (experience earned, and all) leaving him at the top of the cliff to lord over the scouts waiting their turn. And with a nod of the torch being passed, SM Glen grabbed the line and fast-roped his way down the cliff to the bottom where the Webelos and Glen Junior waited to run belay. SM Glen trusted Chirp, apparently with Trick’s life. With the troop’s lives. So it was in the guise of that trust that Trick latched his harness into the line and backed his way to the edge of the cliff. “OK,” SM Glen called from the floor below. Trick looked over his shoulder at the scout master who had wrapped the thick rope around his waist and was leaning casually back to give it tension—fifty some odd feet below. Glen Junior was leading the Webelos, all too young to rappel, a bit away to practice knots. It was a long way down, fifty feet. Sweat was now gathering at Trick’s brow under the brittle and crumbling padding of his ancient, hand-me-down helmet. Trick looked back up. Chirp, hand on the rope where it was attached to a thick tree, gleaming new red climbing helmet cocked slightly forward, was holding his gaze and daring him to step back on the vertical face. The moment of truth seemed to stretch. Trick looked each one of his troop mates in the eye, the cadre of second class scouts, Bowly, Stub-Toe, and Farts all frowning with worry. Chirp’s clique, Beef and Lugknot all fixing him with a facsimile of that malevolent look Chirp had on his own face. Trick felt the edge of the cliff bite into the arch of his foot as his back boot inched over the fall. He was worried for certain about the looks on the Chirpies’ faces, but the real threat was behind him, dropping off rather suddenly. As he had practiced, he called out, “On belay!” “Belay on,” came the reply from SM Glen below. Trick felt the rope slacken as SM Glen eased off it, allowing Trick to pass the line through his hand and workings of the carabiners in his harness. Trick edged cautiously out over the cliff, an inch at a time. He leaned back gently back to orient his legs, careful not to sit into it, but to swing his stiff body out and he took his first tentative step onto the face. He had to lean out over the void to gain the opposing force from his legs and the rope against the vertical. “You like my helmet?” Chirp kept his eyes fixed on Trick’s, but he was addressing Lugknot, who was standing close by. Trick froze, the line taught with his weight, now the primary source of his safety, vibrating at knee level, right next to Chirp. Lugknot, Chirp’s chief lackey, one of the second class scouts, dutifully gave the helmet a proper looking over and nodded. Chirp continued, eyes on Trick. “I got it at REI for the caving campout we did last month. It’s fall rated and came with a free GoPro mount.” “You mean your mom got it,” checked Bowly, who shot a quick look to Trick, a subtle indication of where and with whom he stood. Chirp was too fixed on Trick to seem bothered by the insult, but Beef and Lugknot bristled and were about to step up when Chirp thrust his hand into his zippered cargo pocket and came out with a shiny, green folding knife. He casually popped it open with his thumb. New spring and expensive workings flipped the clean grey blade out into the morning sunlight. In the silence that followed that click, he declared, “I also got this knife.” He glanced at it appraisingly, working his thumb over the spring mechanism. “It’s a carbon steel, spring-loaded blade with an edge like obsidian.” Both factions stood still in the silence, the morning sun peaked passively through the branches of the trees at the top of the cliff, a bird flew past the scene without comment. Trick felt the rope tighten, which was SM Glen sitting back down on it to pull it tight, to put the breaks on. The relief that Trick could relax his control a little was not long lived as Chirp laid his free hand on the vibratingly tight rope and plucked it once. “You ok up there, Pete?” SM Glen did not use their nick names, that was not his game. But he tried to sound calm so as to not insert anxiety into what is already a very nerve-wracking phase of rappelling, those first few steps. At the top of the cliff, Chirp plucked the rope again, like a violinist casually tuning up. Slowly, each scout standing there, who had previously been waiting their turn to clip into the rope and rappel down the cliff realized the implications of Chirp, fixed on Trick, standing near the anchor and rope that held Trick aloft and alive, showing off about his knife. Bowly was the first to act. With a start, he launched himself at Chirp, shoving him off and away from the rope. Stub-Toe, Bowly’s younger brother, stronger than he looked, not as smart as he should have been, was right behind him, just in time to get twisted into LugKnot and Beef, who, more surprised than skilled, made their best efforts to pummel at him. Farts, always a little slower than the rest, got hung up on the knee high rope chasing after Stub-Toe, but did his best to get over it and into the ruckus. This action jostled the rope enough to cause Trick to swing chest-flat against the curb with a whomp. He caught himself as well as he could with his free hand, the other locked at the small of his back, keeping him from sliding down the rope. He felt the rope go tense as SM Glen sat harder onto it. Trick knew this would tighten the line in his network of carabiners, but dangling at the top of the cliff and being banged against its face did not help his confidence in small rings of metal and the properties of a somewhat elastic rope. The melee was not slowing down, either. Trick looked up from the cliff face to see that Chirp and Bowly were rolling around, careless of the knife in Chirp’s hand and without heed to the cliff edge toward which their struggles moved them. Beef had wriggled his way out of the Stub-Toe/LugKnot/Farts pile and readied a kick to whomever was going to end up on top. It was Farts. And with a good wind up of his leg, he toe-punched Farts in the side ribs, evicting from him a volume of wind from both ends, true to his name. Bowly gained a footing and knocked the folding knife from Chirp’s hand. It bounced, blade still out, past Trick’s face and over the edge of the cliff. “Hey! Be careful up there!” Shouted SM Glen, who had only Trick’s situation in view, to have a green folding knife bounce down the rocks next to him. A scoutmaster is used to casual shenanigans, teenage boys being the creatures they are. So when the knife came to rest at his hiking boots without any harm, he refocused his attention on Trick stuck where any novice rock climber might be stuck. “Pete, you have to get your legs up under you,” he began instructing. At the top of the cliff, Stub-Toe, back to the ground, unaided by Farts, and set upon anew, got his legs under Beef and shoved him up and away, into LugKnot who, unprepared, spread eagled backwards toward the cliff. He was not in any danger of falling off, but Farts, shuffling ineffectually behind him, took a stiff arm to the head which knocked him closer still toward Trick and the edge. What saved him was Chirp and Bowly, completely self-absorbed in their mutual torment, wrestling on the rocks, edging closer and closer. Farts fell into them, farted loudly, and dislodged Bowly from Chirp, who, seeing red, used it as an opportunity to lunge at Bowly. But Farts came up with an accidental elbow the managed to change Chirp’s course, tripping him over Bowly, and sending him rolling into Trick’s face. And off the cliff. Over the edge he went and Trick, in an instant reaction, released his grip on the rope in the small of his back and with both arms, caught bodily hold of Chirp, sending them both whirring down the rope, clasped together in a desperate bid to defy gravity. “Cheese and CRACKERS!” Shouted SM Glen as he dropped all his weight onto the line. In a jerking instant, Trick came to a halt face-to-face with an astonished Chirp. The Webelos and Glen Junior down below all snapped to two of their troop dropping down the cliff. Well above them, hanging on for all of their lives, Chirp and Trick hovered, mid-air, mid-cliff, and mid-skirmish. Trick finally felt his anger at Chirp bubble up. “So you were gonna cut the rope on me?” Trick hissed through his clenched teeth; spittle carelessly shot into Chirp’s stupidly gaping mouth. “Let me fall and die?!?” Chirp grabbed hold of Trick bodily like a life preserver in a raging sea. “Nuh, nuh, n—” stammered Chirp. “Shut your chirp hole, you snake,” was as articulate and biting as Trick could be, anger dumbing him down to white hot awkward words. They had slid down the rope a good fifteen feet before SM Glen could tighten up and stop them. Trick was aware of the cliff face banging their entwined bodies lightly as they hung there. “Jesus CRACKER,” SM Glen sort of repeated. By now, the Webelos and Glen Junior were on their feet, all faces up at the pair on the rope. Trick glanced up at the lip and saw that the scouts above had put their melee aside and were peering over the edge down at them, eyes wide, hiding their involvement in this very unsafe development behind the curb. “OK, hold on, boys,” hollered SM Glen. “I am going to let y’all down.” Quickly, but with some control, SM Glen eased up the rope and Trick and Chirp bounced down five feet, then another five, then another five. Eventually Trick felt Glen Junior’s hands pushing his shoulders up and his feet touching the ground. Maintaining eye contact, Trick released Chirp who fell with an “oof” to the dirt at the base of the cliff. Trick, as if he had been imprisoned in his climbing harness for years, ripped at the clasps and buckles until free of the rope. He flung the trap aside and found Chirp’s green, Benchmade, carbon steel, spring-loaded folding knife on the ground at his feet. Without hesitation, Trick retrieved the knife and crouched over Chirp. Chirp, expecting to be stabbed repeatedly, flinched with an audible whimper. But Trick, instead of drawing blood, grabbed a handful of shirt, cut the Boy Scout Second Class patch from Chirp’s sleeve, and flung it at his astonished face.

pei98f

For the Greater Good

“Forward! Onward! Take the bastard head on!” The struggling ship burst through the dark crest of a wave several masts high, then plunged in a downward heave. For a moment, gravity seemed to leave the Yggdrasil and the crew leaned backwards to prevent the great vessel from tipping over, and then the ship crashed upon the narrow wavelength, before it began to rise up towards the peak of the next monstrous wave. The storm had endured three days and nights, each sunset threatening to bring more formidable towering waves, ceaseless in their brutality. Jed had long forgotten what it was to be dry and warm. He fancied that the rain and seawater had seeped beneath his skin, penetrating the bloodstream, and fused within his bones, sometimes before this morning. Although he was here only to care for the horses locked securely in the hull, it was often more difficult to be below deck than above; the rocking motion made one terribly queasy, and it was easier to vomit one's guts up over the railing than upon an inclining floor. He had begun spending more time hovering by the stern, clinging to the mizzenmast and scanning the horizon fruitlessly in search of land. He also found it fascinating to watch the men at work, each a master of their craft, determined to reach their goal. There was something quite mesmerising in the rhythm of the oarsmen, the confidence of the captain, the strength of the riggers. At the very least it successfully distracted Jed from the queasy terror that threatened to overwhelm him, the fear and uncertainty that the wind and rain would see them all at the bottom of the ocean. The helmsman spun the wheel this way and that in bewilderingly rapid motions that Jed had not the sailor’s knowledge to comprehend, each one calculated to keep him and his crew above the surface of the dark depths. The oarsmen were nearing their limits, their movements becoming less united, more ragged, and ever weaker. But still they pushed on, desperation lending them strength. Above the deck, on the slippery spars, a small team of men worked the sails, struggling to limit their exposure to the unforgiving wind. How they kept their balance on the narrow beams in these conditions, Jed did not know; the captain had offered to tie Jed to the mast to keep him from being blown overboard, and Jed would have taken him up on his offer had he not cared what the lead rigger thought of him. For the tall man pulling at the sails—expertly leading a manoeuvre called tacking to avoid the brunt of the storm—had grown to be Jed’s only friend onboard, and certainly the only one who thought Jed more than a lowly stable boy, and went out of his way to make sure he was comfortable, and had someone to talk to. His name was Geldam, and, silhouetted against the lightning strikes amidst the thunderous clouds shaped like so many leviathan, he struck an impressive figure. His strong hands tugged at the bracers with the controlled strength and precision of a seasoned sailor, but even he had his teeth gritted with the effort, eyes wild with the fear of the sea. In the downpour, his clothes clung to his body like a second skin, exposing every hardworking muscle and tendon to the salty spray. Tied tightly around his neck was a striking crimson scarf that Geldam seldom removed. Jed wondered idly if the scarf had been a gift, perhaps from a mother or lover. What woman, he mused, had loved Geldam enough to bestow such as quality vestment? Jed knew fabrics like no other, and Geldam’s crimson scarf was certainly the most valuable item of clothing that any of the men wore. And he must love it dearly to withstand the jibes that were directed at him for his sense of style; Jed had heard some horrible things indeed said about Geldam behind his back—all undeserving, in his eyes. Geldam did not see Jed watching him—every fibre of his being was focused on staying alive, and helping the rest of the crew to do so. But while no role onboard this apparently damned vessel was safe, the riggers faced perhaps the greatest peril. Standing upon the spars protruding from the central masts offered a great risk—multiplied significantly by the gales of winds and the colossal waves—of slipping and breaking one’s neck upon the rolling deck below. It was a risk that Geldam succumbed to. “Aback!” he roared, signalling the men that the wind now fell upon the wrong side of the sails. “Aback! Release the sail! Let it free!” But the ship had already begun to heel, leaning dangerously towards its starboard side.  “Abandon oars!” the captain bellowed. “To port, to port, ye bastards!” The men rushed to the leftmost side of the boat and pushed with all their might as the next wave crashed onto the deck. As the boat sluggishly obeyed the laws of gravity and the masts rightened once more, Geldam reached for his line. Thrown off balance by the weight of the wave, he missed, fingers grazing the fibre. Jed shouted a cry of alarm as Geldam toppled from the spar. His neighbour abandoned his own line to grab his shoulder, and for a moment both swayed above the deck. Then the movement of the ship sent Geldam’s line back to his hand and he gripped tightly, anchoring himself. “Stable sweep! Lend a hand or get below board!” Jed tore his eyes from Geldam and came face-to-chest with Skadi, the towering oar master who managed to intimidate so many crew members into doing his bidding. Jed had heard tales of Skadi before joining the crew, heard of the drugs he had pushed, the money he had taken, the throats he had slit. Jed still slept with a knife under his knapsack; Skadi had seen the small pouch holding the pearl necklace Jed was bringing his mother in Farcorners, and a greedy gleam appeared in his eyes whenever they crossed paths. “Go on,” ordered Skadi. “There’s no place for you here.” Jed nodded his assent, but Skadi didn’t see; the next wave had broken upon the Yggdrasil’s stern, sending him staggering sideways against the mast. “Below deck,” Skadi growled. “Or I’ll toss you overboard myself.” As he pulled open the grating on the deck and lowered himself below, Jed glanced up at Geldam again. The rigger had watched the encounter while he worked, and now he met Jed’s eyes. He offered a brief, strained smile. It said, Don’t worry. I’ve got your back. Jed tried for a smile of his own, and gave Geldam a wave. Then he let the grating fall shut, returning to the dark and damp of the cabin. It was impossible for dozens of men to spend day in and day out on a sailing ship, eating, sleeping, and often dying together, and not form an unshakeable kind of kinship. But Jed would have no part in that camaraderie. He never had. Instead, he sought company with the horses. Though their masters were up above sacrificing their health and warmth for the journey’s success, they understood none of that. All they knew was the thunderous roaring of the waves, the wraith like shrieks of the wind, and the turmoil of being thrown from side to side in the confined hull, legs cramped and flanks damp. Jed took up a brush and started combing their manes, whispering soothing words and patting their flanks. He focused on the task, trying to ignore the bedlam outside. It was when he had moved on to the last horse in the makeshift stables that the ship lurched violently, sending the horses crashing into each other. Beyond the hull, a great mass seemed to be stirring. Slimy feelers squelched against the wood, blotting out what little light seeped through the portholes. Jed went to the glass, peered out at the dark underwater realm—and a grey slab of flesh covered over the window, pulsing with ancient life, oozing black ink. Jed leapt back with a cry - there were horrible pink eyes embedded in the thing’s flesh, rolling madly. Drawn to his movement, the eyes fixed upon Jed. He stared back at the thing, vaguely aware of the horses’ frantic neighing and the panicked shouts of the crew above deck. Someone cleared their throat ostentatiously. Jed turned, expecting to see Skadi or the captain, but hoping for Geldam. Instead, he was met with a tall, thin man in a fine cloth waistcoat. He had a friendly face behind his dark beard, and had his hands tucked lazily away in his pockets. “Pardon me, young man,” said the man, “but everybody else seemed rather too busy for a chat.” Jed stared at the man. Something was not quite right with his face, but he thought it impolite to say so. Instead he asked, “Who the hell are you?” The man chuckled. “Oh, you wouldn’t have heard of me. But you might have heard of my master.” His eyes went to the window and he half-smiled. “Why, its name is legend among all sailors, though those who see it rarely live to tell the tale. Will you be the exception, I wonder?” Jed’s fear had become a cold, sinking dread, as though he was already a corpse on the ocean floor. “The Kraken,” he said hollowly. “Ah, good, so you do know.” The man went over to the porthole. “An oversimplification of its true name, but rather more memorable, I believe.” “Help us!” Jed cried, watching as the slimy feelers undulated against the portholes, listening as the men took up their guns and swords against the gargantuan foe. “Order the beast to stand down! We are honest men, neither pirates nor colonisers. We have families, loved ones, and children relying on our journey, our provisions. We have done no wrong.” The man shook his head. “The kraken is not born from evil, nor does it birth it. Instead, it seeks to quell, to punish. It is a beast not of terror or damnation but of justice. And so, I, my master’s representative, offer a single member of each ship’s crew a solemn choice.” Jed hardly dared to ask, with shaky breath, “What choice is that?” “To sacrifice one member of the crew, one who is deemed a great sinner by his peers, or to have the entire vessel sunk.” “Why ask for sacrifice at all?” Jed asked. “It is perilous enough crossing the seas, but you have made men fear for their lives, made widows and orphans of their loved ones, claimed so many ships for the Kraken.” “Jed, Jed, Jed,” the man scolded him. “You do not understand. It is not about who lives or dies. It is about balance. A balance that, were it disturbed, we would all be very sorry indeed.” “Why?” Jed demanded. “Why must one die?” The man’s face seemed to darken and age before Jed’s eyes. “It is the way of the world as our gods command. And heaven abandon any who disobey the gods.” The longer the conversation drew on, the louder and more terrified the screams above deck grew. Gunshots sounded and shells clattered to the deck. Wet bodies shook the masts and the wood of the hull creaked as the Kraken’s body enveloped the Yggdrasil. Jed had to ask, “What do people normally choose to do?” The man shrugged. “Funnily enough, most don’t listen, they just go straight for the guns and cannons. They damn their vessel, their friends, and themselves.” “Why would they do that?” “You would be surprised at the lengths to which men would go to live free from guilt. And the forces they believe they can overcome.” There came a thud from directly above, a wet smack of skull upon wood, and blood began to deep through the deck and pool at Jed’s feet. The valiant screams of the crew carried on with the roar of the storm and the unhurried, methodical movements of the kraken as it picked them off, one at a time. “So, what about you, Jed? To what lengths will you go for the good of the men? Surely there’s someone you wish to live, if not yourself, and someone you wish to die. It’d be unnatural if there weren’t. So, is there or isn’t there?” Jed thought long and hard, but in the end only asked, “What must I do?” The man considered him seriously. “You agree then that the life of one sailor is nothing when compared to a whole ship’s crew? That one who his peers deem a sinner is the only acceptable choice for the sacrifice?" Jed hesitated a long while before answering. His mother, ever concerned for his development since his brother had turned to crime, had seen fit to bestow upon him several lessons in ethical philosophy, should he ever find himself in an unassailable moral quandary. But none of that was of use now. All he could do was decide and suffer the consequences. “Yes, I do,” he said, at length. “It is decided, then,” said the man, pleased. “A member of the crew who is considered a great sinner shall be accepted as sacrifice, and the Yggdrasil shall pass safely across the channel and once again make land.” Jed swallowed, then, the hairs on the nape of his neck raised, asked, “Who will it be?” “Why, that would be telling, my dear boy, and if there’s one adage that has endured these past millennia, it is this: the sea speaks only to the dead, and dead men speak to no one.” He frowned. “That wasn’t quite right, but you understand, yes?” Jed shook his head sadly. “I do not understand much of it at all.” “I sincerely hope that one day, you will. Farewell, Jed.” Just as suddenly as he had appeared, the strange man vanished, dissolving into water that splashed upon the cabin floor. Like a cloud passing from under the sun, the Kraken’s body withdrew from the Yggdrasil and light returned through the porthole. The ship rocked to and fro several times, and miraculously become still. The howling of the wind had ceased, as had the abrasion of the torrential downpour. There were only the groans of relief from the crew and the creaking of the ship. Some time passed, and the Yggdrasil’s crew simply soaked in the sunshine, their clothes dripping onto the deck, enjoying their much-needed respite. Only Jed moved, lifting the grate and emerging from below to survey the damage. The foremast had been destroyed, lying in splintered fragments on the bow. The wheel was also in pieces. Several men lay lifeless on the deck, blood pooling around their bodies. Jed looked away from the prone figures, bile rising in his throat. It could have been any of the dead, then, that had been sacrificed. There were dozens of men on board; there was no use counting them one by one to see which one he had chosen to sentence. He did not have to live with the guilt of his choice if he knew not who had been sacrificed. It might have been Skadi, who was widely known for his lecherous sins and greed-driven violence; he could only be called a great sinner, couldn’t he? Indeed, Skadi’s body was nowhere to be found on the deck, nor was his great lumbering form to be seen amongst the oarsmen. Instead of surveying the dead, Jed’s eyes went to the horizon, cut open with a red sunset. Golden atop the deadly blue sea, land presented itself to the Yggdrasil. The crew had begun to notice, and in turn they all pointed and shaded their eyes, and one by one they began to rejoice. The journey was soon to be over. None had yet noticed that from the highest yardarm hung a limp form, suspended by the neck, swaying in the calm breeze. The glare of the sun and the mutilation of its body rendered the figure’s features unrecognisable. But in the bright light, one could hardly ignore the distinctive fluttering of its crimson scarf. 

vl9fji

Abby and the Fugitives

Abagail sought solace in her sitting room and worried over the latest servant foible. Likely, her husband, Nabal, would hear about it, overreact, and explode. She sighed and thought about the many dramas she had averted by intervening in the nick of time. Her husband behaved like a wild bull in a field of wheat, for the most part. He had never suspected any betrayal on her part to date. She asked one of her maids to give the servant a signed letter, which provided an out. Permission for him to immediately ‘visit a sick mother’ in his hometown three furlongs away. She allowed two months leave, during which time his mother could recover at her leisure and be heartened by the presence of her son. She also had a gift prepared for him to give to her. Hopefully, her husband, Nabal, would cool down and forget what had happened. With luck, he may not check the validity of the mission. She didn’t believe in lying, but the document would only be used if the servant needed to prove permission to leave. How could she have ended up married to such a thoughtless and abusive man? Her parents had been in awe of his wealth and abundant material possessions. They wanted their beautiful and capable daughter to secure a great marriage. Despite the age difference, Nabal had fallen in love with her and had taken her as a wife. But hers is no beauty and the beast story with a happy ending. Young Abigail soon found out that Nabal loved himself and the regard of others much more. He basked in the prestige of possessing such a kind and comely consort. Abagail became another acquisition to adorn his life. The door to her private rooms opened, and a maid announced she had a visitor, one of the estate’s servants. Abagail permitted his entry. He bowed low until allowed to stand. Sweat trickled from his brow as he puffed laboriously. “Relax, please. Whatever has happened?” she said. “I have come in haste due to a disaster which will befall us.” “A disaster? Pray, what has you so concerned?” “David, the one chosen to be the next king of Israel, who is being pursued by King Saul, sent ten visitors, in his name, from the wilderness. They wished our master and all his household good health and long life. Our master screamed abuse at them. David’s men were very good to us while they were in Carmel. We trusted them, and while we cared for the master’s flocks, they acted as a wall around us, night and day, protecting us from danger. What will you do? Destruction will befall us due to our master’s insults and refusal to provide some extra provisions for David and his men. The messengers left in a great rage. We do not want David’s hoard of skillful fighters to return and wage war against us. We will all surely die.” Abagail frowned. “We have so much spare to help others, especially those who help us.” She pondered on the right course of action. If she simply went and apologized on Nabal’s behalf, it would seem like a last-minute plea to save lives and may still lead to the death of some. It may not diffuse David’s anger. What if she presented the finest food to appease them and told the truth? David may extend mercy. It meant an act of deception and disloyalty on her part towards her husband. What did they have to gain? Their lives. “Make haste,” she said to the servant. “Prepare five sheep for roasting. We will give them fresh meat, roasted grain, cakes of raisins, and cakes of pressed figs . . . there is no time to bake bread.” Abagail oversaw the food packing onto the donkeys - the mutton, about 29 liters of roasted grain, 100 cakes of raisins, and 200 cakes of pressed figs. Finally, she removed her necklaces and bracelets and draped a plain headdress over her long black hair. She assigned servants to guide the beasts of burden and travel ahead of her while she sat on her own donkey. She tingled with apprehension as they set off into the wilderness, on either an adventure or their doom. The remaining maids and aides knew to keep her treachery a secret from their master. This is how he would view her prudent actions. As she neared their campsite, she overheard the men and David down-crying Nabal’s perfidious behavior in their hour of need and threatening what would befall him and his entire household. ‘Enemies,’ he called them. When Abagail caught sight of David and his hundreds of men, all girded with swords, she realized their fears had a basis in reality. Her heart pounded as she slid off her donkey and hurried over to him. She poured herself down before him and bowed her head. “My lord, let the blame be on me. Please let me speak and listen to the words of your servant girl, Abagail. Please, ignore senseless and worthless Nabal. He is a fool, just like his name . . . I, your servant girl, did not see your young men whom you sent.” She raised her head and implored, “It is Jehovah your God who is holding you back from incurring blood guilt and from taking revenge. May your enemies and those seeking injury to my lord become like Nabal. Let the gift your servant girl has brought to you be given to the young men following you. Pardon my transgression . . . because my lord is fighting the wars of Jehovah and no evil has been found in you all your days . . . When Jehovah has done for my lord all the good things He has promised, and He appoints you as leader over Israel, you will have no remorse or regret in your heart for shedding innocent blood and for letting your hand take revenge. When good comes upon my lord, remember your servant girl.” She bowed again. David looked down at the picture of humility before him. “Praise Jehovah, the God of Israel, who sent you this day to meet me! Blessed be your good sense! May you be blessed for restraining me this day from incurring bloodguilt and from taking revenge with my own hands . . . If you had not come quickly to meet me by morning, there would not have remained a single male belonging to Nabal.” He gratefully accepted the food she had brought them. “Go up in peace to your house. See, I have listened to you and will grant your request.” Abagail rose and clasped her hands as she asked the servants to unload the provisions from the donkeys. She smiled at David and bowed her head again. “Thank you, my lord.” He shook his head. “No. Thanks to you for your quick thinking and courage. Your wise words have been apples of gold in silver carvings. But for you, I would have committed a grave sin. I will never forget you.” When she arrived home, she found her unwitting husband Nabal feasting like a king in his house. He invited her to join him. Due to his inebriated state, she chose not to kill his cheerful mood with her confession. He would likely fly into a rage. She could barely sleep, wondering how to word what she had to say to him the following day. What if he retaliated? Might he take it out on the servants? “Please, God,” she said as she approached him. He had a surly expression on his now sober face. “What do you want, Abby?” Her eyes blazed. “Yesterday, you received guests but did not inform me so I could provide the customary hospitality.” “Beggars is all they were. Outlaws against King Saul.” “Even our God has turned his back on King Saul. Their leader, David, is anointed by the prophet Samuel to be the next ruler. His men have done no harm and have assisted our shepherds.” “What do I care about that?” “Did you know that David and his hundreds of warriors vowed to avenge themselves for this slight? They intended to slaughter all in your household.” Nabal’s face became white, and he slumped motionless in his chair. “I met him on his way here. His men all carried swords; their mission was to destroy you. The servants and I offered him more provisions than he expected, and I begged him to reconsider. You would never have extended mercy. But David, a finer man than you, listened and turned back from his cruel plan of annihilating you and all you own.” Nabal looked at Abagail, speechless. His eyes screamed murder for her treachery. He remained motionless, like a man whose heart had stopped. Abagail instructed the servants to lay the master on his bed and tend to him. For the first time in years, peace reigned across the entire estate. On the tenth day of Nabal suffering his paralysis, God struck him, and he died. Abagail felt relief mixed with guilt. Had she been right in confronting Nabal with the truth? His last realization about her is that she had stabbed him in the back. But it is better for him to die alone than die with all of the innocent as well. She shuddered. His timely death prevented a reign of terror due to what she had done. When David heard that Nabal had passed, he opened his mouth and stared. Justice had prevailed . . . “Jehovah has kept his servant from doing anything bad . . . and brought the badness of Nabal back on his own head! . . . Please send word to Abagail as I will take her as my wife.” David’s servants approached Abagail at her Carmel residence and said, “David has sent us, as he wishes to make you his wife.” Abagail did not invent an excuse for being in mourning. She had already expressed her uncharitable thoughts about Nabal to David. He had not forgotten her and had interpreted her plea to be remembered as a desire to be protected by him. Not only that, but he had already experienced this wise and generous woman’s backing and support. He wanted her to become part of his royal household—albeit a household of outlaws. ‘The right person will know your worth, and they won’t reject you or act like you’re not good enough for them.’ Abagail got up and bowed with her face to the ground. She knew her own worth but would never put herself above others. “Here is your slave as a servant to wash the feet of the servants of my lord.” She quickly rose and prepared her donkey to accompany the messengers to David, her future husband. Five of her female servants accompanied her. Obviously, it’s not the end. Off Abagail headed on a new series of adventures. Disclaimer. None of this story conflicts with the Biblical account or the culture these people lived in. Still, it has been written as a story about Abagail, a remarkable fellow human. It fills in extra details about what probably happened. Abagail is usually praised for her wise actions as this adventure unfolds. However, some may argue that she did wrong despite averting tragedy. She is also imagined as having secret ambitions and having romantic thoughts about someone other than her husband. Yet, she may have just admired David as a war hero. We can all learn something from reading about her brief appearance in written history. She helped a prominent ancestor of the then-future Messiah.

8m4b0g

Unexpected Betrayal

I hopped off the school bus, hitting the ground at a dead run ahead of my two younger brothers; dropped my book bag at the house door and ran down to the barnyard. I couldn’t wait to touch the little horse who would be waiting to see me, after a full day of going through the motions of attending my Middle School classes. I wanted to get home to continue the training of my young horse. He was coming along sop well! The horse had been purchased for a small fee from a poor quality situation. He was of unknown breeding, and a non-extraordinary brown color. I thought he was beautiful! The first time I caught his big, dark eyes with mine, I knew he was special. We had a connection. I spent many weeks just working to earn the trust of the fearful gelding. As we progressed, his potential and the experience with him consumed me. He wasn’t my first horse, but the first one I took on as a project and my first time to train a horse under saddle. Upon reaching the paddock, my grin was replaced with a confused frown as my sweet boy was no where to be seen, but a huge Palomino met me at the gate. I gently pushed the big horse aside and frantically searched the entire pasture, afraid my young gelding was hurt and in need of help. He was not anywhere. On the verge of tears, I ran to find my mother to ask her where my boy was, and about the unfamiliar horse in the pasture. The answer was unexpected and heartbreaking, but delivered as tersely as ever. “Mom?” I questioned apprehensively. “Where’s ToiBoi, and where’d that new horse come from?” “We traded. I’ve always wanted a palomino. Now, I’ll have a horse to ride, too.” “Oh. Okay.” I dropped my gaze and walked away, knowing she would not elaborate. It was just expected of me to accept it. I picked up my book bag from where it lay on the ground and trudged up the wooden stairs to my room. I seethed internally, quietly. I tried to understand. I always tried. I sat heavily on my bed and started sketching, Sketching in my sketchpad always helped me calm down and think. This time, it hurt too much. This time, no matter how I focused my efforts, I couldn’t find the love. ToiBoi needed me, as much as I needed him. How could my parents ignore that? I began devising a plan. I would get my ToiBoy back and my mother would never do this to me again. It had happened several times before – upon my return from the school day, I would come home to my life devoid of my pets, which was pretty disturbing, but it had never been a horse. After twelve years of wondering and believing all those hurtful actions were made in my best interest, I decided those choices should have been made with my input. Now my input would be taken seriously. It was time to take a stand. I knew what I needed to do. I put my sketch book and drawing pencils back in the drawer, emptied my backpack of school supplies and packed a change of clothes in it instead, along with the few dollars I had saved up from babysitting. I went downstairs to join my family for dinner. While doing dishes afterward, I grabbed a few snacks to add to my pack. In the evening, I sat with my family to watch a couple of mind-numbing sitcoms on the television as usual, then went up to my room. I read my book until I heard everyone else go to bed. When I was sure all were asleep, I opened the window from my bedroom to the roof over the outcropping of the basement and crawled through. I slid down to the edge, then dropped down lightly the eight feet to the ground. The dog greeted me with a happily wagging tail and a playful grin. He badly wanted to follow me, but I commanded him to stay in a loud whisper. In resignation, he finally went to his spot on the porch to lay down with a soft whimper of protest. I looked at the house for a moment, and envisioned how upset my parents would be when they found me gone the next day. In the dark, I set out to locate my boy. I started down the driveway and down the paved road toward my family’s horsey friend’s house. I knew they were involved in the “trade” and disappearance of my boy. They would probably tell on me, but first they would give me information and I would be well on my way again, before my parents showed up, feigning concern and dismay at my act of defiance. My strides grew longer and I clenched my fists tighter as I marched on in intensifying anger. As the sun began to rise, I started up the driveway to our friends house, but then passed quickly by the large structure and the hitched-up horse trailer, when the idea suddenly hit me to check the barn first. Through the tackroom, I entered the dim space in the breaking dawn. Peaking through the cracked open door into the stable, I whispered for my boy. “Toi? Are you here?” A soft, familiar nicker answered me. It was Toi! I raced over to the stall where he waited and grabbed the rope from off the wall. He tossed his head up and down in restless excitement and searched my pockets for treats. With a grin I couldn’t contain, I hooked the rope to his halter and led him from the stall. His black hooves clopped on the cobblestone floor as he scooted forward. “What are you doing here, girl?” I turned quickly to face the husky voice that startled me. Looking the guy straight in the eye while grasping ToiBoi’s lead, I replied. “I came to get my horse.”

c99s0w

Kynigi

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to.." The Chairman paused. "Nah, fuck all that. Who's ready to get hunted?!" He growled with a smirk. The room was quiet in judgment, wondering what he was talking about. He stood up straight and adjusted his tie. "Let me rephrase that." He held out for another long pause. "As you know humanity has developed drastically in the world of medicine. You, a group in your thirties have basically only lived a fifth of your life span . Before such advancements, a fifth of your life would basically make you young adults, practically teens and babies. Fresh meat one might say!" The intensity and bass of his voice echoed through the room like thunder right in the ear drum as he paced back and forth. "Anyways, you're far too young to become another casualty in the impending doom the sun wishes to grant us in the next decade or so. So I have proposition for you. A new planet has been discovered, almost parallel to ours but thriving much more fruitfully. Just outside of this galaxy, its being called The Haven and with such a fitting name only the best, brightest, strongest and most fitting candidates shall inhabit it. Will that be you or will you become a pillar to hold up the new world for a much more fitting species? Humanity, but better." "What type of utopia bullshit is this?" "Is he drunk?" "He's got to be psychotic." The tones and whispers of denial rushed the room like a broken aquarium spilling over. "Listen!" The lights turned off in an instant. The room was illuminated by a single source, coming from a giant screen behind him. He stepped to the side revealing a video of a planet. Bright blue and green images flashed across the faces of the clueless audience. Their eyes reflecting the images of clear oceans, grass fields for hundreds of miles and waves of forest and desert lands. It looked exactly like their planet but, untouched. Untainted. Pure. A vast world of opportunity and prosperity. "Now in order for you to be able to come here, you must acquire a ticket aboard The Sanctum, the space craft built for the journey. As well as taking an exam in order to understand the mind and body to determine if you are eligible for The Haven." The room was as such of a dark forest, silent, calm, waiting for the next hint of movement. All eyes were locked onto The Chairman like a deer in headlights. "Do you think it's real?" "I want to go swimming there!" "That land looks so ripe for farming my tomatoes." Whispers of curiosity began to fill the air like smoke. "How much is a ticket?" "I'm so going to get an amazing tan out there." "Tomatoes!" People began to think of the possibilities that a new planet and a new life could bring them. "Wait, did he say an exam?" "I was never good with problem solving!" "I dropped out to be a farmer, this isn't fair!" "Do not fret. It is not a written exam but one I have cultivated and designed specifically for this purpose." A few sighs of relief were heard through the room. "Here we go." The screen changed once more with a page of writing. "Candidates will be split into two teams." The Chairman read out. "The Hunters and The Hunted. As the teams suggest one team will be hunting while the other team must survive. Every member of The Hunted team will be given a specific amount of money for their head. If they are captured or killed only The Hunter responsible will gain that bounty only towards their admission aboard the Sanctum. The bounties of The Hunted will remain unknown until the conclusion of the exam. The Hunted, however, are guaranteed admission to The Sanctum as well as a job befitting their skills and abilities once they arrive to their home on The Haven. Each side will also have a king that holds a certain power over the game. All candidates will be released in a random part of the playing field with a map of the area that may also show possible spawn locations housing utilities, gear, weapons and or supplies. Furthermore, there will be tokens to find throughout the island that may also acquire you some aid and or monetary value during or at the end of the competition. Food will be available at said locations but you may also acquire some yourself from the jungle. If you have not decided in the voting booth by 7pm tonight you will be appointed a side. Also, if one side is full before you decide you will automatically put on the other team. I call it Kynigi! Let's all have a great life at The Haven!" "What is this?" A voice said shakily. "Who would join such a savage event?" She questioned out loud. As she looked around she could see the faces of everyone in the room change. Most were scared, worried that they may not be able to survive such a challenge. Some were joyful, excited for life on a new planet with endless possibilities. A few of them were ecstatic, their eyes glowed with bloodlust excited to have some fun and freedom before starting a new life. Her knees began to buckle with fear and she collapsed to the ground. "Are you alright?" A gentle tone asked. She lifted her head slightly to see an arm extended out in front of her, she was helped back to her feet and met eyes with a man not much older than herself. "Thank you" she said embarrassed. She looked forward at his tie to avoid the awkward eye contact. "I know, it's a lot to take in, isn't it?" He asked, stopping her from turning to walk away. He looked back up at the screen and smiled. "It's a Greek word. Intimidating I'm sure. I think it's an easy decision though if you ask me. But as you look around everyone else can't seem to decide. " she looks at him puzzled and still scared. "Well what would you choose?" He turned to her. "Well, hunter seems like the safest option. Especially for a a chubbier person like me." she stuttered. He looked at her confused for a second but moved on. "You would think, right? But look at the screen. 'Only the hunter responsible. Each side has a king. We will be released at random parts of the playing field. Tokens. Monetary Value. Aid.' None of that sounds like a team game. Hunters have to earn their money to get on the ship while Hunted are guaranteed a spot? Without knowing the bounties on our heads, that's just asking for the hunters to turn on each other first to lessen the competition." He gave her a gentle smile and made his way to the voting booth. The screen flashed red with the number one indicating the first player on a team. "Our?" She whispered to herself. Seven o'clock rolled around and the screen had finally flashed green indicating everyone present at the event has made their decision. The screen read 12-3-9. "Well, that's not pleasant. I hate odd numbers." The Chairman whined. "Jada!" He yelled prompting one of the servants to his table. He grabbed her by the back of her neck and stood up aggressively. "She will be joining The Hunted! That will make it twelve Hunters, ten Hunted and three dropout bitches." He whispered in her ear, "don't disappoint me now, Jada," then threw her into the crowd of players. Quickly the man from before leaped forward and caught her before she could smash her forehead on one of the tables. He glared up at The Chairman as he peered at the player and servant down the thick bridge of his nose. "Oh? What is your name and age?" He asked in a condescending tone. "Anax, 24." He replied just as cocky still holding the servant. The Chairman laughed hysterically. "Greek?" He asked. Anax did not reply or react to the question. He helped the servant to her feet with a smile, wiped off some dirt and grime from her skirt and made his way out of the main room. "It is now 7 o'clock in the evening and we shall commence the competition in roughly 19 hours. Tonight and tomorrow morning enjoy yourselves to your hearts content. We will also be treating you to meals tomorrow before the start. The facilities in the building are at your disposal. The pool along with the spa, steam room and sauna will on the bottom floor with the full weight room gym." His rings glistened as he pointed at the floor. "This floor has all of the food and entertainment you can think of. Restaurants, movie theaters, bowling alley, karaoke, arcades, roller skating. You name it, we have it." His robe flew open as he spread his arms to the side, flashing some awards and medals on his chest. "The top two floors will have more tactical facilities." His hands slammed the sides of his thighs making the sound of a drum. The rooms volume burst with excitement as people made their way to different stairwells and locations of the property. "Anax!" He paused at the end of the hall. "Where are you headed?" "I want to check out the 'tactical facilities' he was talking about." He said in a mocking deep tone. She giggled. "You don't seem as restless and scared anymore, that's a good sign." He said as he placed a foot on the first step trying to escape the conversation. She quickly grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Well thanks to our talk I have a good idea of how to survive. Also, I didn't think anyone here would be close to my age. Everyone else is in their thirties or older!" She made a jokingly disgusting look at the thought of all of the older men that were hitting on her earlier in the main room. "That's good then, are you going to check out any of the rooms on the property? I hear the sauna is great for the skin and relieves stress." He looked down at her hand still holding his. She quickly removed it and blushed. "I'm going to find my little brother first, I bet the little shit is floating in the pool with an entire pizza on his lap." She laughed and made her way down the stairs. He watched her disappear under the flight of stairs before moving his way up. I hope she's one of The Hunted so I don't have to kill her myself. He thought.

ea1yxs

BETRAYED BY THE WIND: A JOURNEY OF HOPE AND DESPAIR

Input 1: Betrayed by the wind's shifting whispers, I find myself marooned in this vast expanse of ocean. Time has become an abstract concept, blurred by the relentless cycle of haunting memories since the storm cast me adrift from safety. With nothing but determination and the debris of this forsaken island, I fashioned a frail vessel, clinging to hope amidst the desolation. With only my bare hands and the scant resources scattered across the island, I've labored day and night to construct a crude raft. Using driftwood and salvaged materials, I pieced together a semblance of a ship, a fragile raft that I prayed would carry me to safety. I've learned to hunt and forage, honing my skills in the art of survival to sustain myself in this unforgiving wilderness. Each day brings new challenges, but with unwavering resolve, I persevere, driven by the hope of one day returning to civilization. As I embark on my makeshift raft, propelled by the whims of capricious gusts, anticipation intertwines with apprehension. Beyond the horizon lies the promise of distant shores, yet fate, shrouded in mystery, holds its secrets close. Input 2: Once a beacon of hope, the wind now abandons me to the eerie stillness of this watery realm. The relentless sun scorches my spirit, casting memories of home as mere flickering stars in the distance. Yet, beneath the surface, shadows linger, constantly reminding me of the peril surrounding me. Input 3: Drifting aimlessly across the mirror-like surface of the ocean, I am bereft of the wind's embrace. Silence reigns supreme, broken only by the rhythmic dance of waves. The absence of familiar sounds amplifies the solitude as I navigate through uncertainty. Input 4: With each passing moment, the stillness envelops me like a suffocating shroud, binding me to this limbo of uncertainty. The relentless circling of thoughts echoes the haunting echoes of solitude, intensifying the struggle for survival. Hunger gnaws at my belly, thirst parches my throat, and the harsh realities of existence are etched into every fiber of my being. The sharks circle ominously beneath me, their sleek forms a constant reminder of the dangers lurking beneath the surface. Input 5: Lost amidst the boundless horizons, I seek solace in memories of a land long left behind. The absence of familiar landmarks heightens the sense of displacement as I navigate the vastness of the unknown. Every passing moment is a testament to resilience amidst adversity. Input 6: Seven eternities have elapsed since I set sail from the shores of my forsaken sanctuary. The wind's betrayal weighs heavily upon my soul as I navigate this vast ocean of uncertainty. Each day blends into the next, marked only by the relentless pursuit of hope in the face of despair. Input 7: Drifting upon this endless expanse, visions of home flicker like distant stars in the night sky. The absence of familiar faces accentuates the loneliness as I navigate the depths of solitude. Each passing day is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit in the face of overwhelming odds. Input 8: Twelve interminable days have passed since I left the shores of that forsaken island, yet salvation remains elusive. The sharks circle below, their cold eyes intensely fixed upon me. My body aches with exhaustion, and my mind is clouded with fear and uncertainty. The absence of the wind serves as a cruel reminder of fate's fickleness, leaving me adrift in a sea of doubt. The relentless pursuit of survival only intensifies my isolation as I struggle to find meaning amidst the chaos. Input 9: With each passing moment, my resolve weakens, and despair threatens to engulf me entirely. The relentless circling of thoughts is a haunting reminder of the perils that lurk beneath the surface. Yet, even amidst such adversity, I cling tenaciously to the hope of someday returning to the world I once knew. Input 10: Ten arduous inputs have come and gone since I embarked upon this perilous journey, yet salvation remains beyond reach. The wind's betrayal weighs heavily upon my soul, leaving me adrift in doubt. Each passing moment is a struggle to hold onto hope amidst the relentless despair. The sharks grow bolder in their pursuit, their relentless hunger driving them closer to my fragile raft. Input 11: With each passing input, my strength wanes, and my spirit falters. The ceaseless circling of thoughts is a haunting reminder of the dangers that lurk beneath the surface. Yet, despite the overwhelming adversity, I refuse to succumb to despair. I will continue to fight, for as long as life courses through my veins, hope shall endure. Input 12: Twelve endless inputs have slipped through my grasp since I departed from the shores of that forsaken island, yet salvation remains elusive. The absence of the wind weighs heavily upon my soul, leaving me adrift in an ocean of uncertainty. The sharks circle below, their cold eyes intensely fixed upon me. I am a solitary soul adrift in a vast, unforgiving sea, at the mercy of forces beyond my control. Each passing moment is a battle against the darkness that threatens to engulf me. Input 13: With each passing moment, my resolve weakens, and despair threatens to consume me whole. The relentless circling of thoughts is a haunting reminder of the perils that lurk beneath the surface. Yet, even in the face of such adversity, I cling fiercely to the hope of someday returning to the world I once knew. Input 14: Fourteen long days have passed since I embarked upon this treacherous journey, yet salvation remains elusive. The wind's betrayal weighs heavily upon my soul, and it is getting hard to hold on. Each passing moment is a testament to the strength of the human spirit in the face of overwhelming odds. Input 15: Twenty agonizing days have elapsed since I set sail from that island, yet salvation remains a distant dream. The absence of the wind serves as a chilling reminder of fate's capriciousness, leaving me adrift in a sea of despair. The sharks lurk below, their predatory instincts sharpened by hunger and desperation. My provisions have run dry, and the thirst that gnaws at my throat is matched only by the desire that twists in my belly. But still, I refuse to surrender to despair. I will fight until my last breath, for I know that if there is life in my body, there is hope. Each passing moment is a struggle to hold onto hope amidst the relentless grief. Explanation: This journal was found washed ashore on a remote beach, discovered by a group of explorers scouting the coastline for research purposes. The tattered pages were weathered and water-stained, evidence of the relentless journey endured by its author. While the protagonist's identity remains unknown, their harrowing tale is a testament to the indomitable human spirit and the enduring power of hope in the face of adversity.

t8yxeq

Tony and the Nefway

(Note – itksaurpok means ‘love obsession/crush’ in the Intuit language) I had listened to the Earth spinning for much too long. Hours must have passed, and Zane still had not come. The smothering silk of night stood hushed in my coop, submerging me into the hollow of my own vexation. An uncanny stillness had taken over the lighthouse and, at long last, I pushed through the wires and took off, swooping through the winds as they bellowed along the Arctic mountains. The higher I flew, the darker the Earth grew in my wake. A globular, raging sphere of waves, it incubated wistfully below me the culmination of all avian weariness, stranded as we will always be in this unforgiving place. My wings stretched away from my elongated body, the extrinsic and intrinsic muscles working in jubilant unification as they beat the air. This was the feeling I always missed whilst waiting inside the lighthouse; the unfurling of my tight scapulars, the extension of my coverts to their mighty fullness, free now to expand naturally without the limits of the lantern room. I watched as the copula slowly faded into the darkness; a dome of eery blue, it blurred against the obsidian waves like a glowing glass marble. It housed inside it the beacon-light, safely protected like the yolk of an unfertilised egg. All humanness vanished from my view as I elapsed the precipice between the rain and the clouds, contented, and witnessed the shades of Earth’s vast night departing before the flickering terror of the storm. Up here – suspended dutifully above the land that they would soon come to charge – hovered the Nefway. Eight fierce and rugged sea-birds, Barry of the North Wind sailed with a conch shell encircled in his broad Fulmer talons; Carl, a Glaucous gull of the North-Eastern Wind, held upright a massive shard of ice, always staying close to the freezing upper-air; Rafferty of the Eastern Wind had feathers as clean and pure as any snow-goose, but would swiftly soak them red if duty so called; Edward of the South-Eastern Wind wore a fishing net around his Kittiwake neck, a token of pride from having ripped his way out of a mound of sea-trash, that most depressing icon of human indolence; Nick, the Nefway’s youngest, an Auk, had the duty of scouting for unaccompanied hatchlings over the Southern regions; Liam was a Skua, and watcher of the South-West Wind, who’s duty was to swoop low into the human ships and spy on their plans; Sky, female guillemot of the North-Western Wind, was the great witch of the Arctic Gloom; Zane, red-throated Loon of the West Wind, was a winsome and spirited collector-of-items. The Nefway drifted in their unbreakable line below the stars, eagerly chatting to each other of this and that, their tousled feathers blasting around in the raging gales as they tried to devise a plan. Always keeping a watchful eye on the lighthouse and its nearby residents, ready to swoop down into the channels of their respective winds whenever the moment demanded it of them, these birds hung about like a clan of celestial soldiers at the darkening edges of the world. Nick was sweet-voiced, Liam was mellow, Sky was tense and brooding, but no matter what differences defined each bird from the other, they all together harmonised like pieces of drifting ice that slotted together to form an indestructible foundation. So absorbed in their chatter, they did not see me rise before them. Zane and I had been close friends for a long time. When I called to him, he did not seem troubled. He was a wild animal under his optimistic and moonish appearance, and I could not hold him to my demands even if I tried. “Tony, old friend, what brings you to the higher corners? Your duty is below!” Zane yelled as he flew nowhere in the tangle of wind, his body a rolling mass of muscles under his tawny feathers. His face had grown large in recent years, broadened with the eagerness of his duty. Auburn feathers curled out from under his neck, only adding to the cocksure charisma that exuded from him like a quasar, so bright under the dark curtains of the storm. I felt a twinge as the image of Mo’s auburn eyes invaded my mind. “I called for you from the lighthouse but you must not have heard me.” I kept the tone of my voice unvaried so I did not risk offending him. As part of the Nefway, I knew how mercurially my comrades could change their priorities, always serving their pride first against all other things. “My apologies, it is loud here,” he squawked, his orange beak clapping with each word as he motioned toward his fellows, “Troops! The Hunter of Hearts returns to us!” Seven chirping laughs clattered around on the winds, eight joyful grins turned to me, sixteen twinkling eyes fell on the Hunter of Hearts. A nickname given to me in my teenhood, when my blue Gryfalcon eyes and grey-white feathers grew famous among the females, I did not recede when it was used. In fact, such a name bonded me to these military birds and solidified my place among them in their games of respite. I grinned back. “Good evening.” I swung a wing in greeting, and they each raised a cheery wing before returning to their chatter. Zane had glided close enough now for us to talk privately. “I ask a favour of you. I need help with Mo-“ I began, but Zane cut me off. “His iktsuarpok ! The Hunter of Hearts asks me for a favour with his itksuarpok !” he guffawed, raising his voice for the others to hear. They cast their gaze across to us, eyebrow-feathers lifting. This story will be retold in full later on, I knew. “She scorns me. I have been a fool, Zane.” “You know I do not share your delight in females, friend. But still, tell me what happened.” “I tripped over the water bowl while watching her.” At this, the youthful bird-of-the-West-wind collapsed into a fit of laughter, the kind of all-consuming chortle that shakes the body and bends the back, his fiery eyes brimming with happy tears. I rubbed the back of my head awkwardly with my wing and waited for his convulsions to subside. “Show me the wound” he asked, pushing down the last of his windy giggles. I raised some of my feathers, revealing the slanted puncture on my breast, still wet with blood from where Mo had clipped me in her fury. “It won’t heal” I groaned, and he understood. “So, what do you need me to do?” “She resides on a mountain top – you know it, the peak that holds the moon in its dip when it shines at its fullest – and I ask that you bring her down to the lighthouse in the darkness, before this storm ends.” Zane’s brow lifted; his mouth shaped itself into a little ‘O’ , as though he carried within his beak a barnacle. I knew how it looked. Us mighty birds had no need to hide from the judgement of others when partaking in the challenges of love. We took pride in carrying out our hard duties in the light of the sun, in the whisp of the breeze, in the might of the storms. Coops were built by the humans to ensure our survival; such was the importance of our existence here, alongside this group of ‘captivities’ who needed our help and protection. Most of the sea-birds who frequented our rocks and lighthouse were shy, gaining much of their satisfaction from watching the ripple of waves while we, the Nefway, spent our days and nights battling the dangers of the sea even in such wretched, gruelling conditions, providing a secure home for the flock no matter what it took. “I can get her there safely in the winds, there’s no doubt about that. But should you not seek her out yourself? Go to her home, apologize in front of the group, her family, whoever, as is respectable?” I fixed my gaze away from Zane’s judging face and attempted a lie. “If I go to her craggy rock, she will find out who I truly am. The older birds have seen me in the skies above the lighthouse – they will tell her I belong to the Nefway. If she were to know my true rank, she may obsess over my prestige. I would not be rid of her for many years. She would trespass on my duty, tempt me into family life.” Zane narrowed in on me. I felt the burden of his stare with such an intensity that I once again locked my eyes on his. He had an innocent face, but it was so full of discernment. “I think, my friend, that if she were to know it, you would place a great burden on her.” I cast my cyan eye beyond Zane, to the line of majestic birds who hovered so insistently against the wrathful urgency of nature. The ocean below us had turned filthy with dark and slime, enraged, as though the sun would never penetrate it again. The mountain ridges had become a gloomy dwelling, permeated by a numbing chill and shrouded in thick darkness. How long would the nature-battle last this time? The storm, which throws clusters of shellfish against the rocks, their soft insides spilling out into the sea, wasted, to feed none, even as the starving chicklings watch from the safety of their rock cavities? Life was not easy here. It was known that the Nefway die first and die youngest, that bravery and duty have a cost, that we were a risky choice for any female who wished to mate-for-life. How could we love, and ask for love, when the price that would eventually need to be paid by all was so great? The ninth member of the Nefway, the fiercest band of wild-birds to ever guard the Arctic lighthouse, I had watched over the ice tornados that threatened our resources here for many years. But things had changed with the introduction of that small flock of ‘captivities’. Things had changed when Mo had flown up to our lighthouse, somewhat dozily in her eagerness to make friends, and I had recognised a long-lost innocence in her eyes, an innocence I used to possess, one which somehow lived on so vibrantly in her, even as a fully-grown and highly-intelligent female. For a long time, I had wrestled with my pride. I knew why her eyes held such treasure in them. She was innocent because she had not seen the merciless destruction that nature could unleash. Born to a cage, she knew nothing of the wild, nothing of the preservation of life against such odds. Zane flew off, soaring upwards on level wings. My comrades called to me. It was time. But then… First the North wind went silent, and then the East. The South-flowing wind stilled, the North-Western wind stopped, no clouds moved. There was a quality to the silence like a held breath. A break in the storm. From below, a great whirling sound suddenly shook the universe. My wings froze and, as I began to drop from the sky, my mind caught up. I realised what was happening, what the swirling sound was. It was rare up at this height, but not impossible. My comrades were puzzled. They did not ever think beyond their own posts. “Ice tornado!” I screeched, flapping my wings and soaring to the coldest part in the sky, which I knew would soon form the centre of the tornado. The others squawked and swooped to join me, chasing as I tipped my beak to face the ground. I hurled myself down the icy tunnel with the eight courageous birds in close pursuit. Layers of pale-blue ice-sheets twisted to form a spiral around us, which spun with monstrous sound and at a blurring speed. The other birds followed as I turned this way and that, navigating with precision our way to safety. The dome of the lighthouse came into view at the end of the tunnel, a tiny blue dot which shone with the lustre of day in the compressed darkness of the ocean-side night. They followed me, their breasts panting and their wings frantic, through the freezing tornado’s side. I landed gracefully inside the lantern room, whereas the others (who were so used to the vastness of the sky) crashed in with a clunk. For a moment, I saw our perfect differences. “Tony, how long will it last?” Barry’s gruff voice came from the window pane, where he lay folded over himself. “No more than a few moments” I answered. “You did well” said Carl, with a short nod. The eight birds got up off the floor, shaking the dizziness from their heads and dusting down their feathers. “And I thought I liked ice. That was unpleasant” grimaced Sky, her voice prickly as always. “I’m glad you were there when you were, that could’ve taken a turn” Nick sniffed, still startled even as he placed a soft wing on my shoulder. “Ahem.” All nine of us spun round to discover Mo standing in the glare of the beacon-light. Panic struck me like a dagger and I openly searched her eyes, in my utter horror, scanning for something I was only half-comprehending. But I could find nothing. No fury nor surprise. I quickly remembered our argument and my face twisted in embarrassment, but I worked hard to compose myself in front of the others, to hold firm as a member of the mighty Nefway. The Nefway. ‘Yes, I know” Mo barked, her wings on her hips, “you think I am stupid and that I see nothing, but you are wrong.” “I don’t think you’re stupid…” the words blundered from my mouth. “Yes, you do, all of you military birds with your posts and your discipline. You think those of us who were reared in captivity are useless and simple, and yet here you are hiding in the shelter of the humans. I have seen you all eat and drink from this place. And with my relaxed predisposition, I felt the conditions for a potential tornado hours ago.” The storm cracked overhead and the wind began its sorrowful wailing again, like an injured seal in the sky. The rain pelted against the glass windows, a grey cascade of battering drops casting us into total darkness but for the revolving beacon-light. We were warm inside the lighthouse. I couldn’t help but grin. “Why are you smiling?” Liam asked, his eyes glancing to me. Zane answered. “Because he loves her.” In the passing light, I saw Sky roll her eyes and Barry look awkwardly at his talons. I waited, breath held tight in my chest, waited for anyone to speak, to release me from my burden. In the end, it was she who would go on to release me from the pains of life in the Arctic, the pains of life as an avian, the pains of life in all its ways, who would speak now and save me from myself. “I have come,” Mo sighed, “to hear you.” The others sifted away down the spiralling staircase. We were alone. I took a breath. “I have seen the moon grow to the size of a whale, dip into the waves and turn all the water white with the intensity of its shine. I have witnessed a million fizzing, golden comets wheel through the heavens, and seen the green flash of the sun as it is doused by the sea. I have seen thousands of granite rays cut through the currents in the warmer months, and basked at the glowing algae which swam under their wings. Caves filled with stalagmites and crystals have risen from the ocean in low tides, visible for only minutes each day and sparkling like hidden treasure. I see that same treasure in your eyes, except you contain none of the cold, wet, hardness of this world and none of its flightiness either. Compared to every beauty I have ever seen on this Earth, you are incomparable.” Her expression was unreadable and I wondered if I’d overshot it. “Yes, well. Pretty words, but I could’ve guessed that from you staring at me earlier today.” The words cut like a knife, but I admired her astuteness all the same. “I was watching how you move” I said, to which her eyes narrowed with a fierceness possessed only by females, “I mean, I was watching what animates you. How you stand and walk, the way you conduct yourself. I’m sorry.” She considered me for a moment. “You are part of the Nefway.” It wasn’t a question, but I answered her aloud. “Yes.” “I will take the risk” she nodded, as though it were a simple fact of life. I took her gently by the wings. ‘You understand my commitments to the Nefway? There is no one else here who knows how to deal with the ice tornados like I do. I have a duty to protect the flock.” Mo moved closer to me until her Phalarope breast feathers were curled into mine. “The wild is merciless and unforgiving, but I can learn to navigate it. Captivity was safe and comfortable, but perhaps you could learn a little about that, too.” The Arctic wind howled around the lighthouse tower, spinning in time with the far-reaching light of its enormous bulb.

raxn5r

Any Port in a Storm

Any Port in a Storm Sunlight slowly crept around the edge of the boat’s canopy to awaken me from a dreamless sleep. At first I thought I had crashed on my patio at home from a night of drinking but then recognized the gentle rocking of the boat I was in, gently rocking due to the wind being calmed. I was, in fact, in my boat not at dock in San Diego but adrift. My boat, a thirty three foot sailboat that had been tested on the Pacific waters many times and a seaworthy vessel that I was proud to own, but what the hell had happened last night for me to be out here drifting? How long had I been out here? I finally regained my senses allowing me to take stock of a massive headache or hangover ringing in my head and not being helped by the sunlight or oppressive heat that hung over the boat making movement a challenge. Slowly standing I squinted and did a 360 degree search of the horizon only to find that there was no horizon, no land in any direction just calm water meeting sky everywhere I looked. It was a little disconcerting but the many times I had been on the water as a boy and through the years learning the ins and outs of sailing from my father provided me a confidence that would now serve me well even if I didn’t know where I was and alone. Alone, was I alone? Was someone on board still sleeping? I went below and searched the cutty and bunks and confirmed that I was alone but there was evidence that someone had been on board and that some kind of struggle had taken place. When on a boat, it had been taught to me at an early age to keep anything that wasn’t secured to be stowed away so in the event of rough seas any innocuous items wouldn’t become projectiles and create a safety issue. Glasses in the sink, an empty wine bottle on it’s side on the floor, cabinets unsecured with the contents still intact leading me to the presumption that the sea must have been calmed for quite awhile. My head was still throbbing from what I thought was a hangover so I grabbed some aspirin from the medical kit. As I stood up I happened to glance in the mirror and was stopped cold, it was no hangover, I had a bruised welt on my forehead. I thought for a moment, indeed there had been a struggle and I had been in it. What the hell had happened last night? I became very concerned and decided to contact the Coast Guard for assistance not knowing how long this calm would continue. In horror, I saw the ship to shore radio had been smashed, I was becoming panicked. Typically I keep my phone in my left pocket but felt that it wasn’t there nor anywhere. I started frantically searching in all corners of the boat for my only possible mode of communication, oh God had it gone overboard?! I collected myself and tried to think of my next move, I had to stay calm like the air around me. I noticed the sail wasn’t unfurled so I must have ventured this far under engine power, so I’ll get my bearings and head back the same way. I estimated that land was forty, maybe fifty, miles east and being ten thirty in the morning, I figured reaching land would happen sometime in the late afternoon, at that point, I could anchor and get assistance from another boater to reach shore First thing would be to call Kelly, I’m sure she’s worried sick as to the whereabouts of her future husband and then get in touch with Rick to pick me up...oh yeah, I was supposed to meet Rick last night for drinks as a prelim to the wedding… what the hell happened last night. I went below to see if there was water in the refrigerator to quench my ungodly thirst and noticed Kelly’s denim shirt, that she kept on board, laying on the floor. I bent down and picked it up to rehang it, it was drenched. I thought that was strange and realized that I needed to head back and try to piece together the events of the previous night. I went on deck to start the engine, reached in the compartment that housed the key and found it empty. The key was already in the ignition and in the start position, it had never been turned off. I immediately tried to determine how much fuel was left in the tanks. Empty! Last night the engine was run until the fuel ran out. I took a long drink from the water bottle trying to remember what had transpired and who had been on the boat with me. I poured some water over my head in an attempt to cool off when a split second vision passed through my mind’s eye. I couldn’t be sure but did I see Rick? Again, I tried to recollect the night’s unknown occurrences and again nothing. I would have to unfurl the sail if I was going to have any chance of returning to shore by dark. It occurred to me that I was still wearing the same clothes that I had worn to work, I dug into my back pocket for my wallet and, unbelievably, it was still there along with a piece of paper that felt curious. I pulled it out and held in my hand a bar napkin from a place that Rick and I frequented...Gerry’s Pub. I thought it strange that a bar napkin was in my back pocket but put it aside and focused on the task at hand, I needed to raise the sail and be prepared for the winds that would surely come to take me home. Then, as I pulled the line to raise the sail a flurry of visions came to me like individual frames out of a movie. I remember sitting at Gerry’s alone drinking, where was Rick? We were supposed to meet right after work. He had called and said he couldn’t make it, he had to work late, a new project or something. I tried calling Kelly but my calls went to voicemail, strange, but I was getting drunk. Events were coming back to me. I don’t know what time I left the pub, it was late, but I had made the decision to stay on my boat for the night, I had done that many times before. The marina was closer than my apartment so I called a cab. We arrived at the docks shortly, I paid the cab and watched it leave. It was a beautiful night, water was calm with only a slight breeze. As I approached my boat I took in the night air and appreciated the positive effect it was having on my drunken state. I was thinking more clearly. I was suddenly startled by a light that was on in the cabin. I had no idea of who it could be, there was never any robberies, the marina was slim pickings for thieves. I remember crouching down to be unseen and to get a better view through the cabin door window, it was hard to see but I could make out two individuals. For safety I kept a pistol stowed away on deck in the compartment with the key to the cabin door and the engine key. I maneuvered to the compartment and retrieved the gun, gaining courage I went to the cabin door to confront the intruders, I flung it open but before I could say anything I recognized Kelly and Rick. We all stood motionless for what seemed like an eternity, the impact of what had occurred began to break me down. Betrayed, playing me for a fool, when were they going to tell me about their infidelity. Rick was the first to speak, “Hey man, put the gun down” then Kelly, “Please don’t do anything stupid”. I said nothing but I was going to have my way. I locked the cabin door and started the engine. I left the marina heading due west straight out to sea, the two of them surprisingly quiet, I sat in the cockpit contemplating my next move. After a lengthy time at sea, Rick became agitated and began pounding on the door demanding to be let out so we could talk. Was he kidding? Talk about what? I told him to move to the bow and I would open the door. He did and I unlocked the cabin. I moved aft while he emerged from below. I could hear Kelly sobbing below and saw that Rick was genuinely afraid, for me that was some consolation. The engine still running I told Rick to grab two life jackets, they were going to need them for the swim back. He panicked and screamed that they would never make it and lunged at me when the gun went off. The bullet found Rick and knocked him overboard. I remember shouting to him and receiving no response, it was dark, where was he. The engine was moving us away from him steadily, I turned to shut it down when my vision caught something in the darkness. I felt a searing pain shoot through my head and started flailing uncontrollably, my fist catching Kelly square on the chin. I remember hearing a splash and then passed out. My God...I killed them, albeit an accident, I still killed them. That’s the way the authorities would see it. I had nothing left, I would be found guilty, imprisoned with no future. I could never conjure up an alibi that would hold up. I felt sick but started to rationalize that I was the victim because of their actions. I couldn’t go back so I unfurled the sail. The wind was starting to pick up, the sail filled, I would have it take me south.

nz0rqr

Within the Wind

At the brink of the world, thunderbolts lit up the horizon as they struck the dark waves. An eternal maelstrom racked the sea, churning currents into a monstrous tide. The star riddled sky watched the waters dash themselves upon islands of black stone. Jagged edges turned to polished smoothness as the water spilled further onto solid ground. It pooled at the base of a marble tower as a moat of raindrops. The tower stood in defiance of the chaos. A simple beacon of light amidst the vengeance of the sea. White light shone like a star from the top of the tower searching for lives to save. Yet life stirred inside it. A man stared through a rain stained window at the edge of the world. He scratched at the birthing hairs of a beard with worry in his eyes. Stark white hair remained in a frozen state of an unkempt unwashed mess. His gaze was fixed on the outside, begging for something to distract his mind. A candle flickered in its dregs of wax, unattended on a well maintained desk. A wardrobe sat with its door cracked open to reveal a long coat inside bearing a golden dragon on its back. Bed linens bore not a single wrinkle, and yet the man stared out the window into the darkness. With an arm propped against the wall, the man’s knees ached in remaining so still. But what was he to do? He had not but marble walls to speak to. To his ears, he could hear a humming song below him. Through thunderclaps and rainfall, he listened to a muffled melody. Each note felt like a heartbeat, forcing a pulse of emotion to rise inside him. Gin was not a man accustomed to caring, at least… not to this degree. His arms shook, and his legs flexed with anticipation. All of him readied to do whatever task he needed to do. And yet, what was he to do? The matter was out of his hands. And so Gin stared through the window. He watched the mother of all storms finding no solace in the kinship of it and his heart. Waves stretched to form mountains on the horizon; Thundering, crumbling mountains of water. The sea lurched and battered the lighthouse and its island. The tide ebbed away from the window to reveal another wave. Gin watched the force rend itself apart upon the walls and window before him. He sighed. If only the water could wash him away. That would be better than waiting. And then the song stopped. Adrenaline tore through his veins and his attention at last left the window. Thump-thump. He couldn’t stop the crescendo of anticipation rising in him. Thump-thump. Footsteps approached as someone came at last up the stairs. Thump-thump. His heart expanded as if to burst and his hands dripped sweat. Thump-thump. A shadow shrouded the light beneath his door and then came the knock. The door opened and Gin saw the figure in the entrance. Lady Lumi clasped her hands before her and gave a nod of greeting. The muse had an aura of warm light surrounding her. She appeared as something akin to a woman, like a reflection of a feminine figure through yellow glass. The dress Lumi wore had stains of crimson on it. “I require your assistance,” Lumi said. Her voice flowed silky sweet. Her expression gave no hint of emotion as is common among healers. Gin nodded his assent and they descended the stairs. Lumi opened the door to the room where she tended to Tali. Gin entered in timidity in his steps. Steeling his nerves, he froze when he saw Tali lying on a table. Blood stained the furniture in a dangerous liberty. His young apprentice had numerous wounds sewn shut. The more grievous ones bore glassy scars where magic replaced flesh. Yet veins of black slithered up Tali’s neck and spread across her face. “Gin,” Lumi said. “There is dissonance in these wounds.” He nodded, focus remaining on those black lines. “It is untouchable for me,” Lumi explained. Gin raised an eyebrow. “If I touch it, it will twist my nature away from the Eversong.” “And it won’t do the same for me?” Gin asked. “Uncertain.” “You don’t know?” Gin snapped. “Are you not Lady Lumi?” She met his eyes with sternness. “I am what I am. Will you assist me?” Gin shrugged. “What’s the other choice, let her die?” Lumi nodded. “I have attended to every other wound both vital and not.” “And you left this for last?” Gin demanded. “It’s killing her!” “She would have died from blood loss first,” Lumi said. “And I could not remove this without aid.” Gin clenched his hands into fists. Anger clouded his mind and killed any words he wished to say. Emotions swirled inside him, and he hated it all. Trembling, he knew he couldn’t do the task with such potent feelings. Setting aside his worry, something within him snapped. Emotions drained from his heart in a whirlpool. If he failed, Tali would die. That realization sent no fear through him. Fear, anger, worry, doubt, love, they all slid off his heart as they met the coating of apathy. “What do I do,” Gin asked. Concern showed on Lumi’s stoic face, but she walked over to Tali and exposed the wound. A pit of blackness leaked just below her collarbone. It was as if it bore into her heart and peeled her life away from the inside. Gin glanced at Tali’s face, hoping to see breathing. There was none, only sweat and blood traced her face. Lumi guided Gin as he pressed two knuckles onto the wound. He felt a melody swell around him. Not just any melody, Gin recognized this as the Eversong. An eternal tune, a source of magic keeping the world in order. He knew this, and yet he was not overcome with wonder, awe, or reverence. Gin simply clung to the magic, knowing that with it he had a chance to save Tali. As harmony met dissonance, Gin lost consciousness. Or rather, his consciousness was not with his body. Gin passed into a dream. Darkness surrounded him. There swirled a storm shrieking and thundering. Waves slammed against him and the shore he stood on. Rain pelted him with heavy drops. The sea raged, the sky mourned, and the wind screamed. Yet in the chaos, he heard a cry. It was a muffled mutter of fear, yet it came from a voice he knew. Tali. Gin called her name into the madness, but the wind slaughtered his voice. Gasping for air, Gin stumbled back. A dark cascade of water slammed Gin off his feet. He spun in cold numbness until the water bashed him onto land. Darkness surrounded him. Gin cried out again, and again the wind stole his words from him. The barrage of rain welted his skin as he strained to regain his footing. A mountain of shadow swelled and rushed upon him. Chaos swarmed him, daring to drown him in its embrace. Gin dug in his heels and braced himself against the onslaught. Wave after wave, it came for him. He slid back, slowly inching back. Step by step, the darkness forced him to the edge of his island. He heels met air, and Gin’s concentration lapsed. Determination faltered as he realized how close to failure he was. And then came the shadow. Darkness swept Gin off his feet and he fell into nothingness. In the nothingness, there came a melody. The Eversong, faint but clear, sounded in Gin’s mind. He reached out to the magic, ashamedly finding it so easily. Clinging to the song, his fingers found the edge of his island. Like the stone at the end of the world, his island had jagged edges. His hand was shredded apart and he held to it with a white knuckled grip. Swelling with the Song, Gin forced himself from the shadowy depths and crawled back on land. Holding to the Eversong, Gin found the darkness recoiling away from him. With a sigh, Gin let the Song flood over him. He burst alight with color and music. Like a star shining in the void, Gin shone with power and the chaos fled from him. In the light, he could see beneath the waves. There in the depths, hung Tali in a tangle of dark tendrils. “TALI!” Gin called and his voice echoed. He watched as her eyes blinked lazily open. She took in where she was and a soundless scream bubbled in the water. Gin wanted to reach her, but he felt the Song hold him back. Frustrated, Gin called out to her again. He motioned for her to swim to him. Tali strained against the tendrils, but they dragged her further down. Stuffing away his anger, Gin did the only thing he could think of. He sang. A vibrant enchanting harmony filled the space and flowed around Tali. He watched realization dawn on her and she joined the song as well. The tendrils unfurled and unraveled around her. The darkness thrashed about, but Tali swam from them. She swam and swam until at last she climbed the shore that Gin had climbed. Tali coughed up water and gasped air. Gin nodded and the vision faded. Gin removed his hand from the wound and stumbled back. Lumi immediately began singing and stitching up the wound before more blood could be lost. Gin searched for the dark lines, but they had faded from Tali. In their place were scars, and Gin longed for his heart to ache. Yet he felt nothing. Tali would live. And Gin felt nothing at all. His apprentice gasped and breathed again. Gin nodded and glanced at his hand to see if the evil had tainted him. His knuckles only had a stain of blood and nothing more. Gin searched his heart for an ounce of feeling. Yet no scrap remained, he was empty inside. Emotions remained in jars and crates, stuffed away. He couldn’t bring them back, no matter how hard he tried. Slumping into a chair, Gin found himself staring at a window. He watched the storm rage outside the lighthouse, wishing the chaos would distract him from thoughts. His hand began scratching at the beginning of a beard and his mind wandered away.

ytydri

The Lonesome Kraken

It had been storming for a fortnite in the port town and by the time the weather had cleared Nelson’s friend had been gone for almost a month. That's when Nelson decided to go out and look for him. Spending the rest of his money on a small sailboat. The wind was still strong when he left the town and navigation was never Nelson's strong point. He made it about 10 knots before the wind took him away. Heading west instead of east the wind threw Nelson and his vessel around. Cold air and rain hit his face as he tried to steer the boat to the west. Knowing that there should be an island not far from where he thinks he is. The wind roars around him with no control over the sailboat all he can do is pray that he and the boat will survive. Nelson saw an island on the horizon luckily in the direction of the wind. As Nelson got closer he saw a light going in and out of Nelson's perspective. A lighthouse! There had to be people on the island thought Nelson. Hoping they will be kind enough to shelter him from the storm. Landing on the island was easier than expected all he had to do was dodge a few rocks and he was on the unknown island’s dock. The only other boat on the dock was a row boat. There was a dirt path leading to what Nelson assumed was a way to the lighthouse. Harsh winds hit his face making it hard to breathe. The muddy path whines and bends around the trees. The light is shown in the sky and the downpour and darkness it was a welcoming sight. Nelson followed the trail until it led him to the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. Knocking on the door there was no response so he knocked again. A voice came from the inside “ Hold your horses.” The voice was deep and ragged. The door swung open there stood an older gentleman. His hair and beard were mostly grey and he wore a white shirt with wrinkles in it. “ What do you want? Who are you? How'd you get here ?” he berated Nelson with questions. “ Boat, Now may I come inside, please,” Nelson said putting on his best polite voice for the grumpy old man. “Fine “The man stepped aside for Nelson. Waving a hand for Nelson to follow him to the table that lay in the corner of the room. “ So what are you doing here?” “The storm brought me here. It's quite bad out there.” “Seem like it. You’re not from Falkland right?” “No, that was where I was trying to go.” “You’re a little bit off, lad. That couple of miles away from here. Why‘d you want to go there?” “I'm looking for my friend.” “Why are you looking for him? Must be for something important.” “He left me to go find the Great Kraken.” “Ha, that's just a child's story.” “That’s what I think too. I used to believe that it was real. We spent so long looking for it. I started to lose faith and my friend wanted to prove me wrong. That's why he left.” The old man sighed “That’s why I haven't had a friend in years.” “ Ain't you lonely?” “No, friendships are just like the wind. It can be weak or strong but it never stays.” “May I stay the night, please? I’ll be gone by dawn.” “Sure, why not you’re already here anyway.” Nelson left a little bit before dawn but before he left the old lighthouse keeper gave him a map to Falkland and a compass. With that Nelson was on his way. The wind was much better than it was yesterday. The sailboat gently glides through the water. Nelson felt at peace being by himself with just him and the great blue sea. He closed his eyes feeling the breeze on his face and through his hair. The ship gently rocked against the waves. It was straight to Falkland Island so Nelson spent the time looking at the ocean. Wondering where his friend might be if he was okay or not. Docking easily with The Mary Lou (that’s what Nelson decided to name the sailboat) Nelson saw a young lady crying at the beginning of the dock. She looked up at him when he was walking towards her. “Hello, good sir”. She wiped away her tears with her sleeve. “Are you okay miss? Nelson asked bending down to meet her eyes. “I'm fine, mister thank you for asking.” “Are you sure? “ “Yes, what brings you to our island, sir?” “I'm looking for my friend?” “Your friend?” “Yes, have you seen him ?” “Maybe I’ve been sitting by the docks for weeks.” “Why?” “I lost my friend too.” the wind blew moving her hair away from her face. “She died. We used to hang out by the docks all day long as children. I thought staying here would make me feel less alone and would remind me of happier times but it just reminded me that she’s gone.” “I'm sorry for your loss.” “What did your friend look like?” Nelson described his friend and gave his name. The young girl’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Yes yes, I did see him a few weeks ago. Said he was looking for The Great Kraken for his friend. You I suppose he was talking about.” “When did he leave?” “A couple of days after I talked to him. He stopped here to resupply and then he went on his way. I thought I heard him talking about going to the Beltran isle.” “Thank you. I realize that I never got your name?” “Cordelia, I'm happy to help.” “Would you like to come with me to find him Cordelia?” “No, I'm afraid I can't. I have a friend to mourn for.” “Oh okay, well I wish you the best then.” “I'll see you around. Oh, I uh didn't catch your name either.” “Nelson” “I'll let him know that you were looking for him if he comes back.” Nelson gave his thanks and walked back to The Mary Lou. Before he could leave Cordelia came back and gave him a raincoat and some money. Nelson was 50 knots away when the wind stopped leaving Nelson in the middle of the sea. He figured he was probably at least 20 knots north of Beltran Isle. The water became unmoving and Nelson felt so alone. He didn't know what to do normally his friend would come up with an idea or make a joke. But there was nothing and it sat heavy on his lonesome heart. Hours passed but still, the wind did not return. Mary Lou was drifting in the middle of the sea all alone. Nelson played on the ground looking up at the sky thinking that maybe this wasn't worth it. Maybe he should have stayed in Falkland or the port town. What happens if Nelson finds his friend and he doesn't want to see him? What will he do? Where will he go? Is there anyone who can replace his friend? That can make him feel less alone like his friend did. Nelson was jolted out of his thoughts by the rocking of the boat. Looking over the side of Mary Lou Nelson saw large ripples in the water that were almost waves. And it looked like there was something big under the water. A big shadow that seemed to circle the boat. Nelson felt a sense of dread as he grabbed a paddle for a makeshift weapon. Just right of Nelson, a tentacle shot up through the water. The Great Kraken they had found it after all this time Nelson thought and his loneliness was replaced with happiness and wonder at the magnificent creature in front of him. The wind picked up again and the sailboat began to move. Nelson would find his friend and he would tell him what he found even if it took forever.

h60a3n

Running Home

It’s not easy to go on the run, but Karen never did what was easy. No, nothing ever came easy to her. She’s been doing the hard things in life since she was a kid and has never stopped. Karen did the difficult tasks that most kids don’t dream of doing until well into their adulthood. Adulting is what people in their twenties called it. To Karen, adulting has been part of her daily activities for over ten years. That’s a hell of a lot of being an adult for someone who’s only twenty-two years old. There was an earsplitting wind in the air this morning. Karen took the wind as a sign that change was coming. It’s been ten or eleven or twelve years of cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, taking care of her younger brother. All of it. All that stuff that the other students she grew up with knew nothing about. She would often stop and think to herself that none of it was fair. Why was she holding the world on her shoulders while the other kids just did what kids do? It wasn’t fair but she knew the adult saying went something like: Who said life was fair? She’d tell herself to suck it up and keep going. She’d tell herself it could get better someday. Maybe the most recent stint in rehab would finally transform her mother into a new person. Mom could come home renewed and ready to care for the family. Maybe her father would stop his own drinking and his daily verbal and physical outbursts would become a thing of the past. She tried to tell herself it was possible, but she knew it wasn’t probable. Nothing ever changed. Her father would often promise that things would get better. He would say sometimes people struggle but they can change. He would say he’ll work on himself, and he’ll be there for Karen and her brother. He would promise, but Karen knew it was only a matter of time before he got dunk and made a scene again. He would angrily ask her why she never smiles. As if she had a reason to fucking smile. Karen sat on a bench at the bus stop four blocks away from the tiny apartment she and her family lived in. It was a cloudy Friday morning in the middle of autumn, early enough that her dad and brother wouldn’t be awake for several more hours. Her dirty blonde hair was tightly kept in a ponytail, and she wore no makeup. She wore a pair of grey sweatpants with a grey sweatshirt, both of which she purchased with cash at a thrift store. Her sweatshirt had the words “The Angels” printed on it in what looks like it used to be red font but has faded to black over the years. She wasn’t sure if the words were referring to the city of Los Angeles, or the California baseball team. Either way she thought maybe it was some kind of sign telling her she should try to get herself all the way to LA. She still believed in the “signs” the universe sent to people despite having lost her faith in God a long time ago. Her duffle bag sat on the bench next to her. It was stuffed to the top with the essential items of running away. At least the amount she could get her hands on before sneaking out the front door. She had clothes, cash and one of her dad’s handguns. He owned several firearms, and he could barely see straight most of the time. He’d never notice it was missing. Karen had been waitressing off the books for seven years and had saved every dollar of her cash tips from generous customers that she possibly could. Every dollar that wasn’t spent on groceries, bills and clothes was stashed away in a shoebox and shoved far under Karen’s bed. She was saving the money for a rainy day and that day was today. The sky was grey and there were strong gusts of wind in the air, making her time sitting on this bench less than pleasant. Other than the wind, it was almost silent outside. Nobody on the street was making any noise because nobody was awake. Karen loved being up earlier than anyone else. The peace and quiet gave her the illusion of momentary serenity in her life. She sat on this old, worn-down wooden bench and kept her eyes focused on the street across from her. She could see a small parking lot on the other side of the road but not much else. Behind her, there was a row of trees that resided on the edge of an area of woods that stretched back almost a mile, and behind that is where you’d find neighborhood of residential houses. Mostly one-story houses connected to each other, the residents not having much of a front yard or a backyard in such a low rent area. She couldn’t help but fantasize about the new life she hoped to find. She’d find somewhere to live alone and not have to worry about taking care of anyone. That feeling of serenity she had when she’d enjoy the early morning quietness could become her everyday reality. Maybe she’d use some of her money to enroll in a community college and find a way to earn her way towards a steady career. Maybe she could become a cheerleader. She always wanted to be a cheerleader. She heard the bus approaching. She turned her head over he left shoulder to gaze down the street and saw the bus making its way. The bright headlights of the bus were shining extra bright on such a gloomy morning. Karen had to squint to keep her eyes on the bus coming to save her. The bus driver might as well be her knight in shining armor, the bus being his noble steed. Karen took her duffle bag in her hand and stood up, ready to take the first step to freedom. A massive gust of wind overtook all of Karen and her surroundings just as the bus driver was putting the bus into park. Karen kept her eyes on the bus, but she felt something brush up against her leg. She thought for a moment it could be a bug crawling on her and she twitched her leg to get the imaginary bug off her, but it wasn’t a bug. It was a crumbled-up piece of paper. The paper must’ve blown over here in the gusts on wind. Maybe it fell out of a garbage can on the corner of the street and the wind carried it to Karen’s feet. She stared at the crumbled paper below her as the bus driver opened the bus doors, inviting Karen to climb aboard. Karen looked up and locked eyes with the bus driver. Neither of them said anything but Karen knew it was time to get on. She bent down to pick up the crumbled-up piece of paper, almost without even realizing she was doing it. She opened the crumbled paper and smoothed it out before reading it. She read the handwritten message and wasn’t sure what she’d be doing next. All she knew was that she wouldn’t be getting on the bus. He's going to kill me, Hannah thought to herself. She sat on the kitchen floor with her back against the door of the refrigerator, the tile floor of the kitchen was cold against the bottom of her thighs which were exposed in her pajama shorts. She pressed her fingertips lightly against her cheekbone on the left side of her face, the pain made her twitch. She was sure she’d have a black eye by tomorrow, if she lasted until tomorrow. This was far from the first time this has ever happened, although it usually didn’t happen this early in the morning. It was the usual suspects of argument inducing topics that usually sparked the domestic fireworks. Money, cleanliness, drug and alcohol consumption, life plans. They all had the potential to lead to screaming, cursing and name calling. Hannah became numb to the verbal battles. She could brush them off and wait for Brian to come crawling back to her, crying his usual slew of apologies like he always did. It was the violence that changed everything. She began to lose hope when things got violent. She often wondered if Brian could push things all the way to the point of murder. The rage in his eyes and his voice made her believe that he was capable of more than just an occasional smack in the face. This seemed to be the day she would find out for sure. “Where the fuck is it?” She could hear him scream from their bedroom. “Where is it?” He said again. The usual cycle happened again and again. He would get drunk, spend an abundance of cash on drugs, forget this happened, then wake up and accuse Hannah of stealing his money. She would tell him he gave it to his drug dealer; he would say bullshit. “Tell me where you put it!” He yelled loud enough that she could hear him over the whipping winds outside. She didn’t bother answering his yelling. After accusing her, he had grabbed her by the throat and walked her backwards until her back was pressed against the stove. He said he should turn the stove on and burn her face off. Instead of that, he punched her in the face. She dropped to the floor of the kitchen and hasn’t moved since. There weren’t many places for her to run to in their one story, one bedroom house they lived in. The living room was next to the kitchen and the front door was in between the two rooms. Brian was to the right of their living room in their bedroom. She could hear him tearing their bedroom apart. She wondered if someone on the block might hear all the commotion and call the police. She doubted anyone could hear him over the wind. It sounded like a hurricane. Hannah knew she’d have to call the cops herself. She worked up enough strength to pull her phone out of the pocket of her shorts. She was able to dial the number nine before Brian stomped his foot on her hand, crushing her fingers into the ground and causing her to drop the phone in the process. He picked up the phone and smashed it on the kitchen counter. He threw the smashed phone at Hannah, the phone collided with her face, and she fell over crying. He grabbed her by the throat and pulled her face close to his. Their noses practically touching each other. “You wanna call the fucking cops? I should kill you.” He said. He went back to the bedroom to continue his search and to break more things. Hannah didn’t know what to do now. She knew she needed help but didn’t know how to find it. What did people do before cell phones existed? Was she supposed to write the police station a letter? Email them? Send them a fax? What does fax even mean? She had no options. She had to think of something fast. Despite her dizziness, she stood up. She grabbed a piece of paper from the large notepad she kept next to the refrigerator to write out her daily to do lists and reminders. She could write a note for her neighbors to find if the noise woke them up. She could run next door, leave the note on their front porch, then run back and try to calm Brian down. She could run fast and he’d never know she was gone. She clicked on the pen and wrote out her message: He’s going to kill me. Help. 55 Bunker st. She started towards the side door connected to the kitchen, but stopped when she heard his footsteps making his way out of their bedroom. She was out of time. She commanded herself not to panic and to think quickly. She crumbled the paper up into a ball and threw it out the kitchen window adjacent to the refrigerator. She hoped her throw would carry the paper close enough to the neighbor’s front lawn that they would easily spot it from the front door. Just as she put all her might into the throw, another massive gust of wind arose and carried the airborne paper past their house, into their backyard and into the woods that surrounded the back of their block. The paper was gone. Fuck. Karen sprinted through the woods like she was running track in the Olympics. She left behind her duffle bag and everything inside except for her dad’s handgun. She knew exactly where Bunker Street was; it was the row of houses that would be directly on the opposite side of the woods. If she was able to run all the way to the other side, it’d be the first block that came into sight. The wind rocked the trees back and forth feverishly. Karen could barely hear anything over the wind. She might be wasting her time. Maybe the crumbled-up plea for help was just some kind of joke. Or maybe it was written a long time ago and only just now blew its way over to the bus stop due to the powerful winds shaking the entire neighborhood. Maybe nobody was presently in trouble and there was nobody to help. Karen had these thoughts ruminating through her brain as she ran but they didn’t stop her from running. She ran like somebody else’s life depended on it. She could see the opening in the woods where the trees parted ways from each other just enough to allow someone to slip through. She could see the backs of the houses that resided just at the edge of the woods. She made it. She stepped through the opening in the trees, a thin branch hit her in the face in the process. Karen was standing in the backyard of a small house. The backyard was barely twenty feet wide, and the house looked so old and beat up she wondered how it was still standing. She needed to figure out which house number this was. She stepped towards a window on the backside of the house and peered through to look inside. She saw two people, a man and a woman. They were lying on the floor of their tiny kitchen. She thought for a second that they might’ve been having intercourse, but looking closer, she could see the man was on top of the woman with his hands around her neck. He was choking her. Karen walked her way around to the side of the house where she would be closer to the kitchen. She spotted the side door of the house and didn’t hesitate before kicking it open. She stepped into the kitchen and the man turned his head around to lock eyes with her. “Who the fuck is that?” He said. He stopped choking the girl and he stood up to face Karen. He took one step towards her as she pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him in the shoulder, and he hit the ground. He groaned and cursed some more. He was rolling around in his own blood while Karen stepped towards the girl and put her hand out to help her up. The girl was groggy and couldn’t stop coughing. She could barely see but she was able to make out the words, “The Angels” on a shirt in front of her. Karen pulled the girl to her feet. Karen started towards the man with the gun held out in front of her. She could picture firing another bullet into his head and watching his blood splatter all over the place. Much like the first shot she took, nobody would hear it because of the wind. She could disappear and no one would ever know she was here. She could kill him, then get back over to the bus stop and freeze her ass off while waiting for the next bus. She thought about it and held the barrel of the gun against his forehead. She looked into his eyes and saw he was crying. She waited a beat, thinking deeper about her options. She couldn’t help but think that killing him might feel good. That thought scared her half to death. She held on tight to the handle of the gun, focused in again on the man’s tears, and then she spoke. “Never do this again.” She said. She stepped back and took her phone out of her pocket. She dialed 911 and told them to get over here fast. She told the girl to wait in the bedroom and lock the door. Karen ran. Karen sat at the dinner table next to her brother. Dad was setting the table for dinner while Karen and her brother just sat next to each other and didn’t say anything. Dinner was nothing fancy, just microwavable macaroni and cheese, but it was something. Karen’s father mentioned that maybe the three of them would go give mom a visit soon, apparently it would mean a lot to her. Her dad sat down once the three of them had hot bowls of food in front of them. She wouldn’t describe this moment as perfect, or even as good, but it was what she had. She watched her brother take his first bite of food. She smiled. 

y57hrr

The Last Sail

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The earth was still. Tranquil. Diminutive waves gently grazed the shore. It was simply not possible to conjure a more perfect late summer afternoon, though you innately sensed the weather was about to turn. The deep green foliage along the coast would soon transform into fiery shades of orange, yellow, and red. We were young, kids really, my husband and me. Newlyweds. At times it felt like we were just play acting at being adults. We were broke, just trying to survive from day to day. We shared a tiny one-bedroom apartment and both worked at low-paying jobs, barely covering the rent each month. But there was one indulgence we allowed ourselves as often as we could during the summer months living along the Long Island Sound. We'd head down to the coast and rent a 14' Hobie catamaran for a 2-hour sailing excursion. It cost $40, a veritable fortune for us. But there was nothing that could compare to your fist tightly gripping the sail's rope as the wind inevitably tugged on the sail and pulled the boat up onto one hull, gliding us through the water like a knife through butter, taking us in whatever direction the wind and the sea desired. Some days the water would be particularly choppy, but not this day. It was smooth as glass. There were no oversized speed boats full of partiers drinking and laughing as they floored past us at speeds of up to 40mph leaving us bobbing like a cork in their wake. And while it was exhilarating every time it happened, it was also quite terrifying. My heart would pound in my chest while I silently prayed that I’d live to see another day. Then, after the water calmed and my adrenaline settled back down, I’d just laugh at myself for being so easily frightened by the waves. But on this late summer day, it was just us and the sea, reveling in the glory of a perfect summer day. It was so calm we didn’t even bother donning the requisite life vests. Why would you need one on a day like today? The peacefulness of the day lulled me into daydreaming about what surely would be better days for us someday down the road. We'd have better jobs. We’d buy our very own house. We’d have children. Maybe we'd even be able to buy our very own sailboat – one of those 20’ real boats. We’d take our friends out sailing and celebrate with a champagne toast just like those other people we’d enviously watch flying by our much slower vessel. But now we were nearing the end of our two-hour rental, so we came about and turned to head back to shore – back to the reality that was our day-to-day life. It was slow going, given how little wind there was, and it seemed to be dwindling even more. I closed my eyes and tilted my face upward to feel the warmth of the sun and try to store the memory of our last sail of the summer, when suddenly, out of nowhere, came a huge gust of wind. I laughed at the irony. Now it’s going to get windy enough to sail? Now that our two hours are up? And while it was a little unsettling, I wasn’t overly alarmed. We were only 50 yards from shore. How deep can the water be here, I wondered. Three feet? Five feet at most? But then a second, stronger gust of wind hit the sail and the boat started tilting, then leaned all the way up onto one of its hulls. We both bent our bodies toward the other side of the boat, attempting to pull it back down into the water, to no avail. Then we quickly shifted the entire weight of our bodies to the center of the boat, but the boat was not having it. The wind tipped us completely over and I felt myself slowly sliding down the side of the hull, fully anticipating I was about to experience a very cold splash before my feet would inevitably hit the soupy, muddy muck beneath us. But instead, I was shocked to find myself going down, down, down, deep into an abyss. I was deeply confused. Suddenly I was completely lost and had absolutely no idea which way was up. Did I tumble when I fell? Am I upside down? I started frantically swimming the breaststroke, hoping the water would clear and I would see sunlight as I tried looking all around me in the murky water. Slowly as the dirt and sand we had stirred up started to settle, I saw a faint glimmer of light and began swimming with all my strength until I finally popped up to the surface and took in a huge gasp of air, spewing out all the salty, dirty water that had made its way down into my lungs. I looked around for my husband and saw he was around the other side of the boat, trying to pull it back upright out of the water, while I was frantically treading water, holding onto the hull, and trying to mentally collect myself. “What happened?” I muttered after I'd finally nearly caught my breath. Nothing like this had ever occurred before when we'd been out in much stronger wind than those couple of gusts so I was just deeply confused. But he just shrugged and kept trudging through the mud, tugging on the boat until he’d pulled it up onto the shore next to the other boats abandoned there by other renters who’d given up on their day’s sail much earlier than we had. He only replied, “Let’s go get a drink to celebrate our last sail of the summer.” I stared at him, waiting for him to acknowledge that his wife had just nearly drowned. But he never did. "Yes, let's go get that drink," I finally responded. It was the last time I ever sailed. 

wmy05r

Marshmallow Monster

One should always carry marshmallows when walking in the woods. The peculiar advice popped into my head unbidden. I paid it little mind. My grandfather had often doled out such nonsensical tidbits. My feet moved along the narrow path, taking time to launch every rock and twig they encountered. My nose tickled as a friendly wind introduced itself to my face. The incorrigible breeze swirled around my shoulders, tugging my hair in a playful dance. It was a beautiful day in the forest. The kind poets tend to ramble on about. Writing paragraph after paragraph of descriptive words like: crimson, vermillion, tangerine, and saffron. Overhead the branches giggled in the wind. I watched as a pumpkin-colored leaf zig-zagged its way to the dirt. A dark shadow in the middle of the path caught my eye. A few steps closer, I realized it was a creature. It was the oddest-looking thing. A basketball-sized body covered in fuzzy gray fur. Its four scraggly legs bent awkwardly against themselves. Rough, scaley skin covered the squarish face. Tiny white teeth lined its snot by the hundreds. It was also quite possibly dead. I searched it patiently for any sign of life. I have always considered myself somewhat of a scientist. I often dedicated my days to research, taking rare specimens home for further observation. My pockets proved to be the perfect place to store my collection of insects and spiders. Mother was not keen on this habit. Her searching hand had often led to a shriek in the laundry room. My curiosity soon outweighed my trepidation. I picked up a long stick for poking. It seemed like the scientific thing to do. I darted out my hand and nudged the shadowed mass. A disgruntled yelp sent me reeling back several steps. A set of bright green eyes met mine, full of reproach. Sniffing me inquisitively, it cocked its head in greeting. I could tell from the stillness of its body that it was injured. In a moment of unprecedented chivalry, I decided to lend it my aid. The practicality of this decision proved rather tedious. In a feat of engineering genius, I managed to fashion a sling from my jacket and the poking stick. With some coaxing and a careful hand, I transferred the creature to its temporary hammock. I hurried back along the path towards home and my unsuspecting mother. A conscientious woman, she would never have allowed a wild animal in the house. Especially not one that looked like a meatball left in the fridge for too long. Out of concern for her feelings, I climbed through the back window. In my opinion, nothing is more arduous than attempting to scale a flight of stairs quietly. My sock-clad feet took each step carefully, distributing my weight to avoid creaks. The last thing I wanted was to alert my mother. After several minutes, I reached the top floor undetected. My room was on the left, at the end of the hall. I furtively inched towards it, trying to ignore the shuffling and growling noises from beneath my shirt. I released my pent-up breath. The closed-door provided some protection. I was not used to such adventures. I have always leaned toward the more academic, if not boring, side of life. I rallied my courage for the task at hand. Whether lost in the woods or hiding a monster in your room, the steps to survival are as follows: 1. Build a shelter. 2. Find food. Several minutes and a few choice words later, a makeshift bed stood in the corner of my room. Stepping back, I took a minute to congratulate myself on my cleverness. The two pillows formed a comfortable bed nestled beneath a haphazard canopy. Even the strange creature seemed appreciative of my efforts. Inspecting the bed thoroughly, it circled three times before curling into a ball with its eyes closed. I turned my attention to step two - find food. I crept back down the stairs. My mother was in the kitchen, washing the dishes. Her back faced me as she swayed to the soulful tones of Kenny G. I snuck past her with unprecedented ease. The pantry was full of neatly labeled glass jars, meticulously arranged in alphabetic order. My mother was dishearteningly health-conscious. Row upon row of oat bran, chia seeds, and other tasteless things lined the walls. I eyed them with despair. The strange animal was already injured; I could not subject it to the torture of my mother's cooking. Luckily, my father had a sweet tooth. He has always kept a secret stash of sugary delights. His office was at the end of the hall. With my back flat, I crawled past my mother and into the darkened room. I pressed the door carefully, allowing it to shut without a sound. I scanned the room before turning my attention to the desk. I winced as the drawer at the bottom let out a small moan. I attempted to open it again, but much slower. The portrait of my great-aunt Thelma glared at me with disapproving eyes. I felt a tinge of guilt. Then again, Aunt Thelma never approved of anything. I turned her frame upside down against the desk. I hear a muffled thud from the hall. My mother’s footsteps momentarily turned me into stone. Her shadow darkened the crack beneath the door. My fingers locked onto the first sticky bag they could find. I stuff it into my waistband and hit the deck. I offered a silent plea to whichever saint watches over strange, moldy creatures from the woods. The door opened as my mother sashayed her way through it. She hung my father’s favorite cardigan on the coat rack, giving it a ballroom dip before exiting the room. Unwilling to press my luck, I quickly made my escape. Back in my bedroom, the creature stirred at my arrival. A previously unnoticed tail wagged in friendly greeting. I was glad to see it had not perished in my absence. A bit melodramatic, I know. What can I say? The thrill of the afternoon was getting to me. The beast was excited, running excited laps around my feet with a sharp yapping sound. It reminded me of a puppy. Except puppies did not usually have double-jointed legs like spiders. “Are you hungry, boy?” I asked. I stared expectantly at it for a moment before shaking my head. As if finding a friendly monster in the woods wasn’t enough, now I expected it to talk. I pulled my crumbled prize from behind my back. The creature showed even more enthusiasm, adding small hops and an unsettling backflip to its routine. I glanced down at the light weight in my hand—a plastic bag filled with white billowy clouds—marshmallows. I tentatively offered one to the creature, who happily accepted. I pulled out a second treat and nearly said goodbye to my favorite finger. The animal snatched at it with greed. It guzzled the whole bag, chomping delightedly. The sound of its teeth gnashing and slurping will probably haunt me in my nightmares. After finishing its supper, the moldy-looking creature retreated to its bed. I stooped down beside it, reaching out a hesitant hand. It nuzzled me with a wet snout. A sound somewhere between a kitten and a chainsaw emanated from its chest. I stroked the surprisingly soft fur. My grandfather was an exceedingly wise man, full of sage advice. One should always carry marshmallows when walking in the woods. You never know when you might cross paths with a friendly marshmallow monster.

2jr2nn

The Wind Sends You Home

As sure as the wind whispering “go” at the back of my neck, I knew my buddy Dan wouldn’t want us to delay our sailing trip to the Keys. Not with a forecast predicting fair winds for days. Not when our 32-foot Catalina sailboat was fully provisioned and ready to go. Nah. He'd be raising a cold one in heaven. “Red sky at morning,” my wife Jeanne said as she handed me her duffle and climbed aboard. I finished the phrase in my mind: Sailors take warning. “I don’t like leaving on a Friday either,” she added for good measure, although we often went on weekend trips that started on Fridays. She’s not a pessimist. What she was trying to say was, “Let’s wait.” Dan’s crazy sister refused to have a memorial service, but two of his ex-wives and some cousins arranged a “celebration of life” in two weeks. I did not want to put off this trip that long, and Jeanne knew it, so she kept mum. Ish. She was acting like she always does. Dan’s unexpected death gave her a new excuse for her reluctance, that’s all. I’d be lying if I said Jeanne loves sailing. The sunrise was burnt orange leaning into pink. I assured her that whatever weather a red dawn portended was not in any forecast, and she shouldn’t worry about leaving on Friday. “That’s only for ocean voyages,” I said. On our first day, we’d sally from Clearwater to Gulfport. If the wind wasn’t right, we could putter down the Intracoastal Waterway and never raise a sail. “Loophole,” she said, and we smiled at each other as old couples do, understanding. Sure, it was unsettling to leave Dan with no formal goodbye, cremated without ceremony. But we were carrying on the way he lived. He single-handed his Bristol sloop from St. Petersburg to the Keys more times than either of us could count. “Life’s too short to wait around,” I could hear him saying. “You gotta go when the wind is right.” We motored out into the Gulf for a beamy, balmy sail southward. I cracked open two cans of Beach Blonde Ale and handed one to Jeanne. “For Dan,” I said. “For Dan,” said Jeanne. Dan had been an inveterate drinker, his motto alternating between “it’s 5 o’clock somewhere,” and “a little hair o’ the dog cures what ails you,” depending on the depth of the previous night’s indulgence. He saw no redeeming value in fruit or vegetables, but much joy in anything fried, particularly grouper, or charred, particularly steak. The booze and grease did him in before his time. We had planned to meet him at O’Maddy’s in Gulfport that very night for fried fish and cheap 20-ounce drafts before sunset. He’d be sailing beside us to the Keys, visiting his favorite drinking establishments along the way, except his heart had other plans. I missed him to my bones. I guzzled that ale to ease the tight feeling in my throat. Jeanne took one swallow and set her can down. She would probably let it go warm. We had a rule about drinking while sailing, which was: no alcohol until the anchor is set. “Dolphins!” she called, pointing, nearly knocking over her beer. Bottlenose dolphins are not unusual in these waters, but this was a whole pod – at least six, maybe seven, of them. Dan would’ve loved this. His YouTube channel was loaded with dolphin clips, which he posted the way some people post cats doing dumb things. Dolphins in the wild don’t usually do tricks like you see at an aquarium, so Dan’s videos were mostly them swimming alongside his boat, but he had a few classics of breaches at his bow. The dolphin pod next to my boat was getting annoying. They were unusually active: crossing our bow, diving under the keel and swimming so close to starboard it felt like they were trying to push us out of the channel. Jeanne either ignored or didn’t notice my irritation. Which also bugged me. I kept sliding closer to the shallows until I had to turn sharply to avoid running aground. I almost hit one and it leaped right next to us. “Oh wow,” Jeanne said, and pointed her phone at the water. I wish she’d thought of it sooner, because as soon as she started filming, those dolphins became elusive, as if they weren’t signed on to this movie and hadn’t been paid to take part. “Dan was so lucky with the dolphin videos,” she said. “I give up.” “It’s fine,” I said. * After we passed the last channel marker, we turned south and picked up a steady 10-knot wind out of the west. A few puffy clouds dotted the horizon. We set both sails, turned on the autopilot and leaned back. My irritation dissolved in the breeze. Jeanne had been up on the foredeck to sun herself, but on her way back to the cockpit, she stopped. “Greg, check the mainsail. What’s it doing?” I cocked my head around the bimini for a better view. A string was flapping from one of stays above the first reef. A gap of sky peeked through the sail. “Holy shit. The stitching is coming out!” We had to lower the main completely and continue with only the foresail to move us, which slowed us down. I turned on the motor to add speed, which turned out to be a good move. Those bulbous clouds grew thicker and grayer as the afternoon progressed. The wind started gusting, tossing the boat side to side. We rolled in all but a small triangle of the foresail for stability. We’d weathered worse, but I don’t like a storm on our first day out. We limped into Boca Ciega Bay at sunset, sodden and sour-stomached, and dropped anchor near Gulfport pier. We had a decision to make: Wait here for a sail repair or motor back, ending our trip. Jeanne said go home, but I couldn’t see why. I called a marine seamstress who had given me her card at some sailing event, and she met us at the fuel dock the next day, promising to have the sail back in a day or so. Jeanne went to the Gulfport library and shopped and paddled our inflatable kayak in Clam Bayou. I sat at O’Maddy’s drinking until I couldn’t stand the noise anymore. Dan was supposed to be here. Man, I’d give anything to hear his latest theory about whatever the hell was on his mind. One time he tried to convince me that Atlantis was real, and its king was a dolphin. Said government scientists knew about it but their dolphin communication experiments were top secret. Shit like that. Just to see what I’d say. Our sail got repaired and, anxious to be off, we pulled up anchor in a morning fog. I thought it would burn off. Instead, it grew thicker. And then, as if to prove my mistake, our diesel blew a belt. Fuck. Visibility couldn’t have been more than 10 feet. There was no wind and no place to drop anchor – we had just passed under a bridge at an intersection of channels. We rolled out the jib and Jeanne held the boat steady with the sail slack and maneuverability next to nothing. I forced a new belt onto the pulley using more adrenaline than muscle, cursing to relieve the tension, afraid my wife could be knocked overboard from the impact of some hot-shot powerboat that didn’t see us bobbing there. I didn’t tell her that. We crossed Tampa Bay in light wind, diesel running. I focused on the engine, hoping my quickie repair would hold. The sad truth was this: I was glad to get my mind off Dan. We anchored that evening off Cortez, a fishing village where we liked to stop for fresh shrimp. Later, we were jarred awake by pounding on our hull. “Wake up! You’re about to get hit!” I hustled out of the cabin in my skivvies. A guy in a little flat boat was between us and one of the many half-derelict boats that litter anchorages everywhere you look in Florida. “That one’s loose!” he called, pointing. It was drifting toward us in the current. I turned our engine on, and Jeanne took the helm while I hauled up anchor faster than I’ve ever hauled in my life. She maneuvered our boat away from the threat, avoiding running us aground, which was a feat, given we were surrounded by shallow shoals. We re-anchored close to the channel, away from other boats, but I couldn’t sleep after that. I sat in the cockpit watching fishing boats racing out in the dark. Our boat rocked all night from the wakes. Dan thought all powerboaters were scoundrels. “Stinkpots got no manners,” he liked to say. The next day, the wind clocked southward and hit us on a close reach, an uncomfortable point of sail, too close to the wind. The seas had picked up too, and our old Catalina was pounding against the surf. In my haste to get away from Cortez, I had not secured the anchor on its pulpit. Jeanne heard it falling when she went down below to the head. She came tearing back up the companionway, tugging her shorts, hair flying. “The anchor’s loose!” she screamed, scrambling forward. She hauled it back in and tied it up before I knew what was happening. She might not want to be a sailor, but, damn, she’s good in an emergency. We hoped to find hot showers and a nice meal that night in Venice, but the docks at Crow’s Nest were full, so we puttered about a mile north and dropped anchor in Blackburn Bay. Jeanne was sullen about that – no place to go ashore, another boat shower – and my bum knee was acting up again. I could not get comfortable sitting, standing or lying down. It just hurt. “Don’t let the old man in,” Dan used to say whenever I complained of aches or pain. It was his way of telling me not to focus on what I was losing, but to be grateful for the moments I had. Jeanne and I drank our sundowners in silence – ginger beer and Gosling’s dark rum, a concoction beloved by sailors called “dark and stormy.” Exactly how I felt. I still can’t believe what happened next. A dolphin poked its head out and I swear it talked to us, chirping and trilling the way dolphins do. Like Flipper.  “Can you imagine if Dan had been here for that?” Jeanne said. “He would have gotten the video.” Yeah. Another bitter reminder that we would never meet up in some anchorage, never share drinks on our boats, and never again swap sailing tales, which was a crying shame because Dan would have loved the stories from this trip already. Mainsail rip, surprise squall, diesel blowing a belt in dense fog, bum boat making us re-anchor in the middle of the night, anchor taking a dive and Jeanne rescuing it. And a god-damned talking dolphin. * The morning air was still again the next day, a wall of humidity despite the forecast for moderate westerly breezes. We raised the sails anyway and tried to sail. I preferred the quiet, even if the going was slow. Jeanne put on music, some millennial indie junk. I took a nap and let the autopilot drive while Jeanne kept watch. By the time I awoke and checked the charts, I realized we were going nowhere. We would not reach our anchorage before dark unless I turned on the engine. They say the gods laugh at sailors’ plans, and I was beginning to think somebody on Mount Olympus or wherever was having a party shredding ours. We’d been out nearly a week and should have been 100 miles closer to the Keys by now, somewhere off the Everglades. Instead, we dropped anchor a day’s sail north of Fort Myers. We dropped anchor outside Pelican Bay. The entrance to that lovely, protected harborage is narrow and unnervingly close to shore, nothing to mess with at the end of a long day. Jeanne had been trying to warn me all afternoon about water leaking from the engine, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it when we were underway. Turns out it was more than a drip. Our galley floor was covered in soaked towels – Jeanne sopped up water with every towel on the boat – and the bilge was full. The engine’s cooling pump was shot. Like all good sailors on old boats, I carry parts. But l did not want to spend the next few days playing diesel mechanic. Jeanne poured us a stiff rum and Coke while I ran the bilge pump. We would wait until morning to do another thing. Dan would like that decision. That night I heard the distinctive clicking, ringing and warbling of dolphins, their vibrations bouncing off the hull. It’s an eerie sound until you realize what it is, but even when you know, the sound is strange enough to steal your sleep. I lay in my bunk, trying to understand what they were saying. They are social creatures, like people. They need each other. I wondered if Jeanne was hearing the same thing in the V-berth. She likes the breeze up there and she says she feels claustrophobic in the wide stern berth where I sleep. I get it. It has a low ceiling. Sit up too fast and you’ll hit your head. I called out: “Hear that, Jeanne? Honey?” She didn’t answer. At sunrise, sipping my coffee in the cockpit, I felt a breeze tickle the back of my neck – more wind than we’d seen in days. I licked my finger to judge the direction. Southerly. On our nose if we kept going. “You know what,” I said to Jeanne, “with this wind, we could be home in 24 hours.” “In time for Dan’s party,” she said. Our eyes met. She nodded. She didn’t need to say it. I knew I should be there. “But can we go with the engine like that?” she asked. I shrugged. “People have been sailing without motors for thousands of years,” I said. “I think I can fix it enough to work if we need it, but we’ll have to sail.” “Let’s sail, then.” * We tacked out the channel and turned north. When we raised the main, the boat lurched forward and flew as if it had wings. We slept in shifts for a day and a night as that blissful southeast wind filled our sails. The sea was smooth. The sun shone. We laughed and sang along to old 70s rock. We rested and read our books, and we never saw another dolphin until we tied off at our home dock. And then, the minute I stepped off the boat, a huge one breached, his port-side eye gleaming. I swear I saw that thing smile. * I wore my Hawaiian sailboat-print shirt and flip-flops to a sandy-shoes bar in Madeira Beach for Dan’s “celebration of life.” I still didn’t want to go. But it felt right to be among Dan’s friends in a bar he loved listening to a guy with a guitar playing Buffet. “I just got home from the worst sailing trip of my life,” I said to start my toast. “There was no wind or too much wind and everything broke. But the last day, coming back here, was the best sailing of my life. I don’t know where you are, Dan-My-Man, but you sure let me know where you wanted me to be.” Dan’s sister Donna cradled a white cardboard box in her lap through all the toasts. Inside were four bottles of gray ash. She handed one to me. “You know what to do with this.” “I do.” Dan was supposed to be laid to rest near his mom up in Maine – among the wildflowers, not in the sea. “Good thing I’ll be in the ground,” he said, his mouth curling the way it did when he was about to make a joke. “Water’s too damn cold. I’d freeze to death.” He thought people who were buried in one place had it all wrong, though. He also wanted his ashes in the Gulf, where the water is always warm. It wasn’t like he knew he was dying, but somehow he’d made his wishes known. Another vial was for his second ex-wife because he said she never wanted anything to do with him when he was alive. She loved him, though, you could tell. She cried when Donna gave her the vial. “Where’s the fourth bottle going?” I asked. “Where do you think?” Donna said. Could only be one place. Dan had to join the sailors and drinkers at Mile 0, end of the road. “He wanted to be sprinkled over the meditation labyrinth in the Key West Botanical Garden,” Donna said. “He liked the view.”  “I’m surprised he didn’t ask you to hide him in a bar,” Jeanne said. * A week later, we sailed out of Clearwater pass at sunset, engine repaired and humming, with Donna and a few others aboard. We passed around a bottle of Flor de Caña rum, each of us taking a swig for Dan. When the dolphins appeared, as I knew they would, I turned into the wind. The mainsail flapped as Jeanne tossed white rose petals from the stern. I lifted the top off the vial and let Dan’s ashes swirl upward. He landed amid those petals. At that moment, a dolphin snorted and dove into the slurry, pulling Dan into the deep, to rest at last.

fdapkc

Breezeborne

     Red. All red, beneath that bright burning sky, pale sun and wisps of cloud, pink as the light of day began to slip beneath the horizon. Still and dead, scorched brick scrub in rusty sand, cracked copper ground which crumbled under aching feet, skin blistered and peeling as the traveler moved, kicking up dust with the toes of too-small sandals.          The straps of the battered old army pack cut crimson stripes into narrow shoulders, and the thorns of bush plants swiped and clawed at thin ankles; a tattered and too-big T-shirt of khaki, mud-spattered, still hung on by its constituent threads, bearing upon it those dried stains of maroon and bronze.          Long lost was any sense of time, any enumeration of sunrises, any accounting of chill nights spent coiled in the scrub beneath the thick woolen blanket, any concept of how many miles had worn thin the sole of one remaining sandal, the other long gone, a cosmic sacrifice for a drink of warm dirty water which flowed from a hot metal pipe above a pit in the ground.          All that remained now was that bag, that blanket, and that wind, that hot brassy wind which blew at his back, driving him ever onward through the endless days of late December—because to stop, to rest, was to die.          He kept on. And after a night’s kip beside a dried lakebed, he pushed himself to his torn and bloodied feet, stuffing that raggedy old blanket into his bag. And it was on this day, of all days, that before him he found an edifice of umber stone, sat lonely amongst the desiccated spinifex, its wraparound front porch smiling to him as if in greeting.          He recalled houses, though it had been years since he had seen one. Years spent inside that chicken wire enclosure in the GAFA, beneath dreary canvas strung over bowing poles, in grey concrete halls which echoed with the heavy sounds of boots, the ring of shouts at all hours of the day, the dry creaking of weary tears spent deep into debt.          Nothing remained to him except to walk on, though he pleaded with his legs to run , with his arms to fly . For out back of this home stood a water tank for mottled brown hens which gabbled and strutted within a fenced run, and out front sat a rusty old ute, and often enough he had seen Corporal McHenry drive the one on the joint base—surely it couldn’t be that hard.          He had nearly reached the vehicle when it happened: a small voice called out to him, and he stopped, his bag raised overhead to be thrown into the dusty bed, his blood grown instantaneously cold within his veins, as if he might freeze beneath that savage sun.          “Young man! What d’you think you’re doing?”          Slowly, his heart in his stomach, he turned—and there upon that porch stood an elderly woman and frail, white clouds of curly hair framing a lined and sun-browned face, and at her hip, leveled and readied, she held a double-barreled shotgun.          He did not think; he only threw up his hands, dropping the bag to his side, and a cloud of dust swirled around his bare ankles, striped burgundy by myriad cuts from the dead and dying brush. “Sorry, sorry,” he said quickly, his voice quaking and cracking, no more than a boy’s voice. “Didn’t reckon anyone was about. ‘S awful hot out, innit, and—”          “And this is no place for you,” the woman said, and the barrel of the shotgun wavered in the air, as if the weapon itself might be unsure. “Where’ve you come from, lad?”          Pine Gap, I’ve come from Pine Gap, from the place God forgot, from cold concrete and hot pain and that bloody chair, from—          “Dunno,” he said shortly, turning his head away, flinching from the dying fire in the old woman’s eyes.          She considered him for a long moment, but he could not bring himself to raise his head—she hadn’t fired, and that was enough to cause him to pick up his bag.          “I’ll, er—I’ll just be gettin’ on, then. Sorry to’ve—”          “And where d’you reckon you’re going?”          He paused. Laughed, madly, for the question was one which he could not answer, for he knew of no city upon this continent, no world beside the one within those fences. “Dunno,” he said again.          And now he braved a glance at her. The shotgun hung at her side, and a smile which was half a frown had knitted itself across her aged brow, softening the shape of her face into a painting of sympathy, of sadness. She lay the gun down across the arms of a wicker rocking chair, which wobbled to and fro for a moment before falling still.          “You can’t be serious,” she said. “My darling, you’re—what—thirteen? Running away from home?”          Home. Dunno what that is, ‘cept to say as I ain’t never had one.          “I’ve got a phone. Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll ring your mum?”          His mouth gone dry, he shook his head; her face fell, and for a wild instant, he thought that she might run to him, for what cause he did not know. He gathered his wits and sought to find his feet beneath him, and yet, somehow, he seemed to be rooted to the spot, his body given up, given over to the weariness of endless days baked in the sun.          “Nah, I—I don’t reckon I’ve got one of them, ma’am.”          Words so true had scarcely escaped him; they burned within his throat, within his heart. And yet it was not for his mother that aching tears sprang to his eyes, but for a boy—a young and kindly boy, whose blood stained his ratty clothing and whose image was burnt upon his mind, pale eyes and russet hair, pink palms of brown hands outstretched in supplication, his face the color of tanned leather, skinny, twisted in shame and fear. And now all that remained of the boy were the dark stains upon his shirt—once life, but now little more than a reminder of what once had been.          “The, er... the next town over,” he said, his voice quite small. He cleared his throat. “Would you kindly—?”          “You’re a ways off,” said the old woman, and suddenly she was approaching him, her voice soft, as if a gentle entreaty to a wounded animal. “Alice. Twenty miles or thereabouts to the north.” She paused, considering him, his bag, and then the ute, and let out a sigh. “I’ll give you a lift, love. You’ll need a change of clothes, mind; reckon some of my husband’s old things might fit.”          He hesitated, glanced down at his shabby old shirt, and swallowed thickly, disinclined to do away with the memory, with that patch of dirty auburn which was all that he had left. But by the time he could conjure up words, her hand was upon his arm—dainty, delicate, and silk-soft. Reluctantly, he followed her up the single step and onto the sun-bleached wooden porch, and for a moment, she paused to collect her shotgun, to let it hang harmless at her side from one sun-tanned hand as the other came to rest at the small of his back.          At the threshold, she paused, the door opening onto a pleasant and pastel home, with cool air which soothed his sunburnt skin; though it was lit by the gentle glow of a reading lamp in the corner, it was dark as a dungeon to his weary eyes, and at once, he longed to crawl inside, to burrow into the floorboards, to sleep, fearing neither the dingoes nor the other wild animals—those who called themselves men, those who had for so long kept him as game.          “And, er... where d’you reckon you’re off to, after Alice?”          “Dunno. Might as well ask where it is the wind goes.”

bg2aeg

Received Pronunciation

The squall came out of nowhere. No warning, no forecast from the radio weather stations. Just a full-on headwind smashing waves against Roger Sailstrom’s face, who desperately clung onto the tiller of his small boat in the middle of a raging storm sweeping across the Atlantic Ocean. “Is that the best you can do?” He half-heartedly screamed at the elements through the increasing roar of wind bearing down on his position. “Well, I can take anything you dish out, because I have nothing to live for! Do you hear me? Nothing to live for!” His over-dramatically drenched words were drowned out by a huge splash of water across his face and torso, physically surprising the lone sailor, who reactively coughed and spluttered his objection to the gale force of nature answering his challenge. “I dare you to best that!” He unconvincingly screamed through a surrounding crack of rolling thunder. “I’ve sailed the seven seas through storm and shine,” he unashamedly postured, while his small yacht keeled from port to starboard and back again. “Nothing you can do will defeat me,” he quietly growled, before suddenly recoiling from something impacting his left cheek. “OW!” he winced. “What the fuck was that?” Roger looked around for his assailant, but before he could protest further, another impact slapped his left cheek, causing him to release control of the tiller. “STOP!” He complained – waving an arm for attention. “TONY?” “CUT!” Came a voice to his right. “Kill mechanics, Kill sound effect. Kill Green Screen! Kill deluge!” On command, silence took over the preceding storm’s roar, as the stage-mounted boat halted its rocking, the wind generator desisted its howl, and water drained through the set floor into an underground cistern. Then, with the flick of a switch, overhead lights downcast their illumination, leaving the green set background in shadow. “What is it, dear?” The director’s camp voice frustratingly enquired.” “My face,” Roger replied. “What about it?” “Something hit it… twice!” “Roger, we’ve been through this in rehearsal, darling. The script calls for realism. Your character must appear to be in dire circumstances – hit full on by powerful waves washing over the boat. It is nature challenging your character’s experienced nautical skills. You’re sailing into a hurricane, luv. It’s not a leisurely Sunday punt around the Serpentine in Hyde Park.” “No, this felt like a slap. Two slaps! I can feel my face getting red.” “Would you like us to ease up with the buckets of water, dear?” “It wasn’t water. It felt more like the palm of a hand.” “Okay, let’s ask the question, then, shall we? Green Screen Actors!” Tony ordered them to attention. “Show yourselves, please!” Several live figures previously camouflaged in green full-body suits and hoods, stepped away from their veiled positions in front of the backdrop. “Now, sweeties. Did any of you hit Roger here with a water bucket?” “It wasn’t a bucket, Tony!” Roger abruptly corrected. “It was distinctly a hand.” “Okay,” Tony acknowledged. “Did anyone slap Roger during that take? Anyone? No?” Three of the four figures shook their cloaked heads, but one of them raised an arm in admittance to the deed. “Well, please be more careful, okay, darling?” Tony pleadingly advised. “We can’t afford to waste any further time on this scene. We’re running out of warm water and it’s getting late in the day. I don’t recommend using cold water because - excuse the pun - it casts a damper on things. I realise you’re all tired, but stay professional, people. Now, places everyone! You too, Roger.” Returning to their set positions, Roger and the green screen actors awaited the familiar movie call to action. However, Tony thought it best to give a quick reminder of the scene’s motivating factor to his principal actor. “Remember, Roger. Your character is on his last legs. His willpower is drained, his desire to live is almost non-existent. The love of his life tragically died in a boating accident, and with her ashes on board, he is attempting to fulfil her quest to sail the Atlantic single-handedly. It’s do or die . We need to see that in your body language and hear it in your voice. Be that sailor, Roger, okay? Make us feel the emotion. Make us fear the danger. The audience want you to succeed, but I’m not currently feeling it. Got it?” “Loud and clear,” Roger acknowledged. “Steadfast and ruggedly determined, now. Okay?” “Aye aye, Tony.” Staying in character, Roger spoke in nautical terms to his director. “Full speed ahead, Skipper.” It was method acting at its most unconvincing. “Right, then!” Tony directed. “Let’s get house lights off, green screen lit up, rocking boat mechanics activated, green buckets filled. Here we go, everyone! Cue storm sound, cue water, wind generator on full. Lights! Yes, that’s good. Take it from, is that the best you can do . Okay, Roger?” Roger gave a thumbs-up reply as he cricked his neck from side to side, while shaking his arms loosely, attempting to prepare for the re-take. “Cameras ready…?” Tony yelled into open space. The assistant cameraperson held up an open clapperboard in front of the main camera and announced, “ Across Nautilus, Scene One, Take Seven ,” before clapping the board shut. Tony took a final look into the several monitors recording the multi-camera shoot. Satisfied everything was ready to go, he leaned forward in his chair and initiated the new take. “And… action!” Like an overeager racehorse, Roger hurriedly launched into his lines as a flood of water continued to soak him through. Struggling for motivation, his delivery lacked the correct level of emotion and sincerity, as the script approached the point of his character’s defining defiance. “ Nothing you can do will defeat me,” he mumbled incoherently, before he once again recoiled in pain. “OW! OW! OW!” “CUT!” Tony intervened. “What is it now, Roger?” “Somebody fucking slapped me again… Three times, this time!” “Who slapped Roger?” Tony demanded to know, trying to sound more butch. “Step forward, please.” “ It should have been me ,” a muffled male voice complained in an educated, Oxford accent. “What’s that?” Tony asked - as his eyes searched for the confessing culprit. “I said, it should have been me!” The voice repeated more distinctly. “What should have?” Asked Tony. “The fucking part!” Was the reply from the green-hooded actor breaking character. “He only got it because of who he knows.” “To whom are you referring, darling?” Tony asked in true grammatical context. “The fucking casting director,” came the educated bitter reply. “Look,” said Tony. “We can’t allow our principal actor to be assaulted on the set.” “Where can I assault him, then?” “Perhaps it’s best for all parties that you just leave, okay?” “But I’m contracted for the week.” “Not any longer, luv.” Tony asserted. “Security, please escort this person off my stage with immediate effect.” On command, two burly-looking men dressed in black trousers and polo tops took an arm each, then dragged the green-clad anonymous extra from the studio - all the while, continuing his tirade of foul-mouthed abuse toward the movie’s star, yelling, “I’m Shakespearean trained! He’s nothing but a common East End soap actor at best!” Assured that the set was firmly back under his control, Tony clapped his hands to signify his intention to continue. “Chop chop, everyone! Time is of the essence. Please ignore that dramatic interruption. We can get through this with the remaining - what is it, three? Yes, three green screen actors. Just double-up on the buckets, darlings. Where’ve you gone, luvs? I don’t see you. Can you please step forward for clarification that you are still here and not gone back to make-up?” Confirming their presence, the three remaining obscured actors took a step forward, waved, then disappeared back into the green scenery. “Thank you for that, darlings. Roger, dear. Who was that angry person?” “Dunno. Sounded like a disgruntled actor.” “Aren’t you all, darling. You’re either complaining that you’re not getting seen for a role, and if you do get a call, you complain that the part’s not big enough, or worthy of your talents. Just be thankful that you’re a working actor and not a jobbing one.” “What’s the difference?” “Ask me again when you’re treading the red carpet and soaking up the attention at the premiere. Now, places everyone! Let’s try this again! And Roger, we need you to convince us that you’re fighting for your life. Deep breaths, darling.” Attacking the scene once again, Roger re-assumed his character’s plight, as Tony took it upon himself to shout line-by-line directions at the inexperienced actor. “ Nothing you can do will defeat me ,” Roger crassly bellowed out. “Cue fire hose!” Yelled Tony, prompting a massive barrel of water to assault the boat on the port side. On cue, the boat tipped to starboard. “That’s it, Roger,” continued Tony. “React to that massive wave knocking you over the side, like you’ve been bitch-slapped by a tuna fish.” Following directions, Roger’s dramatically delayed roll across the forward deck, spilled him overboard, clinging onto the metal safety rail by his fingertips. “Hold on, Roger!” Directed Tony. “Camera Three, close on those fingers slowly losing their grip, like our hero’s hold on life is gradually slipping away.” Confirming the shot in one of his monitors, Tony needed to check on Roger’s positioning with the on-set post-production specialist. “VFX Supervisor! Are we in sync?” The VFX specialist checked their monitor. Overseeing filming, the VFX role ensures that what is happening on set, lines up with the post-production plan, saving potential over-budget re-shoots or headaches in editing. “ In sync ,” a distant female yell confirmed. “Possibly, a little high on the wire,” the voice added. “Wire operator,” Tony spoke into a small walkie-talkie attached to his director’s utility vest. “Please lower Roger ten centimetres.” “ Lowering !” came the reply over the walkie-talkie before Roger’s position physically dipped. “VFX?” “ Perfect !” “Okay, Roger! Time for the big quote that will get the audience recalling this scene for generations… Remember. With gusto! Hold… and… cue line!” With the adeptness of an overweight gymnast, Roger raised himself a little higher for his close-up. Coming into view, a drone camera hovered in front of his face - filling the widescreen monitor with his method-determined expression. Staring into the lens through matted hair and a near-drowning face, he took in a deep breath of air into his lungs. His mouth agape and ready to convey his character’s memorable line, a voice off-stage beat him to it. “ Ne’er the angriest tempest nor the call of the deep, will ever take me before I sleep !” “CUT!” Yelled a frustrated Tony. “Who is the idiot that just ruined the only scene that might save this rotten tomato of a performance?” “ It should have been me !” A familiar voice rang through the set. “How did you get back in here?” Tony angrily asked. “Through the door,” the unknown actor replied. “How else would I get in?” “What the hell do you think you are playing at, luv?” “This role should have been mine.” “You’ve already established that motive, and why you think Roger was awarded it. I didn’t cast his role. That was the sole responsibility of the casting department.” “Yes, who he repeatedly slept with; I hear.” “Who did he sleep with?” “All of them.” “There’s three women, one male, and I believe a non-binary person in that department, darling. Which one did he sleep with?” “All of them, I said.” The indignant reply caused Tony to pause and flash Roger a questioning, raised eyebrow. Roger’s response was to simply smile and shrug his shoulders without admitting or denying the alleged acts of promiscuous nepotism. “Darling,” Tony commented. “You need to learn to keep your indiscretions in your own pants and not in others.” “Wasn’t my idea. Quoting you, Tony, It was do or die on the promise of a long career in movies. I’m known only for game show hosting on tv. I didn’t realise what it would cost to get into film.” “You obviously liked it,” the hooded actor flippantly commented. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gone back for more.” “Roger?” Tony suggestively enquired in a hesitating and doubting tone. A wry smile creeped across Roger’s face, mirroring Tony’s expression. “The frolic of youth, mate.” “You’re in your late-thirties, luv. You’re no spring chicken.” “I say!” Shouted the hooded actor. “What about me?” “What about you?” Tony dismissively answered. “I was promised this role before Mister Spread-Them-Wide here wore out the casting couch.” “Is that right,” Tony once again dismissed the interloper. “I have a signed contract to prove it.” “Show me.” “Does it look like this skin-tight costume is hiding anything more than my blushes?” “Throw him out, Tony,” Roger sneakily suggested. “And let’s get back to work.” “You’re nothing but a hack actor!” The hooded assailant spat. “You were terrible in Breaking Bone and so awful in Jimbo goes to school that it went straight to streaming. Even bypassed marketing, such was it a foul story and equally amateurish performance.” “I’ll have you know,” Roger countered. “That streaming is the new format. Cinema is dead.” “Thank you for that, Roger.” Tony snapped. “I’m sure everyone who has spent years perfecting their skills in the movie industry, will appreciate your insightful opinion.” “Well, it’s true.” “It should have been me!” “You know, darling. I’m inclined to believe you, but filming has already started.” “It’s only the first scene, no?” “Yes, but the budget is very tight.” “One take is all I need. One take is all I ever need.” “Yeah, right.” Roger’s doubting tone interrupted the train of thought. “Not with Tony directing and yelling in your ear like a nagging wife. Do it this way, do it that way. Be more convincing . It’s enough to put anyone’s concentration out of focus.” “Yes, well,” retorted Tony. “Perhaps, you’re better suited to extra work, luv.” Turning to the still green-hooded actor, Tony had an idea. “How about I offer you a live audition, Mr…?” “James. Jordi James.” “You can’t be serious, Tony,” Roger protested. “Consider it the new streaming way of tv directing, luv.” “That’s ridiculous. I was only pointing out that..” “..That we’re all nothing but advertisement fillers, like Swedish taxis, I suppose.” “I don’t understand.” “Rowan Atkinson, Roger. Now, his character, Mr. Bean, is perfect for television audiences. Very clever concept to minimise dialogue and replace it with slapstick exposition. Physical comedy, darling. Translatable to any language. An instant success on the global syndication marketplace.” “I still don’t follow.” “Swedish taxis show constant video commercials to its passengers, interspersed with sketches of Mr. Bean. Five minutes of commercials, then two minutes of Mr. Bean.” “Sorry, still lost.” “Cinema is dead, you say. So, according to you, that just makes what we’re doing here seem like simple taxi filler.” “I didn’t mean it that way.” “I blame it all on your mates in the casting department, darling.” “What?” “They went over my head to the producers. Said you were perfect for the role. I’d seen your other work. Mediocre, at best. I mean, any talking primate can say, Let’s spin the wheel ! Imagine my surprise when I was told that you were cast in my movie without me being consulted. Quite honestly, I’ve never had to give so much direction to one actor in any of my films.” “Yeah, well if the script had a bit more detail in it, I wouldn’t need to second-guess my motivation. Who wrote this drivel, anyway?” “That would be me, darling… Right, you’ve just decided it for me. Jordi, would you please take up position on the boat? We’ll go straight into the big quote. I’m dying to hear you project your wonderful RP onto our humble set.” “Delighted to,” Jordi excitedly replied. “Should I report to costume?” “No need, darling. We’ll do a live run-through, while the water’s still warm. If it all goes well, we’ll wrap for the day, then tomorrow, we’ll pick it up from the beginning.” “What’s RP?” Roger ignorantly enquired. “ Received Pronunciation , luv. It separates the real actors from the thirty-minute serials. Think Ben Kingsley, Helen Mirren, or Jeremy Irons. A different level to mindlessly reciting What’s inside box number two , darling. No wonder you only lasted one season.” As Jordi headed toward the boat, a disheartened Roger sat himself into a foldout chair, instantly annoying Tony. “You’re in my chair, luv. Look at the name printed on it. Says, Director , yes? That’s me. Why don’t you go prop yourself up against the wall at the back with the interns.” “What about my contract?” “Director’s prerogative, darling. You’re fired! Ready Jordi?” “Ready!” “And… action!” “ Ne’er the angriest tempest nor the call of the deep, will ever take me before I sleep !” “CUT! Absolutely perfect, darling. What a pleasure to work with a professional again! Six-thirty call tomorrow everyone! Before we go, Jordi, could you please indulge me and recite these words for me?” Jordi’s face reflected slight confusion as Tony whispered in his ear. “Are you sure?” Jordi questioned. “I just want to make a point,” Tony gently explained. “Roger? I want you to hear this. Go ahead, Jordi.” Taking a deep breath, Jordi let out the most beautiful dulcet tone of voice, as he complied with Tony’s request. “ Let’s spin the wheel! ” He exhaled with such a great tonal quality, that it stopped everyone in their tracks, causing them to turn and applaud the meaningless line, before leaving the set. “Gorgeous, Jordi. Enchantingly captivating. Simply, music to an old queen’s battered ears. Received Pronunciation , Roger. R.P. You master that, and words will be the only thing you’ll ever need in your mouth at auditions.” In a huff, Roger barged his way through some of the crew exiting the set, and quickly disappeared. With a renewed air of optimism, Tony gently patted Jordi’s shoulders. “My assistant will escort you over to costume, Jordi. Wear anything but green, tomorrow…”  

vvxyjk

Sticks and Twine

It was a balmy midmorning on the cusp of spring and summer, the air smelling of magnolia wood and blooming jasmine, and Yelena was sweating. Her pale arms were starting to redden from the light sun, and she kept having to pull her skirt, sticky with sweat and river water, away from her knees. The warm months in the nation of Xinzihua were unfamiliar, her body having long acclimated to the permafrost of her home country, forcing her to spend the first two summers of her new life cooped up in a dark room with a cold drink in reach. When she had insisted that, since she was now thirteen and practically an adult, it was time to brave the weather and spend the coming season outside, her adoptive father nearly fainted. That morning, he scurried her out the door with a bright smile as she met with her cousins, chattering on about how much fun she was going to have on this lovely, sunny day. She thought it strange that he was tearing up as he watched her travel down the street, but the thought quickly fell away as the four children raced down the craggy path to the river, heaping wicker baskets in tow. Yelena stood in the knee-deep marsh, the basket of soggy clothes dripping a mixture of river water and laundry soap onto her shoulder. On her head was a tangled crown of silky white flowers she had woven idly, some of the fallen petals caught in her unruly curls. Underfoot was a trampled, branchy bunch of those same flowers that weren’t pretty enough to be used, whose stems she had snapped out of boredom as she watched Lianhua sling a freshly washed bed sheet over the clothesline. Both Jiabo and Shuchang were still in the river, the older boy listlessly rinsing a basket of his clothing with only the occasional dramatic sigh. Her gaze, however, was fixed on Shuchang and his scrunched, focused expression as he bound a flat bed of sticks together. The gentle sloshing of the surrounding water drowned out his grumbles as she watched, her eyes glazing over as she wondered what he was building, and what kind of trouble he was going to cause with it once done. Lianhua waded over, tired of waiting for her younger cousin, and hoisted the basket off her shoulder, clicking her fingers in front of Yelena’s face with her free hand. “What’s wrong? You’re zoning out, and your father told me that something’s wrong when you zone out.” She said, trying to snap the girl out of her trance. It didn’t work; her eyes were still glassy and her mouth was opened in a puzzled grimace. Again, she snapped her fingers in front of her cousin’s face before Yelena pointed at the boy, whose foot held the bed of sticks firmly in place as he pulled a section of rope taught, neither of their focus wavering. “What is Shu doing ?” Lianhua pushed up her glasses with the crook of her elbow, sighing as she wrung out and hung up a shirt to dry. She didn’t even look over at her brother. “Probably something he shouldn’t be. Come on, help me hang these up.” Yelena nodded, a bit disengaged as she climbed onto a stump, helping her with the chore, her mind wandering. Occasionally, she snapped her head back to the sound of rushing water and the dislodging of rock, only for Lianhua to bring her attention back with an exasperated huff. The sun rose as morning shifted to noon, and the lines were filled with a rainbow of wet garments, bedsheets, and lonely socks that flapped in the light breeze. Yelena, her crown of flowers made pulpy with sweat and water, stacked an empty laundry basket on top of another, and flopped down on the ground. She let out an exhausted breath, her tired eyes trailing over to the boy in the water once again. Even from her spot in the misty grass, the expression of pride on his face was clear; whatever it was that he was building, it was almost finished. The scent of earth and clean linen overtook the blooming greenery of spring, and little bubbles of soap floated upstream. Jiabo sat down next to her, squeezing the water out of the front of his shirt and the ends of his hair as he stared blankly at the river ahead. Just like her, he was watching Shuchang. His eyebrows creased together in both concern and curiosity, his fingers absentmindedly twirling a piece of grass. The two of them sat there for quite some time, waiting, watching, staining their fingertips green as the sunburn on Yelena’s shoulders grew hot to the touch. Finally, as the sun hung high in the sky, the boy stood up straight with his fists on his hips. “Done! Hey, hey, everyone, come look!” Shuchang waved his arms wildly, his foot still holding the bed in place as the children scurried to the riverside, peering at whatever it was that he was gesturing at. Their faces contorted into a shared confused look on their faces, and Lianhua wiped off her glasses. ”What even is that?” Jiabo asked with a tinge of fear in his voice. Shuchang beamed, an expression that usually meant he was up to no good. ”It’s a sailboat!” Lianhua sighed heavily, as she often did when her brother spoke, and cleaned her glasses again. Maybe some of his madness was finally rubbing off on her, and she was starting to hallucinate. In her mind, she begged the Goddess to either make this whole scene a vivid hallucination, a sign that she needed new lenses, or an elaborate dream. Yet, when she slid them back on her nose, the view was all the same: Shuchang had decided that, instead of helping with two households worth of laundry, he would build a raft. This was reality, and she groaned: “What in the world are we going to do with a boat ? Shuchang gave her a pointed look, “That’s a really stupid question, Li. It’s for sailing, of course; what else would it be for? Quilting?” The three of them stared at the raft, utterly befuddled, at each other, and back at the raft. It was shambly at best, crafted out of thinning twigs that he’d stuffed into a pack instead of collecting firewood, and some twine that he traded for three coins and a small tin of mints. Some reeds from the banks were tied there, too. The river’s current was in the process of sweeping it away, which was probably for the best, but Shuchang wedged it firmly between the rocks with his heel. There the poor boat suffered, bobbing up and down wherever it could in a feeble attempt to escape. However, it stayed firmly planted in between the rocks and the young man’s foot, and Jiabo swore he could hear it begging for either mercy or death. ”That doesn’t look very safe.” Yelena muttered. It was obvious, but she felt like someone needed to say it. “Chang, the middle part is bending . I don’t think it'll stay afloat under your weight, much less all four of ours.” “Sure it will! It’s our very own, reliable, trusty sailboat, after all.” “Without a sail?” Lianhua smirked. Shuchang stuttered, the heat rising to his face as he waded over to the clotheslines, yanking down one of their mother’s nicest, still-damp skirts. He went back out to the raft, quickly erected a mast with a large stick, and tied the skirt like a flag around it. The wind picked up, ruffling the fabric in silky waves, and he stood in awe of his handiwork. He whipped back around, smiling pointedly at his sister, who only rolled her eyes. “There. We have our own special sail, just like real seamen. Now climb aboard, everyone, and we’ll be back from the other side of the world before supper!”, he whooped, hopping on top of his handmade boat with a pale flag of embroidered cranes, motioning his reluctant family over. They didn’t budge, only staring at him bewilderedly until he scowled. ”Come on! If you all aren’t going to join me on my adventure, I’ll go by myself!” Not keen on the idea of Shuchang going on a solo journey, especially one down a river, the children lumbered past the waterside foliage onto the boat. It was larger than it appeared to be from the banks and, despite its rickety appearance, was rather sturdy. The wood was still stripping and the twine still looked cheap, but it was at least able to hold them all up in the shallow water. Their hastily mounted flag swayed and dried in the wind, the waistband still dripping. Yelena settled herself, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the raft, marveling at the moss-coated rocks under the bleary water. As it often did, her mind wandered. She thought about what it would be like to spend days, months, years at sea in a real boat, not just one made of sticks; to sail in water that you couldn’t see the bottom of, and to conquer waves as big as a house. A pang of recognition settled in her heart as she looked over her shoulder, lips pursing quizzically. ”Jiabo, was Aunt Guiying a fisherman-woman before she had Qixuan?” “Mom? Yes, she was, but her crew never went past the Tao Estuary. Fishing isn’t much of a woman’s job, though, especially out in the ocean.” She hummed, satisfied as her cousins sat on opposite sides, hoping that the balanced weight would keep them from sinking. Of course, nothing was guaranteed, and Liahua muttered another prayer that was cut off by a sharp yelp. Shuchang kicked the dam of rocks free, and a gust of wind shoved them forward. Yelena lurched forward, Jiabo’s arm being the only thing between her and the water, and she shoved her feet in the space between two sticks. She scuttled back as a spray of water splashed her and Lianhua, before crawling back to the edge. The three of them shared surprised grunts and groans as they repositioned, wrung out, and wiped themselves down, their captain seemingly unperturbed by the sudden swell as he watched the sail. Around them, the waves surged. A thin layer of seafoam swished, disappearing and returning in an erratic rhythm, not unlike the laundry soap bubbles resting peacefully in the reeds a few feet away. Shuchang pulled a folded map of the world from his satchel, running a finger in a path from the skinny creek where they did their laundry into the ocean. He looked over at his older brother as if thanking him for the idea and held the parchment up for everyone to see. Not wanting to move from their steadying positions, the children craned their necks as far as their bones allowed. “I bet we could go to the estuary, too. Then, we’ll sail out to the Qiuyue Sea, and then we’ll be in the ocean like real sailors. Maybe we can float all the way to the Belgar Peninsula; I learned about it in my geography lessons.” He said, tracing a line across the inked waters, landing on the illustrated port, “We could buy some goat’s wool from the farms there, too. It’s thicker because it’s always snowing in the mountains there, and I think Mama would make good sweaters out of it.” “Do you think I could trade some fancy goat’s wool for some of Mrs. Wei’s plums?” Jiabo hummed, pinching his lower lip. “You could give Mrs. Wei your left hand and she wouldn’t even let you breathe in the direction of her plums!” His sister chuckled, cleaning the river water off of her glasses. The children burst into a peal of laughter, tossing jabs at their neighbor as the wind carried them upstream. Yelena clutched the edge of the boat as she leaned over, feeling the coarse and sturdy wood against her fingertips, as she stared into the water. Fish, with their tawny scales and muddled green fins, raced past the rocks beneath them. Her eyes were trained on their slim, wriggling bodies as they swam onward, their gills swaying and flapping against the current. She dipped her hand near a school of small, almost black ones, and they scattered beneath her fingers. A small, surprised noise escaped her lips at their retreat, and she smiled. In her home nation, long, flowing rivers were rare. The only fish she had ever seen were in small, deep ponds beneath the ice, and they were far more skittish than the ones joining them on their adventure. “Do you want to be a fisherman like your mama, Chang? You could build your own boat and spend all year at sea, catching all sorts of fish, and then you could bring them back to sell or eat.”, Yelena mused, trying to pet a thick, brown paddlefish. The young helmsman’s expression soured as he leaned boyishly against the mast. “A fisherman? No way, I hate fish!” “Then why did you steal my helping of shrimp congee this morning?” Lianhua retorted, pushing her glasses back up on her nose. ”Shrimp aren’t fish.” He scoffed in return. Their eyes, filled with ire, locked as if they were sworn enemies. ”They’re seafood.” ”But they aren’t fish. Not all seafood is fish, Lianhua. They’re little sea bugs, I think.” “They are not!” ”They are—“ ”The estuary!” Yelena pointed to the wide mouth of the river—which was on their opposite side. The argument dropped like a dead bird from the sky. Shuchang, who had been standing proudly by the mast, cried out as he fell to his knees, paddling his hands in the water. ”No, no, no! We’re going the wrong way! ” A wave of panic crashed over the children as they piled on one edge of their sailboat, fighting both the current and the wind, which only seemed to get stronger. The raft started to tip forward, the edge of the sticks running into a school of green bass, and Yelena leaped to the other side, wrangling the skirt off the mast. She jumped as the raft slammed against a wall of jagged stone, sending her just high enough to tug it down as her family’s howling filled the air, but she was quickly knocked down as the river crashed around them. Just like it had in the morning, the air smelled richly of magnolia wood, jasmine, and freshwater. It blew unforgivingly, sending the poor raft bounding The sailboat careened downstream, not up, crashing against boulders and scratching shallow gravel. Shuchang got green in the face, Lianhua wrapped her glasses in her skirt as she and Yelena prayed loudly, and Jiabo tried to take the mast down. Once again, he was sent flying as a sharp wave smacked against the stern. The noise he made as he clung onto the stick, splinters embedding in his fingers, would be considered very embarrassing in typical circumstances. As the rushing of water got louder and shallower, the ground became rockier, and the thin layer of seafoam settled. The four children, soaking wet and shaking with adrenaline, used slivers from the twigs as makeshift oars, cursing at the sweet, strong wind as it carried them along the stream. Yelena clung to the mast, cramming her feet in between the rocks underneath in a feeble attempt to stop the boat before the rapids carried them away. Their sail thrashed, as if the embroidered cranes were trying to escape from the fabric, and the wind was deafening. The water rushed. The seafoam stirred. The waves sprayed. ” Waterfall!” A chorus of screams was silenced by the snapping of wood and a single, heavy, splash. Gasping, they bobbed back up, Yelena on Jiabo’s back, and their mother’s skirt on Lianhua’s head. They looked at each other, at the remains of their sailboat, then back at each other. Shuchang uttered a word that, in any other circumstance, would’ve earned him a firm slap. The sun was setting, casting the sitting room in an elegant orange glow as the scattered clouds gave way to a clear sea of stars. Guiying swayed rhythmically in a rocking chair, darning a sock, wondering why the laundry was taking so long.

j202a5

A windy nightmare

breeze blew lightly against her skin. It was a surprise as it’s been nothing but dry stale air for the last few days. Then suddenly it was like a hurricane was approaching. She only stood 5ft 3inches and all of 80 pounds. Just turned 14 years old and her first day of summer starts with winds so strong trees are collapsing around her. She just wants to make it to the creek it’s always been her safe space. But how can she make it there when this wind could easily knock her off her bike. She grasp her necklace it’s nothing fancy but it’s her favorite stone an Amythist shaped like a heart.  It was a gift from her grandmother. As she wraps her hands around the necklace her hand burns. She pulls her hand off the necklace and the bike crashes into the sidewalk. She falls and cracks her chin open. But she doesn’t even notice the pain or the blood dripping fast down her body. She’s searching for the stone that fell. The nurse from the nearby food processing plant walks out heading towards the burger joint across the street. As the nurse gets closer she realizes she knows this girl. Kat your bleeding we need to get you inside. Hurry come on we have to get the bleeding stopped. Kats not phased by the urgency of the nurse she just wants her stone for her necklace so the necklace can be fixed. I can’t leave yet I need to find the stone it’s gone. She cries my grandma gave it to me. I need to find it. The nurse realizes kats not coming with her until she’s found the stone. So the nurse starts helping her look. The blood continues to pour from kats chin. Suddenly she goes unconscious and falls to the ground hitting her head on the street. Blood now pouring from her head. The nurse yells for help. She can’t leave Kat or she will bleed out before she gets back from calling 911. Quickly thinking the nurse grabs kats backpack looking for anything she can use to stop the blood. A car approaches and the nurse waves them down. This girl needs help now please go call 911 and come back. The car hurriedly heads towards the payphone just about a block or two up the road and dials 911. The people in the red nova come back 911 is on the way they tell the nurse. While searching the back pack she found a few supplies and did makeshift bandages as best as she could. She made a pillow out of a jacket and put it under kats head. Shortly after she placed it under the girls head the ambulance pulled up. They loaded the girl onto the spinal board put a Cspine collar around her neck. And put oxygen on her. They loaded her up and headed to the nearest hospital about 2 miles away. The nurse ran into the processing plant and used her office phone to page kats dad. Immediately he reported to the office. The nurse informed him she had just sent his daughter to the hospital via 911. He clocked out and drove to the hospital. Upon arrival he was told his daughter lost a lot of blood and a transfusion was necessary. He gave the drs the okay to transfuse her. The wait seemed like it was eternal. Finally the drs appeared and informed him we were able to transfuse her. Her head has stitches and so does her chin. She had a few seizures on the operating table but she’s recovering now. We need to keep her here until she’s stable then we want to send her to Portland children’s hospital for further evaluation. We need to make sure there’s no permanent damage to her brain. Her dad agreed. They stayed for about 8 hours and then medics were called to transport to Portland Doerenbechers hospital. Once she’s loaded onto the ambulance her dad gets in his car and starts driving behind them. Lights flashing and sirens blaring they make the 45 mile drive in what seems like about an hour. Her dad watches them unload his babygirl and run her into the children’s hospital. He can’t run as fast as the medics but he stays as close to them as he can. They take her up to the picu. She’s admitted immediately. Her dad gets to her bedside as soon as he can. He sees her wrestling trying to break free. The restraint still in place to keep her head stable. He holds her hand and tells her she’s ok. You will be ok I’m here. Your not alone. Her body calms. He tells her if you can hear me please squeeze my finger. But nothing happens. The monitors start beeping frantically. Her dad knows that sound all to well. He’s heard the tone of her flat lining before from seizing and recovering. God don’t take her now. Her life is just starting please don’t take her now. He pushes the alarm to page the staff. The code blue is called overhead and many people come rushing in. Her dad steps out of the room and falls to his knees praying his babygirl is not taken to soon. The doctors and nurses start cpr and do compressions for about 7 minutes when finally they call out she’s got a pulse. We got her she’s back. The doctor tells the nurse they can bring dad back in. The doctor tells dad we got her back this time. We will be nearby if you need help again don’t hesitate to push the call light. Her vitals return to a good range. Dad falls asleep holding his daughters hand. A few hours pass and her dad wakes up. But he’s in his bedroom back at their apartment. He sits up frantically and runs to his daughters room. She’s sleeping soundly in her bed. It was all just a nightmare. 

wzfma4

Adventure on Lost Island

Timmy Jenkins was a bright little boy with a fascination for sailboats. On his walls were posters and pictures of various kinds of sailboats that inspired him to someday sail the open sea. His dad would buy him model sets and they would stay up late at night gluing together small pieces and painting them vivid colors. So, Timmy thought he knew a thing or two about building a sailboat. Timmy had some tools his grandpa gave him. Old hand tools that didn’t require electricity like a hammer, some screwdrivers, a saw, even a drill. He collected wood from the construction site in town. He took a bed sheet from his mom’s linen closet. He borrowed screws and nails from his dad’s workshop. He carried all those things to the beach where he would build his boat. He spent every day after school, and Saturday, working on building his sailboat. When Timmy was done building his sailboat, it didn’t look anything like the sailboats in his pictures. It was square, like a raft, had four walls, and a sail. He was proud of his sailboat though because it floated and didn't leak. He just had one more thing to do – name it. All the boats he had ever seen or read about had girl names, usually two. He went with his favorite girl, his mom, Bonnie May. He grabbed a can of black paint and wrote it as clearly as he could on the side. Excited to take it sailing, he rushed home and grabbed some things for his trip: a bottle of water to drink, an apple to eat, and a comic book to read. He slid those items in his backpack and ran back down to the beach. There, he untied his sailboat from the tree, got in, and paddled out into the ocean. Once he was far enough out, he raised his sail and let the wind take over. Timmy was so happy to finally be sailing, and in a sailboat be built. He watched the sail fill with air and could feel the saltwater mist spray him in the face as his sailboat skipped along the gentle waves. He giggled to himself and sat down to eat his apple and read his comic book. Once Timmy was done with his apple, he looked back to the shore, but it was gone. He had sailed too far. He wanted to paddle back but didn’t know which way was back. To make things worse, he felt raindrops on his arms and heard thunder. He looked up and the sky was as black as night. A wall of rain was coming straight for him, and it was bringing thunder and lightning with it. The wind blew so hard it ripped Timmy’s sail and it flapped in the wind. The waves were getting bigger, taking him up and down, up, and down, spinning him around. The rain came down harder and the thunder got louder. He was scared. He curled up in a corner of his sailboat and squeezed his eyes shut, as tightly as he could, praying his little sailboat wouldn't sink. Timmy woke up on a beach, his sailboat broken. He was greeted by what looked someone who was half frog and half man. He was as tall as Timmy and had a white beard. He had big flipper-like hands and flipper-like feet. He wore frayed purple shorts and walked hunched over with a staff. He croaked when he talked. His name was Horatio. He told Timmy he could show him how to get home if he followed him back to his house, so Timmy followed him. They came upon a little hut shaped like a mushroom. It was not a crude hut, but rather homely. It had skinny logs for walls and a curved grass roof. Inside was a stone fireplace with some sort of soup cooking, a bed made of moss, and a little wooden table. Along the back wall was a shelf filled with old-looking books. Horatio invited Timmy to sit down and poured him some soup into a wooden bowl. While Timmy ate, Horatio pulled a book from the shelf and a box from the drawer below. Horatio opened the book and said that to get home he would need a map, a compass, and a sailboat. Horatio tore out a map of Lost Island from the back of the book and showed it to Timmy. He told Timmy that he must first go to the library in Savanna City to get the map. Then he must find the packrats hideout in the Stoney Ridge Mountains and get the compass they stole. After that, he must follow the river to the sea and defeat the Dark Knight in battle so he can use the sailboat. “How am I going to do all that? I am just a boy,” Timmy asked. Horatio opened the box and presented a ring with a jewel in the center that changed colors. “This ring will give you the power to change into any animal you want," Horatio said. The next day, Horatio gave Timmy a satchel of food, a jug of water, and the map. He wished Timmy good luck and pointed him in the right direction. Timmy enjoyed his walk through the jungle. There were many frog-people living in the jungle. They all had homes and families and were busy working as Timmy walked by. He met a red parrot by the name of Jeremy who talked to him while he walked. The jungle ended and the savanna began. To get to the city faster, Timmy turned into a cheetah and Jeremy grabbed on tight. Timmy took off running as fast as a car with Jeremy bouncing up and down on his back as he ran, his beak chattering. He ran through the river where the hippos and crocodiles fought. He ran past the elephant-people, standing upright with their long trunks hanging down, wearing armor, standing guard over their land. He passed the lion-people and the hyena-people as they fought a terrible battle. The savanna was a dangerous place where everyone fought for survival. Timmy was glad to be running so fast that no one could catch him. They came to the great walled City of Savanna with its shining marble walls, beautiful statues, and enormous buildings. The biggest building of all, in the center of the city, was the library. They followed the road and Timmy saw people of all sorts. People like him and people like Horatio. There were people who called themselves land pirates, pirates who have been shipwrecked on Lost Island for hundreds of years and not allowed to leave. There were the cat burglars, skilled thieves who looked like cat-people. There were the city guards, gorilla-men with painted faces, large axes, and armor who patrolled the streets. And every now and again you could spot an angel with their mighty wings and sharp swords amongst many other types of people. There were people selling food, clothes, jewelry, art, songs, and stories along the road. Timmy had never seen such a place. When they reached the library, they asked for the librarian. A man-like owl named Oliver stepped forward. When they told Oliver which map they were looking for, Oliver let out a long, low hoot and said the map was in the Chamber of Relics, that he would take them to it, but they would have to stay close. Oliver grabbed a torch, and they took the stairs down to the Chamber of Relics. It was dark except for Oliver’s torch. They walked until they came to a dead end. Suddenly, the bookshelves moved. Timmy, Jeremy, and Oliver moved forward. Then they stopped, waiting for the bookshelves to move again. Then they turned right. The bookshelves moved again and cut them off. They waited until the bookshelves moved and then they hurried forward and stopped. The shelves moved again, and they turned left. They ran fast and then stopped. They waited a minute, and the shelves moved. Oliver grabbed the map and dusted it off. They turned around and went out the same way they came in. They thanked Oliver and left the library. The sun was setting when they got outside so they had a light dinner, just some bread and water. Timmy turned into an eagle and he and Jeremy perched on top of a statue to get some sleep. Morning came and the sun peeked over the mountain tops. The packrats had a hideout in a cave in those mountains. So, Timmy, as an eagle, and his parrot friend Jeremy, took to the skies and flew to the mountains. They found the packrats hideout up on a ledge where two of the rats were standing guard. Timmy and Jeremy swooped down and carried them away so they wouldn’t tell anyone they were there. Then, Timmy had to think of a way to get in there without being seen. He decided to turn into a tiny ant. He snuck in as Jeremy stood watch. The packrats were dirty rats that needed baths. They had big yellow teeth and carried pins and needles as swords. When Timmy got to the main chamber of their hideout, he saw all their treasure piled up. It was a mountain inside a mountain. All around the treasure were thousands of packrats. Timmy turned into a spider. He crawled along the wall to the top of the ceiling and lowered himself down by a web on top of the compass. He then turned into a cat, surprising the packrats, sending them scurrying. Timmy swatted and scratched at the rats as he took off down the main hall with the compass in his mouth. The rats chased after him, stabbing him with their needles and pins. When he burst through the cave opening, he scared poor Jeremy who flew into the air, shrieking. Timmy jumped off the ledge to get away from the rats and came soaring back up as an eagle where he met Jeremy in the sky and the two of them flew down to the river below. They followed the river until they got to the ocean. There, the Black Knight guarded the dock leading to a sleek looking black and red racing sailboat, like the one on Timmy’s poster above his bed. The knight didn't want anyone to leave the island and would fight anyone who tried. Timmy and Jeremy landed. Timmy turned into a tiger and rushed the Black Knight, jumping on him. The Black Knight wrestled with him, picked him up, and threw him. Timmy charged him again and then turned into a bear, swiping the Knight with his huge claws, knocking him down. He then turned into a gorilla and leapt into the air, landing on the Black Knight, and started pounding on him. The Knight hit Timmy hard and knocked him away. Timmy rolled to a stop. He was tired and hurt. He looked up and the knight was charging him, ready to swing his sword. Timmy turned into a mouse and the Black Knight missed with his sword. The knight went to step on Timmy, but Timmy turned into an elephant, knocking the knight off his feet. With his long trunk, Timmy picked up the Black Knight and threw him in the ocean. Timmy turned back into a boy. He ran to the boat with Jeremy flying alongside him. Timmy looked at the directions on the back of Horatio’s map and put the map and compass where they needed to go. Then, like magic, the sailboat set sail. Timmy and Jeremy sat on the floor of the boat and ate the rest of their bread and drank the rest of their water. When they looked out across the ocean, they could see that the sailboat was taking them into a storm. Rain came down and so did the sails. The water grew rough and tossed the sailboat around. Yet, it kept its course. Thunder banged and lightning flashed. Waves were the size of mountains. Timmy and Jeremy desperately held on as the sailboat pushed through the storm. When they came through on the other side of the storm, Timmy could see land. The sailboat raised its sails and it sailed to the beach where Timmy built his sailboat. Timmy took off the ring and put it in Horatio’s satchel with the map from the book, leaving it with the sailboat to give back to Horatio. He then turned and ran home with Jeremy flying behind him. He burst through the front door, so happy to be home. He rushed into his mother’s arms and begged her forgiveness for being gone for so long, telling her all that had happened. She laughed and kissed his head. “Timmy, you’ve only been gone an hour.”

6xanvs

Whispers of the Wind

The Etched Message A cool breeze brushed against Rania's skin, carrying the salty tang of the sea. Perched on a weathered rock, she gazed out at the endless blue expanse. The scent, both familiar and strangely foreign, rustled through her hair, sending a shiver down her spine. The ocean whispered of pirates and forgotten adventures, stirring a strange mix of nostalgia and yearning within her. Here, with the weight of countless stories in her eyes, Rania yearned for experiences yet to come. As she lost herself in the rhythmic sound of the waves, a sensation unlike any other coursed through her. It was a prickling touch on her arm, fleeting yet undeniable. Startled, she looked down to see a faint inscription etched on her exposed skin - a swirling symbol she didn't recognize. Rania's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs as she stared at the swirling symbol etched on her arm. Panic welled up within her, a cold dread that constricted her throat. Her usually calm brown eyes, the color of aged leather bound books, widened in alarm. This wasn't a dusty manuscript, this was something real, something that thrummed with an unseen power. Rania had to understand what this symbol meant. Without a conscious thought, she bolted towards home, fueled by adrenaline. The inscription on her arm burned into her mind, a searing brand urging her forward. She burst through the front door, panting like a cornered animal, her eyes searching frantically for her friend, Betty. She found Betty, her best friend, engrossed in a book. "Betty, look!" Rania gasped, her voice ragged with exertion and fear. She thrust her arm front, the inscription trembling under the tremor in her hand. The urgency in her normally composed demeanor spoke volumes, a stark contrast to her usual scholarly air. Betty, athletic and warm, rushed to Rania's side. Taking Rania's hand, her grip strong and reassuring, she examined the inscription with furrowed brows. The contrast between the delicate lines of Rania's arm and the calloused fingers of Betty's hand, honed by years of training, was stark. "Wow, that's creepy," Betty admitted, her voice tinged with a hint of awe, "but cool too, in a way." Rania, her heart still pounding like a trapped bird against her ribs, shook her head in response. "No, but I have a feeling it's not the first time I've seen this symbol," she muttered, her voice laced with a newfound urgency. A sliver of recognition flickered in her mind, a memory half-formed, buried under layers of countless books and forgotten texts. The symbol, she felt, held the key to something significant, something that tugged at the edges of her consciousness. But where had she seen it before, and what secrets did it hold? Together, they delved into Rania's extensive collection of old books and scrolls. Hours bled into night as they poured over faded pages, searching for any mention of the symbol. Finally, amidst a brittle manuscript detailing a mythic long-forgotten rebellion against tyrannical rule, they found a match. The symbol, it turned out, was the emblem of the rebellion, a movement crushed centuries ago. The inscription into the manuscript, however, remained a mystery. It seemed to be a message. With a shared sense of urgency, they realized they needed help. Someone with experience navigating the dangerous undercurrents of hidden truths. The Shadow Guide The next morning, bathed in the golden hues of a rising sun, Rania and Betty found themselves standing before Dag's workshop. It was a ramshackle structure, its weathered wood stained a mosaic of grays and browns, perched precariously on the very edge of the village, almost as if it were clinging to the cliffside for dear life. An air of mystery hung heavy about the place, mirroring the enigma that was Dag himself. Dag, a man whispered about more than seen, emerged from the workshop's creaking doorway. He was a strong man sculpted by time, his face etched with strong wrinkles that spoke of a life lived not always easily. His eyes, the color of a storm-tossed sea, held a depth of knowledge that seemed to stretch back for generations. There was a quiet intensity about him, a sense of power held in check, that made even the salty sea breeze seem to hold its breath around him. Rumors swirled around him like the sea mist, painting him as a man who possessed an uncanny knowledge on secrets, secrets hidden deep within the village's and the wide area history and even deeper within the hearts of its people. Their request was met with a long, considering silence. "Dangerous business, unraveling buried secrets," Dag finally rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly. Rania, her voice trembling slightly, explained the inscription and its connection to the rebellion. "We need your help to decipher the message, Dag. It could rewrite the village's legacy." Dag studied them both with an intensity that made Rania squirm under his gaze. His eyes seemed to pierce through their facades, searching for something hidden beneath. It was a silent challenge, a meeting of wills that passed in the blink of an eye. Finally, with a curt nod, Dag rumbled, "Some truths," he rumbled, a hint of a wry smile playing on his lips, "are best left undisturbed. But some..." his eyes flickered between them, "...are simply too tempting to ignore." Secret passages and crumbling ruins became their treacherous path, led by Dag whose eyes gleamed with a flicker of recognition at the symbol. It spoke of a hidden archive, a tomb for the rebellion's secrets. The deeper they ventured, the air grew heavy with suspicion. Whispers slithered from unseen lips, and fleeting shadows danced at the edge of their vision. Fear, a cold serpent, squeezed Rania's heart. "Fear is natural," Betty said, her voice a steady anchor in the swirling unease. "But we can't turn back now." A flicker of concern crossed Betty's brow, but her resolve remained unshaken. "We'll face it together, that's what friends are for. Besides, we have Dag." They turned towards their guide, who had been silently observing their exchange. Dag, stopped walking and with his face etched with an air of contemplation, finally spoke. His voice, though gruff, held a quiet strength. "You girls are right," he rumbled. "The path you've chosen is fraught with danger. But remember, courage isn't the absence of fear, it's the will to move forward despite it. The whispers you hear are echoes of another world, begging to be heard. The choice before you is simple: silence those whispers and let the truth remain buried, or face the consequences of unearthing it. The decision is yours, but know this – I can stand beside you, whatever path you choose." Rania and Betty exchanged a resolute look. The fear hadn't vanished, but a spark of determination now flickered in their eyes. They had come too far to turn back now. With a silent nod to each other, they turned towards Dag, ready to face whatever secrets awaited them. Dag started walking again. The Unmasking and a Choice Their arduous quest finally led them to a secluded cove, where the wind howled like a banshee and waves crashed against the jagged rocks with fury. An unsettling mist clung to the air, shrouding a hidden crevice camouflaged by cascading vines. With trepidation, they entered, the air thick and stale, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and something far more unsettling. The passage sloped downwards, leading them into the heart of the cliff. Their way was illuminated only by Betty's flashlight, its beam dancing across grotesque shadows that writhed on the uneven walls. Every rustle of wind and every drip of water echoed through the cavern like whispers from the past. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the passage opened into a vast cavern overlooking the churning sea. The roar of the waves, muffled by the thick stone walls, still resonated with an eerie power. In the center of the cavern stood a lone stalagmite, captivating them with its smooth, glistening surface. As they approached, Dag stepped forward, a familiar unease flickering in his eyes. Examining it, he noticed the absence of a stalactite hanging above – a peculiarity that demanded further investigation. "There must be something here," he muttered, his voice heavy with anticipation. He began pushing and pulling on the stalagmite. The girls watched, their gazes shifting between him and the imposing structure. "What are you doing?" Betty finally asked, unable to hold back her curiosity. "I'm not sure," Dag replied, his voice gruff. "But something tells me this isn't what it seems." With a collective surge of effort, they managed to tilt the stalagmite, revealing a weathered box beneath it. Its intricate carvings, depicting the very symbol that had started their journey, sent shivers down Rania's spine. "This is it," she whispered, her voice barely a tremor. Dag reached down and picked up the box. It was surprisingly heavy, a tangible weight of history pressing down on him. A tense silence filled the cavern as they exchanged a look, the air thick with a palpable echo of bygone battles. A wave of nausea crashed over Rania, a heady mix of exhaustion, primal fear, and the exhilarating terror of standing at the precipice of something momentous. With a fortifying breath, she steeled her resolve. "What do we do now?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "The time has come to unveil the truth," Dag spoke, his voice gravelly with the weight of revelation. "My knowledge is fragmented, but it whispers of a gateway – a brutal battle fought here centuries ago when the veil between worlds ripped open. The current villagers emerged victorious, sealing the gate and shaping the world as we know it. But..." his voice trailed off, a tremor of unease replacing the gravelly certainty, "what if we unleash unimaginable horrors by opening it again?" Suddenly, the ancient box burst open, bathing the cavern in a blinding light. It wasn't a gift, but a cruel twist. This light, a silent alarm, ripped a hole in the world's veil. With a deafening roar, a portal tore open in the cavern wall, crackling with raw energy. From the swirling vortex emerged monstrous warriors – their obsidian armor gleaming, weapons pulsing with an alien light. Guttural growls echoed off the ancient stones, sending chills down Rania and Betty's spines. Unfazed, the warriors flooded through, surrounding them in a menacing circle. Dag, ever the protector, stepped forward, face etched with grim determination. He clutched the box, eyes locking with theirs. "Take it," he said, his voice raspy with urgency. "The decision is yours." A fierce battle ensued. Dag, with surprising agility, held off the guards, allowing Rania and Betty to escape. They emerged on a secluded beach, the chest clutched tightly in Betty's arms. Exhausted and battered, Rania and Betty slumped against a weathered rock, watching the first rays of dawn paint the sky in hues of rose and gold. The colors, however, did little to ease the turmoil churning within Rania. The weight of the chest, secured tightly in Betty's arms, felt heavier with every passing moment, its contents a stark reminder of the steep price they had paid for unraveling the secrets hidden within. "Rania," Betty said softly, her voice laced with concern, "are you alright?" Rania turned to her friend, her eyes clouded with a mix of emotions. "I... I don't know, Betty," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Dag... what happened to him?" The memory of their harrowing escape from the cave, the desperate fight, and Dag's selfless sacrifice flickered through Rania's mind. Tears welled up, threatening to spill. Betty's hand landed on her shoulder, a silent anchor in the storm of emotions. "We need a plan," she said, voice firm. Rania nodded, wiping a stray tear. "You're right. We can't crumble now. We have something, and we need to understand it, to use it." "Exactly," Betty said, her voice rising with determination. "Remember, Rania, we face this together." Rania met Betty's gaze, a spark of determination rekindled in her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice filled with gratitude. As the sun rose higher, casting its warm light on their faces, a sense of renewed purpose washed over Rania. The weight of the chest still felt heavy, but it no longer felt like a burden. It was a symbol of their journey, a reminder of their losses and their unwavering bond, and a catalyst for the challenges that lay ahead. They would face them together, honoring the memory of Dag and the fight for a better future. Betty, ever the pragmatist, knelt beside her. "We need a plan, Rania. We can't just sit here." Rania, her voice hoarse, managed, "The message… it mentioned a location. A secret base the rebellion used. Maybe there, we can find a way to use this information safely." A flicker of hope ignited in Betty's eyes. "Let's go." she trailed off, her cheeks flushing. Rania, understanding the unspoken sentiment, offered a small smile. The inscription, she realized, had not only revealed a hidden truth, but had also unearthed feelings she hadn't dared to acknowledge. Perhaps, amidst the danger and uncertainty, a new chapter, both personal and historical, was waiting to be written. Their journey continued, leading them across treacherous landscapes and into forgotten corners of their homeland. The weight of the chest, both literal and symbolic, pressed upon them, a constant reminder of the sacrifices made and the responsibility they now bore. They faced threats from the pursuing regime and encountered others who sympathized with the rebellion's cause, offering cryptic guidance and safe havens along the way. The hidden rebel base, when they finally found it, was a labyrinth of tunnels and chambers carved deep within a mountain. It was a place frozen in time, filled with the echoes of a forgotten fight. Amidst dusty manuscripts and faded maps, they deciphered the remaining scrolls, piecing together the rebellion's final stand and the location of a hidden weapon capable of tipping the scales of power. But the knowledge came with another revelation - the weapon held immense destructive potential. Using it could spark a bloody revolution, potentially causing more harm than good. Rania, haunted by the potential consequences, grappled with a difficult choice. Expose the regime's oppressive rule and risk unleashing chaos, or bury the truth and allow the injustice to continue. Rania stood frozen, the weight of the decision pressing down on her. The hidden weapon, capable of both liberation and destruction, lay secured within the mountain base. The weight of the chest, once a burden, now felt strangely insignificant compared to the choice before her. "Rania," Betty's voice broke the silence, gentle yet firm. "We've come this far, together." Rania turned to face her friend, her eyes filled with a turmoil of emotions. "I know," she whispered, "but I am afraid of the cost… it could be too high." Betty stepped closer, her hand reaching out to cup Rania's cheek. Rania met Betty's gaze, the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air. "What if… what if it all goes wrong?" Betty squeezed Rania's hand, her voice filled with unwavering conviction. "Then we face it together, again." In that moment, bathed in the dim glow of the chamber's lantern, Rania saw not just a friend, but a reflection of her own growing strength. The fear remained, but so did a spark of determination, ignited by Betty's unwavering belief. Taking a deep breath, Rania met Betty's gaze. A smile bloomed on Betty's face and together, they stepped forward, ready to face the consequences of their choice, side by side. The fate of their place, and perhaps their own future, hung in the balance. Betty and Rania started examining the box… It looks like somebody is trying to communicate with them… Dag's voice, warped and strange, echoed: "This is another world. The village... is not existed." Rania's heart hammered. "Our people...?" "Choice is yours," Dag rumbled. "Step through or not. But there's no turning back. All you need is to hold the box together, to open it and to push the symbol inside. The gate will open for a last time for a few seconds." Tears welled in Rania's eyes. "This is it, isn't it?" Betty met her gaze, resolute. "We are ready." Dag's voice started to fade out. "May your courage echo through the ages. I am here for you, my baby…" Hand in hand, Rania and Betty stepped into the shimmering portal, to join Dag in the silent darkness.

5526yw

Tortugas Adventure

As far back as I can remember I have had a boat of some kind. My first craft was an 8-foot sailing pram. It was severely in need of repair but it was free and it was mine. It sunk before I could drag it home so the first order of business was hull repair. My addiction progressed throughout the years and many different watercraft. Power or sail. If it floats, I am drawn to it like a mosquito to the flame. A good friend of mine purchased a 30-foot cruising sailboat. He knew I was a boat nut and invited me over to examine his purchase. She was old but sound. There was a good sail inventory and many reefing points on the mainsail. This old girl had seen many ports of call. Stepping aboard the deck was solid under my feet. As requested, I opened hatches, inspected the bilge, the standing rigging and electrical. Had I seen the for sale sign I would have bought her myself. We had several weekends cruising up and down the river while I taught him the ropes. It was decided that we sail to the Dry Tortugas. Several weekends of practicing man overboard drills, raising and lowering the sails, reading the compass and divining a course on the chart we were ready. We would leave next Friday. The weather was predicted to be fair for the next 4 days. We loaded grocery’s, extra water, clothing and personal care items. The fuel tanks were full and we had fair winds. Our journey was 195 miles with an estimated 6.5 knot speed we would reach our destination in 30 hours. Soon the land was out of view.  There was a wonderous sunset of oranges fading to reds and then darkness. On we sailed. On the water at night was always special. The sky would open and reveal secrets not seen on land. The seas started to build overnight but the old girl proved to be very seaworthy. Just before the day broke I could make out the perimeter markers of the protected and shallow areas around the Tortugas and Fort Jefferson. When you are at marker I, directly north of the Fort, the channel is due South. We arrived at the anchorage in the late morning. We saw a great deal of activity aboard the other boats in the anchorage. I hailed one craft and was informed of an approaching hurricane.  "But the weather was supposed to be good for another two days." “This storm caught everyone by surprise.” He replied. “It is hitting Jamaica about now.” “Listen to NOAA weather.” He concluded.” There was no way to outrun the storm. Our best option was to sail due east to Key West about 90 miles away. Everyone was exhausted and hungry. We decided to have a warm meal and take a nap. There was one excursion to visit the fort. It had been a prison and held Dr. Mudd at one time. We saw his cell. Sailing in nasty weather in taxing and not to be attempted if you are exhausted. We decided to rest the night and leave at first light. We stowed all the gear for rough weather then went to sleep. In the morning the wind was already howling. There were whitecaps in the anchorage. I rigged the mainsail tied down to the smallest area possible and found a small storm jib in the forepeak. I let the sails luft and started the engine. The anchor was raised and we made for the east channel and Key West. Outside the anchorage the wave height was immediately higher. About 4 feet from crest to trough. I trimmed the sails and was surprised that so little sail provided a good amount of speed. The further we sailed the larger the waves became. With very little sail in use and the engine running we were making good speed.  The waves were closer to 12 to 14 feet high now. At the speed were traveling we would ride up the crest of one wave and slide down the other side. Reaching the trough of wave the ship tried to turn sideways. I had to fight the tiller to keep us square or the waves would have rolled us over. About 5 hours in my muscles were burning and I was in a robot-like trance. Giving up was not an option. The old girl was giving me her best. It was up to me to give my best. There was a brief reprieve when we passed to the north of the Marquesas. Not much of one. The wave height dropped maybe a foot or two. I was never really alarmed during this time. As long as I was vigilant and focused, reading the sea state  several waves ahead and  could feel the way the ship responded to the sail trim and tiller motion I was confident we could “Weather the storm.” That was my life for the next 11 hours. I was very grateful that I was not prone to seasickness. My face was crusted with salt water sprayed up in the liquid form and the water evaporated leaving the salt behind. It felt like I had pressed my face into the sand. The lights of Key West appeared on the horizon and wave height diminished slightly. More of the shoreline became visible but I couldn’t find the middle channel. I decided to turn north and enter from the north channel. I figured that if the Coast Guard and US Navy came and went through this channel, I could find it. We traveled about 3 miles north and there it was. Well lit and welcoming. The distance to the civilian port facilities was further south but waves were noticeably smaller and I no longer had to constantly fight the tiller. I remembered that this had been the Fantasy Fest weekend. As bedraggled as I looked it wouldn’t have been out of place during the festivities.   Luckily, we found a place to tie up for the night and then went searching for a room for with a floor that wasn’t constantly moving and pitching. We found a room and I needed a shower badly. I remember standing in the shower and trying to wash my hair. When I closed my eyes I was swaying so badly I had to get down on my knees with them firmly pressed to the sides of the tub to keep from falling over. I was land-sick. I slept that night with one leg hung over the side of the bed with my foot flat on the floor. This is a true event from my past. One of many. Enjoy.  Copywrite 2024 R. F. Gridley

q3lh11

The Blue Horizon

Christian Jones felt a breeze on his arm and almost jumped out of his skin. Was it a dream? He rubbed his shoulder against his cheek, and felt the dry sandpaper of a five-day stubble, skin burnt by the sun. The deep blue ocean surrounding their small boat had been playing tricks with his mind, mirages of land, and what did those looks from Rafe mean? Again, a gentle movement on his skin, and he leapt up. “Rafe! Captain Rafe, a breeze!” Christian turned to look at the mainsail, eager for it to fill with wind, to pull them out of the hole in the ocean they had been stuck in for two days. But it only gave a half hearted wave before it fell again, hanging flat and limp. Christian slumped back down, Rafe and Lori's heads dropped as well, hopes dashed again, a cork bobbing in an unforgiving ocean, waiting. If only the wind would blow.   Christian kicked himself again for coming at all. Sam had planned it, and his adventurous spirit would’ve loved every minute of it, the physical challenge of learning how to be an open water sailor, and yes, even the chance of death lingering over them.   This was supposed to be their honeymoon trip, after the glamorous wedding, scheduled for just a week ago today, if Christian had his dates right. After the last few days on this sailboat, he realized he might have lost count. Has it been five days or six?  Christian’s carefully mapped life whirled into a tornado of dysfunction when their relationship crashed into Sam’s infidelity, and his lies. Then when he found out Sam had been sleeping with Christian’s boss, he resigned in protest. Christian seethed in anger, furious at them, and at himself for not seeing the obvious signs that the relationship was off course, and had been for months.  In vengeance at destroying Christian’s dream of the perfect wedding, he took Sam’s dream trip as his own, Sam’s bucket list trip he had wanted more than the wedding. And, Christian realized, Sam wanted it more than him too.  “I‘m taking the damn boat trip! ” He screamed at Sam, after he found out it was paid for, and non-refundable.  Christian hadn’t paid any attention when Sam spoke about this honeymoon sailboat trip. Christian had been too busy, coordinating the guest list, seating the 120 family and friends into the absolute perfect reception hall. He had organized the caterers, the swing band, even the matching black tie tuxedos. Sam looked beautiful in the tux.  A week on a sailboat, island hopping through the Bahamas. Christian imagined a yacht with margaritas and catered dinners, provided by waiters in matching polo shirts, stopping for shopping trips into Freeport, HopeTown and Nasau.  Of course he should have known, this being Sam's trip. Sam preferred downhill skiing to snow sledding, preferred mountain climbing to the mountain views out of a Swiss chalet. Christian would spend the week on a working sailboat, learning how to sail while cruising from Palm Beach, Florida through the South Atlantic.  Christian didn't see Captain Rafe when he first stepped onto the small sailboat, his focus on staying upright on the bobbing deck, then finding where to stow his bags in the tiny back cabin. The sailboat, the ‘Blue Horizon’ looked old, white paint streaked with yellow, the interior had faded wood paneling, with avocado green trim. Christian bumped into a shelf on one side, and then shouldered an array of pots, on the other, clattering in protest around him.  The walls squeezed in, buzzed in his ears, pulling the breath out of his lungs. He lurched back on to the deck. “I’ll sleep out here.” Christian said, looking around at the narrow rope filled walkway.  The sailboat engine rumbled out of the marina, and then Captain Rafe, with quick fluid motions loosened some ropes, and the sail snapped into the wind, rolling out from the mast, and the boat took off, tilted to the side as the waves crashed against it, spraying a mist of optimism and hope into Christian’s face. Maybe, just maybe, Christian thought, this could be fun.  At the ‘crew meeting’ as Rafe called it, he got the first real look at the others on the boat.  Captain Rafe wore a tank top over loose drawstring shorts, barefoot with thick knots in his calves and forearms. His long limbs rippling in lean muscle, hung loose as he draped himself on the railing. Christian stared in awe at this bronze sea god, his dark hair tied loosely in back, with black sunglasses and an easy smile.  The other sailor, Lori, joining in Sam’s place, stood near, her face in a tight grimace as she fought the swaying boat. Young and fit, her eyes were only for Rafe, her interest plain.  “We’re going to have a great trip!” Rafe said, patting the side of the sailboat. “This old lady’s treated me well over the years. She has some issues, don’t we all- but she’s seaworthy and a good boat to learn on. We’ll have a lesson each day, some sailing skills, and then we’ll move to the next island.” Rafe said. “We’ll find a cove to spend the night, and then off again the next day. By the end of the week, you’ll be a top sailor.”  “Guaranteed.” Rafe winked at Christian.  Even with Captain Rafe’s expert training, Christian’s strengths of designing water-tight financial reports, sprung leaks when asked to do physical tasks.  “Just wrap the rope around the winch,” Rafe said for the fifth time, as if repeating the instruction would get Christian to understand, his fingers to obey. The rope, disobedient and contrary, kept slipping, too few loops and too little coordination.  Christian couldn’t tighten his emotions either, and as the rope slipped again, a wave of failure crashed around him. Everything needed to be perfect, and nothing was. He had a clear specific course, and now it’s gone. He lost Sam, lost his job, and now couldn’t even perform the simplest task on the sailboat to wrap a rope around a stupid knob. The tears just poured out, salty and thick.  Finally Rafe took the rope, and with a grunt, his large hands wrapped it tight and secure.  Rafe lifted his glasses up and leaned in close, his eyes light brown wells of concern. “It’s not that important,” the eyes crinkled in a smile. “You don’t have to work on the rigging, there are other jobs, do you want to steer?” “Oh no, “ Christian sputtered, his hand wiping the snot from his face. “It’s not the winch, its…” He stopped, not knowing how to start describing his problems, and not knowing if he could ever finish. “I can’t steer, I don’t know where I'm going…”  Rafe laughed, light and clear brightening the storm clouds inside Christian. Christian began laughing too, at his foolishness, at problems thousands of miles away while he sailed in paradise. Rafe reached out and his warm hand wrapped around Christian’s upper arm, sending an electric shock through him. Christian lurched away, scared of wanting it so much, of how much he needed physical connection. Rafe put his hands up, wary. “Come on, man.” Nodding his head toward the back of the boat. Christian stood at the helm, in front of a huge, metal steering wheel. “Ok cap’n, you can steer.” Rafe pointed to a mountain just visible on the horizon. That’s Grand Bahama.” He reached into a cubby and pulled out an old faded captain’s hat and used both hands to place it on Christian’s head. “Keep us on course.” Christian swore he'd never take the hat off again. Each day, Christian listened intently to Rafe’s lesson, and then promptly forgot as soon as the words left Rafe’s mouth. Overwhelmed by his smooth movements, his competency in his small, tight world, Christian thought he might truly be a god. He saw Lori eyeing him in the same way, and felt a sting of jealousy, but knew which way Rafe’s sail blew. On the fifth day, south near the island chain of Exuma, the wind, their constant steady companion, stopped. Rafe looked up at the clear blue sky as the boat drifted, and nodded to himself. The horizon seemed endless, the blue sky and the sea merging into an infinity of possibilities. “Let’s take a dip!” Rafe slipped out of his tank top and was over the side in a flash. Lori followed, a smooth practiced dive. Christian slipped his shirt off, and saw muscles developing he didn’t know he had, his pale skin darkening, and he almost looked like a human. Christian knew their Captain could solve any problem, and so splashed in the clear water, enjoying the morning break. He didn’t look at the land sitting on the edge of the horizon, a reminder of all his problems. But the wind didn’t return, and soon Christian couldn’t look away from it, worried they would never get back to solid and firm safety. Rafe ran the engine that night, until the small tank sputtered out. “Chris, maybe you can look at the radio?” Rafe’s forearm wiped the sweat off his forehead, a rag in one hand. “You’re good with those kind of things?” Christian’s heart leapt in his chest. He moved into the small cabin, he would fix the radio, saving them all. Rafe would see him as a hero. But once he saw the radio, an antique metal box, with faded icons next to worn knobs, he knew his skills programming computer software wouldn’t be of any use.  “Maybe…” Christian said, opening the back panel to uncover the jumble of wires. He moved two, removed a rust covered piece, then reconnected to the battery. A squawk erupted out of the box, echoing in a possibility of rescue around them.  “You did it!” Rafe hugged Christian from behind in a tight embrace. Christian’s eyes closed in pleasure, until Rafe pulled him away from the sparks shooting out the back of the now- fried radio.  Another day of no wind followed, the sun beating down on the deck. Rafe stayed in the cabin while Lori and Christian were sent to clean the sailboat, Rafe’s superstitious belief it would get the wind to blow again. The food stores were low, only bread rolls and cheese, but still plenty of cans of wine and beer.  That evening they gathered on the deck, a scavenged dinner in the finally cool air. Lori sipped on a beer, next to Rafe. Christian sat on the side nursing a can of wine, watching the blue of the night turn darker and the stars come out one by one, filling the sky. “Is the wind ever going to blow again?” Lori asked, the unspoken question hanging over them all. “Or are we going to be stuck here, just floating?” “It’s just when.” Rafe said. “But the next hour, day, or week?” His low voice rolled like the waves drifting softly against the boat.  “Close your eyes.” Rafe said. “Believe with me; the wind will come to blow us through this great Blue. Out here, to change the world you must believe you can change yourself.” “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Lori said. “We’re going to fucking die out here- almost out of food, no radio, and you want us to just believe?!” Lori said, her hands flying up. “I believe.” Christian said quietly. Tears, and then sobs grew from somewhere deep inside him. “My life’s a disaster. I have nothing to go back to, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” “You both are pathetic.” Lori left, disappearing into the cabin. Rafe moved next to him, an arm over his shoulder, and this time Christian didn’t pull away. Christian looked into Rafe’s eyes and saw a storm of desire. “I, thought you liked beer…” Christian nodded at the spot Lori had just left. “I like beer, on occasion.” Rafe whispered in Christian’s ear.” But I prefer wine. It’s more, full bodied… What about you?” “I like wine.” Christian’s body vibrated with intensity, responding to the man next to him. “Oh good.” Rafe’s hand cupped Christian’s cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears. “I’m a mess, I’m scared, and not sure of what to do….” Christian said, pushing against Rafe’s warm chest, though not that hard. “Do you believe, Rafe said, “believe you can change your life?” “Yes, I believe.” Christian let go, falling into Rafe’s arms, falling into a belief of a better future. “Say it again.” Rafe hushed under his breath. “I believe...” And then Christian could no longer speak as Rafe's lips touched his.  Later that night the wind picked up, and Rafe's hands loosed the ropes from the winch, freeing the sail and then they were off, toward an infinity of possibilities across the deep blue.

y7zu7p

Carried Away

“Is it true that the winds still blow in the North?” the boy asked. “It stands to reason, boy,” I said. “But why would that matter to you now?” “Don’t call me boy. It is Jeavon. Jeavon Hanley,” he said. “Ahh, yes. Kim Hanley’s boy.” The boy was looking for a guide to the Northern lands. A commission I’d been known to accept if the price was right. But, never for such foolish reasons. Of all days, he had arrived on March 4th. The anniversary of the Doldrums. The eighteenth anniversary of the day when all the wind in Borealis ceased forever. The day I became an obsolete relic, useful for nothing more than husbanding some livestock and staying put in my windless hovel. I remembered reading in the Sunday Bulletin how Kim Hanley had fallen ill with the sitting disease. That’s what I called it anyway. No one knew exactly what it was, only that those who suffered from it sat and stared straight ahead until they died. It went by many names: The gaze, the rigors, blinking disease. But the name that stuck was ‘the palsy.’ It was a shame, what was happening to his mother. She had always been polite with a sunny disposition. Which is no small feat with seven children, of which Jeavon would be the youngest. But there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Things like the palsy take time to take hold and find a home in a land, and they don’t move on and leave because of some ginned-up folk medicine or a contrived Catholicon invented by some huckster exploiting the love of a young boy for his mother. If I took this commission though, was I any different? “Yan Lu says that the only cure is Feng , ‘Grasping the Wind.’” “And what does Yan Lu propose to do with the wind if you were to catch it?” “We store it in this,” Jeavon said. He pulled out an object known as a FengBi, which was a propeller blade attached to a thin spear at one end and a rotator shaft and generator at the other which held a twirling bulb that glowed orange as he spun it, and a suction cup beyond that which ostensibly administered the cure to the patient. “Why not just spin it like a child’s dreidel? It would do about as much good. The wind has nothing to do with it.” “Yan Lu says that fengbiao is a weather vane and fengchi is a windmill. The wind makes the weather vane rotate and spin. The same with the windmill. Yan Lu says that the winds can do the same and stir my mother back into action—into life.” “Yan Lu. Yan Lu. I am so tired of hearing about Yan Lu. That old quack would have all of Borealis jumping off a cliff without a shred of evidence that a single one of them had ever lived to tell the tale. And you’d all jump too. Wouldn’t you?” “Yan Lu has cured the palsy before.” “Has he, son? Really? Just because one out of a hundred got better? You credit that to him?” “No one has gotten well except the ones Yan Lu has treated.” “Spend one night chilled to the bone in the clutches of a buffeting and persistent Northern wind and tell me what powers men have over nature.” The boy stood. A furrowed forehead, broad cheeks, and far-off eyes. Chin raised in defiance. Wearing the adoptive look of all foolhardy young men facing forces that they knew nothing of. A look of certainty that there was no difference between wanting a thing badly enough and manifesting it. Death was contagious. And it spread among us, devouring indiscriminately. This one would fall. A Kim Handley. But the one next door would be untouched. The rumor and the old wives’ tale going around Borealis was that the winds of the North could revive the frozen. Where did this come from? Nothing more than the fact so few of the youth had ever experienced the wind. And what could be more foreign and magical than a fascination with the gusts of the hinterland, where the Intuit god Negafook puffed his cheeks and blew out a savage frozen-hearted Northern gale that circumnavigated the globe? Cage disease and shipping fever were common in livestock. With cage disease, birds confined to tight quarters would suffer from a bacterial infection that overwhelmed their fragile immune systems. They were not meant to be cooped up like that, but to fly freely on the shifting winds. An impossibility in Borealis. Which is why the land was birdless. As the birds’ limbs lost strength and their bones thinned from nonuse, the birds’ lungs would choke with infection. Psittacosis. Death followed soon after. Shipping fever in cows was the same. The stress and inaction of a long trip could drain the immune system and cause pneumonia and death. “I know what you are, Arkansas Grosvenor. And I can pay.” “Well, well, that is altogether another matter. Let me see the money.” “I can get it,” Jeavon said. “I will have it for you when we return.” I waved him away and retired to my study, ignoring the boy. I did not like to have my time wasted. But he did have something of value. Something that I might trade for my services. Production quotas had descended on Borealis, to combat runaway inflation. The Dust Bowl outside the big city was a place where you needed a permit to increase your quota. No more permits were being printed. But Jeavon had a permit. A livestock permit. And with that, I could double my production. “I’ll have my price in advance,” I said. “And what price would that be?” “What else son? I’ll take your permit.” Jeavon must have anticipated this. Because he held the metal amulet in his hands and looked at it a long time before depositing it in my waiting hands. “Done!” I said. Wondering if I still had it in me to chase the winds. Victims like Kim were just a sign of the times. It was as if the wind cleared the way of corpselike bodies that went unused, its gales, and gusts carrying the dead away like a broom sweeping away stagnant dust and making room for the new. Even if it only blew in dreadful metaphors. I am Arkansas Grosvenor. If you are wondering why the boy had sought me out, it is because I bear the mark of the Wind Hunters. A mouth blowing out a curling wind which we all had tattooed in blue ink on our right forearms. I lived in the Dust Bowl on the outskirts of the city in a shanty. I shepherded a small flock of sheep and goats. I spent my days and nights on the silent plains with the animals. We old-timers understood that remaining active was a matter of life and death. But it wasn’t always like that. I wore the same thing every day. Blue jeans overalls over a brown and yellow flannel shirt, a wicker hat to keep out the sun, and sturdy brown work boots that had lasted five seasons. It was a far cry from my old Wind Hunter uniform. Layers of black and gold Lycra, designed with internal heating and cooling elements, biotech, and aerodynamic nanotech rivets sharp enough to cut a zephyr to ribbons. The plains of Borealis were cold and windless. As cold as men’s hearts. The great wind sleeves hedged in the borders of the flat, gridded metropolis. The cloud-splitter obelisks filtered out the atmosphere with their layers of HEPA filters, an infinity of sieves. People scurried below cloudless skies, moving to and fro in a windless country. Old rusting windmill farms collected rust and the sails of masted ships were kept behind glass in exhibits in the Historical Museum of Obsolete Things down in the Theater District. Above an exhibition of a barquentine with fore-and-aft sails was the inscription: The answers are blowing in it. Caution is thrown to it. Change comes from it. When you are on your way, it is at your back. How few of us were left who could decipher such riddles and understand their meaning? * * * The polar vortex buffeted Baffin Island with fifty-kilometer winds, circulating counter-clockwise against the rotation of the Earth. Greenland is anything but green. It is a mile-deep sheet of ice that acts like a magnet for cold, dense things. All the winds had their names and routes. Their personalities and predilections. The katabatic winds cool and hug the Northern ice, which condenses the winds, funneling its currents down steep downslopes, and whipping them past the basin of Baffin Bay into North America. The Tramontana was stirred by the polar winds and reached over the Alps and down to the Italian Coast, like a giant icy palm petting the brow of a panting Golden Retriever. The Amalfi Coast bathed in the warm whisps of the Austro from the South, its muffled whimpers of warm humid air issuing from the throat of the Adriatic Sea and echoing over toothed cliffs of the Mezzogiorno. Then their muted notes roamed freely along the palisades of the coastline, coaxing from the cliffs plump Sfusato Almafitano lemons, stout bushy olive trees, and great yawning walnut trees. The tiny salty anchovies gathered in the wind-swept coves of the shallow shoreline waters. But this is a story about the Northern winds. Bjørn Freysson was nearly seven feet tall and nearly as wide, arrayed in thick furs from head to toe. A walking mass of animal skin over a creature part man, part element. “Mush,” he yelled to the two trains of Alaskan Malamutes strapped and tied to the sleds, each one of them a giant in their own right. With their upturned tails and round faces, they looked like ghostly locomotives with puff ball caps. Their legs were a blur of movement below the taut leather harness straps as they roared through the snowy landscape to the North of Baffin Bay in perfect meter. They yipped in pleasure at their master’s commands and coated the icy air with warm mists of steam from their cavernous lungs. The boy and I were holding tight to a second sled, and a second team of Malamutes, while Bjørn required an entire team just to move himself through the icy expanse. “There is so much wind,” Jeavon said. “It stings!” “Hiya! Hiya!” Bjørn yelled at the dogs. “Hold tight, boy,” I said, laughing at the grin on Jeavon’s face as he took in the sights of the North for the first time. Long-dead instincts, nearly snuffed out of the boy, began to awaken. Throughout the whole afternoon, Jeavon pointed like a child at each new thing he saw. A seal is sunning itself—there’s a glacier breaking up—there’s a wolverine—there’s a team of Thayer’s gulls . And on and on. We had departed from the Kullorsuaq Settlement a few days prior. To the West were the frozen winter seas. To the East were ranges of mountains flanked by hanging glaciers, seemingly arrested in mid-fall. “Whoa! We need to feed and make camp for the night,” Bjørn said. The dogs barked and grumbled and slowed their pace. “Whoa!” Bjørn said. As the train of dogs ground to a halt, Bjørn ran along the line and untethered them from their harnesses. The twelve hungry jowls all assembled in a circle around Bjørn, a few of the dogs sniffing and nipping by his big burlap satchel. Then Bjørn pulled out sun-dried Salmons, one for each of the dogs. In a well-choreographed routine, the dogs lined up and each received their fish from Bjørn’s giant hands, devouring their meal in seconds with pink blood marring the fur of their chomping jowls, long tongues cleaning their satiated mouths and gleaming white teeth. One of the Malamutes coughed up a bone in the snow and took to licking every last morsel of energy from the snow. Bjørn dug out a tin of seal fat for a delicacy, dropping it into the center of the dogs, which closed in with an explosion of checking growls. Then in moments the dogs scattered and started digging with their forepaws, each making their beds for the night and curling in, protected from the driving winds by the walls of their dugouts. They fell to sleep immediately, rumbling snores curling up from their small snug, insulated nests. I started the fire while Bjørn was busy with the dogs. Bjørn tossed me two cans of beans and a small package of frozen ham to heat on the fire, as we had done each of the two prior nights. “Why do the dogs eat like kings, while we eat like peasants?” Jeavon asked. “Because, son, the dogs are pulling that sled from sunup until sundown. They are the main event. We are just along for the ride.” “I guess it makes sense,” Jeavon said, scooping a spoonful out of the pot over the small propane stove which struggled in the whisps and gusts of the freezing Northern wind. I noticed that he had his hands ungloved. “You’ll put your mittens back on if you want to keep those hands,” I said. “But the fire is so warm.” “It’s twenty below, boy. Trust me.” Bjørn returned to the campfire and sat beside us, smoking a pipe fashioned out of whalebone, and breathing out great blasts of gray smoke. “Tomorrow, we head back to the settlement?” I asked. “The weather decides. But if the bad weather passes before sunup, tomorrow we’ll make our return.” “What is the problem with the weather?” “The West wind is poised to pounce like a black cat,” Bjørn said and pointed at dark clouds out to the West. “So, what is it?” I asked. “A windstorm. It will hit us in the night.” Jeavon pulled out the FengBi and it spun in the winds of the firelight, glowing with the accumulating winds. “This is no cure,” Bjørn said. “You cannot harness the winds. You can only bring one to them. There is no other way.” The sky darkened. The white world tinted blue, then gray, and the light fizzled out into dusk. We spoke about the palsy, about Borealis, about the hermetic world beyond the fiction of the wild country. Bjørn listened through laughing lips, as I explained how the Wind Hunters were gone from society, how we had wrestled the winds into submission with tech, and how our leaders believed unquestioningly in control over nature. “That is a joke,” Bjørn said. “One cannot control the thing that they are. You are nature.” “You sound like a Wind Hunter,” I said. “We don’t believe. We fear,” Bjørn said. “The life force is borrowed from the skies and the wind. Every man has two souls, umaffia , the life force, and tarneq , the personal soul. Umaffia is borrowed and must be returned. Tarneq persists. Your palsy is the fading of umaffia . You cannot cut off the life force from the source of life. It is unnatural. It is an offense against oneself. If you offend yourself, punishment follows.” Bjørn spoke as one with authority. Matter-of-factly. As if these things were obvious. “But, in our world, there is safety,” Jeavon said. “Safety is an offense to the life force—which is always changing,” Bjørn said. “If your front door is bolted against the hungry white bear, it will come through the back, or crash through the wall. But it always finds a way in. There is no safety. You feed it or kill it. But you cannot seal it away.” “That’s what the palsy has done,” Jeavon said. The winds picked up and drowned out our voices. So, we hunkered down in our tents for the night. And before I fell asleep, I turned to the boy, and said, “You still believe in that doohickey?” “I have a different idea,” Jeavon said. Then his muted snores commandeered the tent, which shook in the icy gusts. * * * In the light of morning, the North gales made long sweeps of air filled with flying white. The dogs flew at a punishing pace, seeming to know they were headed home. As we reached the outskirts of the Kullorsuaq Settlement we saw the red and blue A-frames on the horizon, along the archipelago bordering Melville Bay, with its docks piercing Kullorsuaq Harbour. Bjørn scooted out of his sled on two small skis, grabbed the Gee-pole, and skied into camp alongside the teams of dogs, steering them like he was ruddering a ship. The three of us assisted with feeding the dogs and housing them in an outdoor corral by the trading post. The cargo ship that would take us back to Borealis was already blasting steam some miles out, headed for port, toy-sized along the horizon. It was a bright cloudless day and in the bitter cold, the rays of sun gave the illusion of warmth. As we three stood on the docks, Jeavon turned to me. “What did they have against the wind?” “There were so many storms, so many settlements devastated. Floods. Cyclones. One disaster after another.” The boy looked at me. I could see that he was fumbling for something in his pocket. “Bjørn was telling me he needs help with the dogs,” Jeavon said. “What about your mother?” I asked. “About that,” Jeavon said, and pulled another amulet from his satchel. “For another commission, would you bring her here?” “Of course, son,” I said, as he deposited the amulet into my hands. “Well, Bjørn and I should be stocking supplies for the next push.” I hugged Jeavon goodbye. “Thank you, son.” “What is that for?” he said. I dropped the amulet back into his gloved hands. “For curing an old man with the palsy,” I said.

ishxqj

Tower of Strength

The day began with the sun peeking out over the horizon of the sparkling bay waters. A soft breeze floated gently over the waters, as the tide began to come in. Billowy clouds were scattered through out the morning sky, moving westerly and changing shapes as they were caught in the higher winds. The young girl scouts ran across the island to try to be the first one to enter the doors of the sleepover destination. Excitement and enthusiasm surrounded them as they carried their overnight backpacks across the rocky and shell filled grounds. Sitting quietly and stoically on the knoll built upon the bedrock at the bottom of the sea, the brick and mortar lighthouse greeted them with its towering height of 156 feet. Captain Charlie, a weathered old sea chap, had shuttled them across the pristine bay to the tiny island, home of the 100 year old lighthouse. Charlie had been watching the weather and although the forecast called for some rain and wind, it had not developed severely enough for the overnight to be canceled. Still, he was leary and chatted with the leaders about his concerns. The troop leaders had also been watching and felt they were far from anything that could be harmful to the girls. Their years of experience in the outdoors had brought many scary and frightful situations, and they felt they could handle whatever came their way. The 2 leaders grew up on the coast and were comfortable around the water. Willie Phillips, the keeper of the lighthouse, had been waiting anxiously for their arrival. Visitors did not come that often to the lighthouse and he enjoys sharing his love of his job with anyone willing to listen. He opened the heavy, red door and gave a booming welcome to the bubbly group of 5 girls and their trusty leaders. He donned his woolen blue cap with a chin strap and double-breasted weather resistant coat with 5 buttons on each side. The first one was quite close to the top collar. "I must be ready for any type of weather", he informed the girls after they looked at him curiously. Just as he was shaking the hands of the leaders a gusty wind blew across the seaside landscape and took some of the girls hats off their heads! Giggling and laughing, the girls ran after the air borne hats and regrouped. Willie tugged at his chin strap and laughed along with the girls. He explained to them that the wind is a funny thing. It can come creeping out of nowhere and whip around the lighthouse. He said it was a way of welcoming visitors to the wonders of the island and the guardian of the ships. After Willie showed the group where they would be sleeping at the lighthouse keeper's cottage, he gathered them together to give them some history of the lighthouse. The young girls were more interested in climbing the spiral stairs that wind around and around to reach the top. They fidgeted about as Willie tried to keep their attention. He finally succumbed and informed the troop that he would take them up the 105 steps. Shouts of glee filled the air. They began the trek up. As they were going, Willie explained that the lighthouse was built with 2 walls of solid brick, like 2 cones inside of each other. Landings were varied throughout the climb with openings to peek out. The stairs are built of cast iron he explained, around a central iron column. At each landing the wind, with a bit of force, blew in some salty air and gave shivers to some of the girls. Willie explained that the water temperature was very cold and the wind picks up that temperature as it travels across. So crazy as it cannot be seen doing this. When they reached the deck at the top, Willie opened yet another heavy door and told the group to be sure to hang onto the railings. A much stronger wind hit them as they circled around the summit and took in the amazing view. Willie took note that the clouds were darkening and the distant waters danced with white caps. He raised his eyebrows toward the leaders, trying not to alarm the youngsters, but fully relating his concerns of the weather forming. As the tide approached, the shore became a visual wonder with the waves ebbing in and out, reaching further onto the rocky edges. The waves left treasures of shells, glass tossed in the sand and curious other objects that got trapped in the waters. Up on the deck of the lighthouse, the girl scouts were giggling as they tried to talk to each other while their hair constantly was whipped around and getting stuck to their lips and in their mouths. As the winds picked up, the leaders made the decision that it was time to descend to the lower level. While they were descending, they told the girls that they were going to go on a natural treasure hunt along the island's shore. This was one of their activities to earn another badge for their sashes. Once again outside, the leaders took note of the darkening sky and the wind picking up. They told the girls to stay with their buddy and close together as they went on their scavenger hunt. During the time that they had spent in the lighthouse, the tide had come in and the shore had disappeared under the crashing waves. Any treasure that was on the beach was now under the gray waters buried in the sand to be discovered another day. When the girls saw this, disappointment stretched across their faces as they looked to the leaders. Just then a spray of water from a larger wave splashed upon them making them screech and turn to higher ground. The raindrops started falling and the wind blew more water off the waves. The scouts started running around laughing, not sure whether to be scared or just prance about. Willie came out of the lighthouse and in his gentle, yet booming voice told everyone that it was time to get to the cottage. The storm was moving faster than predicted and the waves were pounding the shoreline. The air filled with the taste of salty, briny sprinkles mixed with large drops of rain. A large gust of wind whipped around the lighthouse and pushed against the young troopers. They had to dip their heads down and lean into it. They felt their clothing cling to their limbs as they pushed forward to the cottage. They held tight to each other's hands and stepped carefully on hte wet rocks and water filled pathway. Just as they thought the wind had eased, another gust came rushing around. Screams and shouts were prevalent as the girls tugged each other in an effort to get to the cottage. What seemed like an hour was a mere 5 minutes of wet and howling winds slapping them in their faces. The waves were growing exponentially as if chasing them and nipping their ankles. The leaders were standing firmly with their legs widespread helping the youngsters as they tried to move along the disappearing shoreline. What earlier was beautiful rolling sea of gentle waves, now was an angry monster where the waves were tumbling and rolling over each other topped with a dense foam that was under the control of the blustery wind. Willie ran out to the last little one and grabbed her just as a mighty wind frantically tried to topple her over. The spray off the ocean was so strong that visibility was shrinking. The girls started to panic as they lost the site of the cottage. "Stay close", shouted Willie. They were just a few meters from the cottage. Now dripping wet and feeling scared and chilly, the girls started to cry. Behind them they heard the loud boom of the forceful waves crashing against the lighthouse itself. The water circled around it as if trying to engulf it. The wind howled around and around blowing water in circles that got larger and larger, frightening the entire troop. Willie finally pushed open the stubborn cottage door and they all tumbled in. The battery-operated generator was engaged as the power had been lost with the force of the wind slamming the cottage. Exhausted from the whole ordeal, the girls flopped onto the wooden floor, expressing how nervous they were that the wind would pop open the windows, or worse, blow them in. Willie assured them that the cottage was a safe haven, and the windows were hurricane tough. The leaders encouraged the girls to go get changed out of their wet clothes. Still scared and nervous, they did so and then huddled together worried about the storm and what it could do. The wind was bewitching outside, causing strange noises against the cottage. Relentless streams of loud blasts of rain pelted the windows rattling the frames. Some of the girls nervously, yet curiously peeked out the window toward the lighthouse. They could see the revolving light from the prisms at the top flashing on and off. Willie told them that this was to warn ships and the captains that they were near rocky shores. It is used as a beacon to guide them along to safer harbors. The roaring wind continued to aggravate the ocean and cause it to raise its waves. Bursts of wind caught some of those waves and heaved them at the lighthouse. The girls screamed out, watching this huge, and terrifying phenomenon. The lighthouse stood strong, the light emitting around and around. The clouds were rushing at an incredible rate, as the waves banged the lighthouse time and time again. Willie, in an effort to comfort the troop, explained that the structure of the lighthouse was designed to withstand just such winds and all they carry with them. Still the loud and overwhelming howls shook the girls as they huddled closer together. The leaders brought out the thermoses of hot chocolate and slowly started to hum some soothing songs that they knew the girls loved. Soon the scouts starting singing softly swaying in a circle, smiling at each other. The singing seemed to be in sync with the clashing wind and rain chiming against the windows. Willie, who had made a large pot of chicken soup, came out of the kitchen carrying a large tray of bowls of warmth and comfort. Realizing that they were all hungry, the troop sat at the large farmhouse type table. Willie encouraged them to slurp it up after he gave a word of thanks. Soon the wind was just a background noise while Willie told stories of ships in the sea, various sea life that have frolicked in the waters, and the quiet sky filled with stars twinkling and shooting about. The lighthouse was the center of this scene, standing formidably, encouraging the scared and worried with the flashing of the turning light. The storm outside subsided in time and the girl scouts crawled into their sleeping bags and fell asleep to the whispers of the wind.

gtzkp6

Lucid Puma

Mark is gone. The words echoed in my head as the dry Nevada wind burned against my face, carrying those familiar fine grains of sand. I stood and stared at the orange painted door that led to my childhood home, for a moment, the memory of its bright hue and brilliant color stood in all its glory, like it once had. A muffled shout broke through the closed windows and the door before me was once again the faded and peeling door of my present. Another sound caught my ears, and, with a steadying breath, I stepped forward and pushed it open as I quietly entered. My two remaining brothers sat at the kitchen table, faces hardened and creased, a few sheets of folded paper between them. “Lovely! He split up everything evenly between us. But what good is that?  There was nothing to split! All he has is debt!” My oldest brother Tommy’s voice bounced and echoed off the kitchen cabinet, his chest heaving, and his hands closed in tight fists. Jake slammed his hand on the table. “Calm down, won’t you! At least he had all this figured out. Not many people his age have a will. He’s in a better place now, and he’s out of our hair.” His words puddled quietly before the brothers as silence filled the space. I was thankful he was still willing to negotiate. Of the four of us, he was always the peacemaker. Jake took a focusing breath and started again. “He’s not asking for an expensive funeral. He just wants to be cremated and his ashes taken to the top of Lucid Puma.” “Where?” “Well, I don’t know. It’s one of the climbs in the canyon that he used to do.” “Are you kidding?! Who’s going to do it? We’ll have to hire someone from the local guide service…” “I’ll take him,” I blurted, the words sneaking out before I could fully process them. Tommy and Jake both snapped around and met my steady gaze at the same time. Suddenly I was a teenager again, caught in the middle of another argument. I took a deep breath, kept steady and returned the incredulous stares. Tommy’s head tilted back, his nose rising.  “Well, well, well. Look who it is. Mister businessman himself. Nice of you to show up now. What has it been, 20 years since you’ve been home?” “17.” My instant response was met with blank stares. “When’s the last time you climbed?” Jake asked, his tone gentle but careful. “I don’t know,” I shrugged, trying to make it look casual. “8,10 years, I guess.” “And you think you can climb this, fuzzy cat or whatever it’s called.” “Well, I guess … I guess it’s like riding a bike, you know. I mean, it’s what Mark wanted.”  My voice trembled. Tommy leaned back in his chair. “Did you know about, you know, his situation.” A lump welled in my throat. “And you never came back. To try to help him. This whole time.” Tommy’s voice rose, his words thick with accusation. “He didn’t…” My voice trailed off. “Typical. Just run away from everyone. Nobody cares, you know. He didn’t have any friends left. No family besides us. Let’s just put his ashes on the mantle here. I mean what’s the difference any-?” “No.” They both paused and looked at me with wide eyes. “I’m taking him. If I can’t do it, I’ll pay someone else to. Where is he now?” “At the funeral home. Cremation is scheduled for tomorrow.” “Ok. I’ll pick him up from there and take him. Do you want me to bring him by so you can say your goodbyes?” “We saw him this morning and made our peace.” Jake paused and sighed, running his hands down his face, suddenly looking tired. “Things around here really went to shit after Mom and Dad died, didn’t they. What about you, how have you been? Are you staying long?” “I have to be back in Boston in three days.” Tommy chuckled. “Oh! Of course you do. Ok, go then, like always.” I nodded and looked around, perhaps for the last time, before turning and leaving. The memories sat heavy in my heart. There’s so much I wanted to change, there was so much I could have done differently, but this would have to be enough.  We spoke often after I left. I loved our conversations and he always loved to hear what I was doing, what my East Coast life was like. Every call ended with a reassurance from him that he was fine. Only a small part of me ever really believed that.   The first step was gathering the gear I needed for tomorrow’s climb. I would need to get a helmet, chalk pouch, and rappelling equipment, along with a pack and climbing shoes. These items weren’t hard to find in a place like this, and soon I had what I needed. Finally, I picked up Mark’s ashes. I had climbed Lucid Puma before, we did it together on Mark’s 18 th birthday. I arrived in the canyon the next morning before dawn. A few stars were still visible in the slice of sky filling the gap between the canyon walls. The cool night air, thick with memories, whistling through and singing its early morning song. Mark’s ashes were secured in my pack with my rappelling gear while my chalk pouch dangled from my belt. I dragged my right hand on the cool sandstone at the base of cliff. The coarse grains bit through my skin, now softened from years of office work. Come on, runt? What are you waiting for? A small smile pulled at my lips and my eyes stung as Mark’s phantom words called down to me from partway up the wall. He was an excellent climber, with the skills to be one of the best. Strong, fearless, persistent. I tried to keep up, and became pretty good myself, but Mark was always a step ahead. Climbing was more than a sport to him, it was an experience he reveled in time and time again but sharing it with me was his greatest joy. He never raced to the top, never left me behind. He was always looking after me. When I left, I never looked back. The ache in my chest grew denser and for a moment, my vision blurred. The first rays of the morning sun and the early morning bird chatter pulled me back to the task at hand. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, letting the symphony of the new morning wash over me. I got you, bro. The whispered words seemed to ease the tightness and I straightened. Lucid Puma was not a long climb, possible in 4 or 5 hours, but it was challenging. The only path traversed two large slabs, separated by a small arete, with an overhang just before the summit. It was more technical than many of the other climbs in the area and could only be done free solo. I chalked my hands and began searching the rocks for my first grips. The craggy sandstone revealed pocks and bumps as my extended fingers wrapped and clutched the grainy rind. My left shoe filled an opening in the rock, and I was off the ground. A crack a few inches above my left hand provided my next grip, and another solid foot placement pushed me further. My right hand extended in the desert air, finding another edge in the rocks. My muscles flexed and I rose further. Just as my eyes scanned the rocks for my next grip, my hand broke loose. My body swung away from the canyon wall as my opposite grip held for a moment, until it slipped away. My knee crashed into the rock wall, and I rolled back on my hip before landing on the canyon floor. I had made it three feet. I stood and brushed the dust from my clothes. A small stream of blood trickled down my leg from a cut on my right knee. A sudden, unexpected rage rushed forward. I lunged after the rock wall again, firmly grabbing it and stomping my feet into place. Again, I rose off the ground. Come on, dumbass, what are you waiting for? My feet and hands pressed into the gritty sandstone, each grip firmer than the last. Soon I was 10 feet up the rock wall, becoming more comfortable with each step. My measured breaths gave way to a steady pant, my muscles already burning, and my face wet. The lightly worn path led through the first slab, to the base of the first technical section, a thirty-foot corner known as Bear’s Elbow. My ankles and knees flexed and hooked around the edge, finding adequate holds, as my hands slid up each wall. The fingers of my right hand curled and dug into a small crack, enough to begin. My body dragged against the coarse rock for a few inches, before I placed my hands and feet again. Stretched against the jagged sandstone to maintain balance, I crept up the wall. My soft hands, once hardened and calloused, seared with pain. The sandstone grains grinding through my skin with each grip. Beads of sweat gave way to steady streams. They poured down my face and dripped off my nose and chin, immediately painting the orange sandstone a deep red, before evaporating in the dry desert air a few seconds later. The unrelenting heat above the shade of the canyon made trying to wipe the sweat away a futile exercise. I found a good place to rest against the rock for a moment, as soon as I stopped moving my muscles screamed at me, my clothing plastered to my body. The cool, refreshing water in my bottle provided a brief respite. I gulped down as much as I could, then squirted just a little on my face, washing the stinging sweat from my eyes. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. The sandstone cliffs shimmered in the morning sunlight. Rich shades of orange, red, and brown, spotted with the occasional gray, blanketed the canyon. The vibrant hue was further accented by patches of green vegetation. A clear sky capped the landscape, the deepest blue I’d seen in years. I gave all this up, for a busy Bostonian life, perpetually caged in small white rooms filled with artificial plants, photos of distant places that nobody ever has time to visit, and desks covered with countless sheets of paper requiring endless shuffling. The only discernable end being to line the pockets of our precious clients.  A life that squeezes everything out of you, replacing it with nothing. I made that choice. But here, now, the worries and stress melted away in the desert sun, none of it really mattering. I took one last drink from my water bottle and, while trying to put it back in my belt, my right foot slipped. My weight abruptly shifted, sending me into a skid across the jagged rock. The water bottle left my hand as I frantically reached for something, anything. The loud metal on rock sound reverberated through the canyon as my water bottle crashed and rolled to the hard ground below. My hands and feet stretched in every direction, grabbing at any small protrusion or grainy surface. The coarse sandstone dug into my leg and face, shaving the skin bare before opening long gashes. Pushing through the pain, my fingers curled desperately into the rock, digging into the gritty surface. Every part of me squeezed closer to the rock, cutting deeper into my skin. I somehow managed to halt the slide, only falling a few feet, but it left me stretched too far. I would need to adjust to regrip, but any attempt threatened another fall. I hung there, my bloody fingernails boring into the rock as my arms trembled and my knees shook. You know you’re screwed now. The only way down isn’t good. This time there was nowhere to run. There was no safe, cozy office job a world away I could escape to. Mark had saved me countless times before and all I had given in return was a thousand broken promises. But not now. Now it was time to return the favor. I guess you’re just going to have to suck it up and get moving. My fingers began moving, inching their way up the wall to a better position. Instincts that had been dormant for years began to emerge as I found a hold and slid into a better position. From there, I regained solid footing and kept moving. One grip after another, one foot hold after another. My movements became more calculated, more precise, more focused. Soon I had moved above Bear’s Elbow and was over halfway through the climb. The next slab was tricky, but it didn’t slow me down. Above the slab was a section of angular sandstone bisected in several places by open cracks.  Above that was Wolf Overhang, the most treacherous part of the climb, with the summit immediately above. I was almost there. The cracks provided dependable grips and footholds, moving me ever closer to the overhang. My right hand disappeared into a larger crack, searching for a hold. As I scanned below for a foothold, a rattling noise spilled out of the crack, piercing the silence of the canyon and drilling into my ears. An unmistakable sound. My skin roiled with goosebumps, as chills bolted up my spine. I ripped my hand out of the crack. The momentum sent me into a barndoor swing away from the rocks. I scrambled to find a grip, anchoring onto a smaller crack. The swing halted. My eyes scanned the formation above me, searching for a way to get around the snake. My shaking hand slid into a new location, along the same crack but a few feet away from my initial grip. As my fingertips moved into the crack, the same rattling began, this time louder than before. I pulled my hand down again. I would need to move laterally along the wall. Far enough away that the snake would allow me to pass. My feet shuffled along a ledge in the rock wall, toward what looked like a smaller opening about 10 feet away. The snake remained silent as I inched past, narrowly escaping the encounter. What remained was the overhang. The route up was familiar, it was the most memorable part of the climb when the two of us did it years earlier. A series of open fractures in the otherwise monolithic overhang afforded safe passage but demanded focus and strength. The slanted ledge under my feet was no wider than a steel beam, just enough for a rest. My arms stretched as I tried to calm my quaking muscles, now the consistency of jelly. I wiped away the sweat that coated what felt like every part of me and chalked my hands. The summit awaited. I locked in each grip and foothold before pulling myself up, my movements now calculated and precise. Near the edge of the overhang, I hung for a moment, my feet loose in the desert breeze. Mark may be gone, but, at that moment, I had never felt closer to him. I swung my feet around and hooked my heel atop the sturdy rock, then slapped my hand around a crack, the light from the midday sun breaking through from the summit. My muscles flexed for one final pull.   I emerged atop the summit. Harsh breaths pushed their way out of me, and every muscle seared. We made it. I gingerly sat on the rock and looked out across the landscape, basking in the moment while the canyon grinned up at me. It was in that moment that I understood. He wanted his final resting place to be where few could find him. He wanted peace. I pulled the bag out of my pack, opened it and watched as his ashes caught the wind, forever mixing with the grains of orange and red sand that ride the wild desert breeze. And it was then that I felt that peace, the one Mark sought, settle over me. My eyes burned but my heart lifted. No more running. No more hiding. This was where I was meant to be.

17yixn

Flooded Out of 17th Floor

Flooded Out of 17 th Floor September 12, 2008 approximately 4PM: My husband and I walked along the fourth floor upper deck of our apartment parking garage persistently caressed by promising breezes ruffling our hair and cooling our humidity heated cheeks. Above us circled gray outer bands of clouds in perfect spiral formation interspersed with stripes of blue sky sporting sunshine between them. As beautiful as the effect appeared the atmospheric phenomenon was an ominous reminder of the approaching weather forecast. A monstrosity of a hurricane was knocking on the Gulf of Mexico coastline along Galveston, Texas and here we were, a mere forty-five miles inland, preparing to hunker down as recommended by the local weathermen. If you weren't out of Houston by now there was little chance you could get far enough away from the 400 plus mile wide path of the storm. Roads would be clogged and hotels full along any escape route. Earlier that week: My husband's career had him following various control engineering contracts throughout the US. Currently he was in Houston,Texas, for an indeterminate amount of time. Because I still ran my business in our home state of Illinois I would not always travel with him but would make extended visits to his location. My daughter's family had decided they would like to vacation in that locale so I rode down with them planning to stay for a while. My son-in-law was looking forward to attending an Astro's baseball game with his two young sons. All of us wanted to hit the beach in nearby Galveston. My husband had dragged our aging 28-ft fifth-wheel trailer down to live in and set it up in a new RV resort on the outskirts of the city. But recently he decided to rent an apartment blocks from his office instead. The plan was for the kids to stay in the camper while we moved to the apartment then later we could decide what to do with the cramped camper. The weather forecast turned nasty and changed all plans. The family decided to cut their trip short and high-tail it for home. My daughter cried when I decided to stay with my husband. The campground owners said you could leave the camper but you could not stay in it. That was all right. We had the perfect place to hunker down. The apartment building was a beautifully ornate solid 1980's concrete fortress so one could not hear every movement of neighbors to the sides, below or above. Although there was no one above. My husband, Walt, had chosen the largest, highest unit he could. It was formerly a two bedroom turned into a one bedroom on the 17 th story with a penthouse view of the city from the sheltered balcony. We stocked the fridge and filled both bathtubs with water as recommended and prepared to ride out the storm in our secure new apartment we had furnished with rental furniture. Evening of the 12 th : Not knowing the residents yet, we knew nothing of the hurricane party they were throwing in the sunken living room of the lobby on the entrance floor. With nothing else to do we stayed glued to the local weather station watching the approaching doom. For a while Walt stayed sentinel-like on the breezy balcony until the wind threatened to blow him away. The large window in what once was the second bedroom now turned living room rattled with the wind. The sliding door to the balcony off the dining room glowed as transformers sparked across the cityscape. And the TV winked out. With nothing else to do we turned in and fell asleep listening to the howling wind outside the ceiling to floor length window of the bedroom which looked out on the recessed balcony. Sometime in the middle of the night a horrendous noise above woke us. The sound of an engine? One that should have been better tuned. Walt assumed it was the building's generator reluctantly switching on above us on the rooftop. It sputtered and choked and grumbled and belched annoyingly loud directly above us. I wanted to know if the hallway outside of our door had lights on. The alarm clock did not. Due to issues with his hips Walt recently started using a wheelchair for mobility. So when I stepped down on our carpeted bedroom floor water squished between my toes. Aw, o h, what happened? None of the windows were broken open. He said the water was being forced in by the wind around the window wall. I took a look in the hallway and thankfully the lights there were working. With nothing else to do about the wet carpet at this time of night we tried to fall back asleep with the generator chugging and clanging away above us. At least it meant the elevators would be working. Suddenly all went quiet. “ Thank goodness, now we can get some sleep!” was our immediate thought. But the next thought was, “ Oh, no! That means the generator is out so we won't have working elevators! Yep, the hallway was dark.” Since there was nothing else to do we slept some more. Saturday, September 13 The following day dawned hot and humid which meant hot and humid inside our lovely wet apartment without air conditioning. With all three elevators out of commission we were pretty much stranded on the seventeenth floor. We received some information from a neighbor that the opulent downstairs lobby, game room and fitness center had been flooded because they were all located lower than ground level and the water had poured in from the street. A picturesque wall sized window shattered and the front double glass doors blew out, too. Their hurricane party had been rudely interrupted by...well, a serious hurricane featuring 110 mile per hour ferocious winds driving sheets of piercing rain! With nothing else to do I spent a good portion of the day trying to soak up water from the floors and carpeting. I slipped large red solo cups over all the legs of the rental furniture trying to save them from damage. One of the bathtubs leaked out our back-up water. It's no accident my husband's career title is 'control engineer'. He likes to maintain control of his environment. He felt out of control and quite antsy. He wanted out. It took some convincing because where were we going to go since we only had half a tank of gas in the truck and hotels were full. Finally, he calmed down enough to enjoy our forced isolation. But then that night we could hear drip...drip...and more dripping. Turned out the culprit was a sprinkler inside the linen closet. Why a sprinkler in the linen closet? I had to rescue our towels, extra sheets and blankets by spreading them around the humid rooms to dry out. Sunday, September 14 Walt had all he could stand. He was ready to go anywhere else. We packed what we could of his dress work clothes in a suitcase along with a duffle bag for my duds and a little of the still usable food in a cooler. He slung the duffle over his shoulder and loaded the cooler on the wheelchair planning to use it as a walker to manage the stairs. I thought if we needed more I could climb one trip up the 17 stories. Otherwise, my job was to roll the suitcase and corral the uncooperative cat. The only carrier we had for the cat, Blacktop, was a temporary box we got from the vet. Did I mention how humid it was? I had her in the hated confinement and lifted the box to go. I held the box handle but Blacktop was still firmly planted on the floor atop the bottom of the box. It disintegrated in the dampness. I tucked her under my arm and we started the descent. Part way down one of the 17 th floor residents was on her way up. When she saw the struggle my husband was having she went back down and recruited two strong young men to assist us. Luckily, our truck was intact. First he wanted to check on the camper before we decided what to do. We drove the eight miles to the campground and were surprised only one trailer had taken the plunge into the small man-made lake. Some of our wheel stops were never located but otherwise our camper was perfectly intact, also. Amazingly, the park had electricity. One of the few places that did. We passed lots of devastation along the route. We could see a long line at a nearby gas station. Probably the only one with working pumps for miles. He waited in that line for a couple of hours for more fuel while I set up camp again. In the next few days our idyllic oasis was overrun by utility vehicles with the workmen sleeping in their trucks. A welcome intrusion. It is one thing to ride out a hurricane and another to ride out the aftermath without power. No supermarkets, restaurants, gas stations, cell phones or any other conveniences were operational. Dodging downed trees, debris, poles and wires was the norm. This lasted for weeks throughout different parts of the region. We were blessed to have our little camper. And thankful for the electricity. My husband found out his G.E. office sustained substantial damage as many downtown buildings did so he didn't go to work for several days. We checked on our apartment. After three days they had one elevator working again but never did get the third one up and running in the following year we stayed there. The billiards room and fitness center also took all year to be repaired. The roof was hit by a funnel cloud taking out the generator, damaging the sprinkler system and elevator shaft. On the seventeenth floor and a couple below it all drywall needed to be stripped eighteen inches up and repaired. After three weeks we moved back in to it and sold our faithful camper to some rescue workers. Four months after Hurricane Ike we finally took a trip to Galveston Beach. The devastation still was an open wound. It caused billions in damage and had taken 195 lives, seventy five in Haiti where it first made landfall. Within three years the national weather service retired the name 'Ike'. He had left his mark. Do we like Ike? Well, we rode the wild wind of Ike and survived but were flooded out of our 17 th floor apartment!

zntfbg

The Wind Whispers

Baltasan is relaxing on the porch swing of his white cottage that overlooks Madeira Bay. He was born on Madeira Island and has lived his whole life by the sea. Ever since Baltasan was twelve, he had worked on commercial fishing boats. He retired thirteen years ago.  He didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice.  The company was moving to the mainland. So now he sits staring out at the ocean he loves so much. At eighty-three, Baltasan’s face shows the wear and tear of life at sea. His skin is wind-burnt brown, and his eyebrows are snow-white.  He has many wrinkles and a scar on his left cheek where a fishing net cable snapped and struck him in his face. From below his fisherman’s cap, his eyes are deep brown and full of life.   He watches the white caps roll into the bay and the large white clouds floating past like sails on ancient ships. Baltasan puffs his pipe, sees the smoke drift off in a northeasterly direction and smiles. “It’s a good day for fish.” The screen door squeaks open and slams shut as his granddaughter, Antinea, steps onto the porch. She wipes her hands on her apron after having washed the dishes. Antinea is in her mid-forties and cares for her grandfather. She cooks and cleans for him, makes sure he pays his bills, and ensures that he takes his medications. At his age, Baltasan sometimes forgets. The wind tosses her slightly greying hair as she shields her eyes with her hand. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Grandpa?” Baltasan squints his left eye as he looks at her and smiles. He wishes Antinea was married instead of wasting her life on him. He feels he is just a burden to her. She should have a house full of kids of her own. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Baltasan shakes his head. He returns his gaze to the azure sea. “Uh oh, Grandpa, I know that look! You’re thinking about going sailing, aren’t you.” Her grandfather grins, and as he rubs his chin in guilt, Antinea can hear his whiskers rasp. “You know I don’t like you sailing by yourself. It makes me nervous. What if something should happen, uh?” Baltasan holds his hands up in protest as much as in defense. “I know, I know, but I won’t be leaving the bay. It’s safe in the bay. There are lots of people around. And besides, it’s not too deep, and I’ll be bottom fishing, not sailing.”   Pressing his palms together, Baltasan pleads, “Please? Could you drive me down the hill to my boat, my beautiful grandchild?” Antinea places her hands firmly on her ample hips and frowns. “You’re such a lousy flatterer. If I agree, you must take the cell phone I gave you just in case I need to contact you. Okay?” Baltasan rubs his hands together gleefully and agrees before getting up from the porch swing. On their way to the docks, Antinea arranges to pick her grandfather up around four-thirty. “That gives you plenty of time to fish. But listen to me. Don’t bring any fish home.  The freezer is already full of fish! If you catch any more, they’ll just go to waste, understand?” Baltasan nods his head and starts to get out of the car. Antinea grabs his jacket and pulls him back to kiss his cheek. “I love you, Grandpa. Have fun and be careful !” “I will, I promise,” Baltasan says as he takes his gear out of the backseat of the car. “See you soon!” He walks down the wooden boardwalk until he comes to the slip where his boat is moored. It’s a small sailboat, a dinghy. It’s about ten feet long and can hold two good-sized men. He bought it with his brother, Alvaro, who is dead now. Alvaro was working on a commercial boat in the North Sea when it was hit by a rogue wave that washed him overboard. His body was never found. So sad. Baltasan blesses himself at the memory. After Baltasan has stored his rod and tackle, he heads for the bait shop. As he walks down the dock, Baltasan smiles.  This is his real home, the sea. He loves the smell of the bay, the bickering of the gulls, and the sound of the waves rushing up onto the sand and hissing as they retreat again. Baltasan stops to watch some sandpipers playing tag with the waves. The bell over the bait shop door tinkles as Baltasan enters. The shop owner behind the counter calls out when he sees who it is. “Well, if it isn’t Baltasan Amaral! I haven’t seen you in a while.  How have you been?” “Oh, I’m fine. My granddaughter doesn’t like me to fish alone. She thinks I’m too old to sail.” “She’s right! You are old.  Besides, she loves you. I’ll get you your bait.” “Thanks, and can I get a gallon of drinking water, too?” Baltasan asks while looking around the store. The bait shop looks as you’d expect. Fish nets hanging from the ceiling full of plastic fish and sea creatures. On the walls are buoys and ship wheels, and the aisles are lined with fishing supplies. The owner returns and places a container of sea worms and a jug on the counter. Baltasan strokes his chin and smiles, showing the gap where he is missing an eyetooth. It’s a small jug of wine. “Be sure to bring back the jug and the cork, and there will be no charge for you, my friend. Oh! Don’t use the cork for a bobber. It makes the wine taste fishy.” Baltasan scoops up his bait and the jug and agrees to return it after fishing. “One more thing, Baltasan. Did you hear that there may be a gale this afternoon? It’s only a chance, but you had better keep an eye out. If it starts to rain, I’ll call Antinea to come and get you, ya?” Baltasan is in a hurry now to get going before the storm. He stores the bait and the wine under the pilot’s seat and unties the mooring line. Using his oar, Baltasan pushes away from the dock to set his sail. He unfastens the rope that holds the sail closed and unwinds the halyard. Baltasan watches as he hauls the sail up to ensure the clips holding it to the mast run smoothly up the groove. About three-quarters of the way up, it snags. Baltasan lowers it a little and tries again. It is still stuck. “Ahh!” Baltasan grumbles. “It must need grease. I’ll have Cosme from the repair shop look at it when I return.” Baltasan gives one more big tug in frustration, and the line breaks free. “Good, good. Now I can fish!” To Baltasan, the port seems busier than usual, so he sets sail to the far side of the bay. The water is a little deeper but definitely less congested. The day is passing slowly, and Baltasan is enjoying himself immensely. The fish are biting, and the little dinghy is bobbing up and down in place. The boom swings gently from side to side, causing the boat to rock like a cradle. Baltasan takes a sip of wine while looking to the west. He sees a gathering of clouds taking place. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he thinks, “ Must be the storm the shop owner told me about. It looks like it might pass, though.” Baltasan should have known that gales move fast. Instead, he continues fishing—a mistake that is about to cost him. The charging gale wind hits the main sail with the force of a speeding freight train, nearly capsizing the boat.   Baltasan scrambles to haul in his anchor. It’s stuck fast in the rocks. Pulling his knife from his belt, he cuts the line. The sailboat immediately speeds off into the open ocean. The driving rain makes it difficult for Baltasan to see as he manhandles the rudder. The sail is billowing and floundering back and forth in the strong gale winds. Dodging the boom swinging wildly, Baltasan decides the best thing to do is to lower the sail and ride out the storm. He pulls on the halyard, which is firmly stuck at the top of the mast. Cursing, Baltasan jerks and snaps the rope to no avail. He grabs the dangling rope line on the boom to tie it off on a cleat. A sudden strong gust of wind blows the sail into the side of Baltasan’s head, crushing his temple.                                                                   … Baltasan regains consciousness to the sound of someone calling his name. “Wake up, Baltasan! The storm is over!” Baltasan shields his eyes from the sun and asks, “Who are you? Where am I?” “What?  Do you mean to say you don’t even know your own brother?” the stranger laughs. “You can’t be my brother. My brother is dead.” Baltasan struggles to sit up. “I think you had better clear your eyes and then tell me I’m not Alvaro Amaral!” Baltasan takes another look and then grabs his brother by his shoulders. “Alvaro! It’s you. It’s truly you! But how? You died at sea!” Alvaro looks his brother in the eyes and frowns. “I hate to tell you this, Baltasan, but so have you.” Baltasan knits his eyebrows together and firmly rejects the idea. “No! No, I’m alive!  Look at me.”   Baltasan holds his arms out for Alvaro to inspect. “During the storm, do you remember feeling a sharp pain here?” Alvaro asks, pointing to his head. Baltasan remembers a sharp pain but can’t remember anything else after that. “That’s when the boom hit you hard on your temple.  It was a deadly blow, Baltasan. Antinea called the Autoridade Maritma Nacional to search for you after the storm. They found you and our sailboat smashed upon the rocks about three miles down the coastline. They told Antinea that when they found you, you still had the halyard wrapped around your hand, and they had to pry your other hand off the rudder. Alvaro places his hands on his hips and says proudly, “Ah, a true sailor right to the end.” Baltasan takes his hat off and hangs his head sadly. “I’m dead. Well, doesn’t that beat all? What do we do now, Alvaro?” “Now? Now we set sail west into the setting sun.” “And what will happen after that? Tell me I want to know.” “After that, we pull ashore on the beaches of Paradise! The place of no more sorrow.” Baltasan smiles broadly, showing his missing eyetooth. “And no more tears!  Let’s raise the sail, bother, for I am anxious to get there!” As Baltasan raises the sail, a gentle breeze billows it out, and a soft voice whispers in the wind, “Home. I’m taking you home.”    

qwb4np

Memory breeze

The soft, warm breeze blew across the old man's face as he sat in a rocking chair on the old withering porch. Before his wife of 42 years passed away last year, this is where she would sit every morning. At the time, he did not understand why she would spend many hours sitting in this very spot but that was not in his place to question her about. So he never did. He was not to question something that she loves so much and what made her happy. It wasn’t until he saw her laying in that hospital bed was when she finally decided to bring the topic up. What she told him at that moment changed his life forever. He took her hand, bringing it up to his face in a soft and gentle movement, placing a kiss on her hand as he did everyday throughout their life together. He paused; her hand still placed against his face as he heard a soft whisper come from the bed. Lowering her hand and placing it gently onto her stomach he smiled. “Hi, my darling.” he said softly. Though with age and sickness, his wife was still the most beautiful person he ever laid his eyes upon. She smiled weakly, breathing heavily. “I'm leaving now.” she said. She looked so happy and calm, she was ready. He knew that he should call the nurses, but he didn’t. Her time to move on is now and he didn’t want her holding on while in pain any longer. “The wind,” she said between breaths. He once again grabbed her hand for comfort. Rubbing her palm with his thumb to let her know that he was listening. “It tells you stories” she said again, this time more spaced out and softer. Tears began forming in the old man's eyes as he listened. “The wind carries memories.” That was the last thing she said to him before she moved on. Today marks one year since her passing and the old man would play those words in his head every day, not really knowing what to make of it. Today was the day where he mustered up enough courage to sit in her rocking chair on the front porch. Every day before this day he would tell himself that he would do it, but he would always come to find that the task was harder than he could handle. “It’s just a chair, nothing difficult about it” he told himself as he touched the old wood that made up the rocking chair. The old man made this chair for his wife 40 years ago when she was pregnant with their baby boy, who knew it would have stayed here for all these years. Letting out a sigh. As he lowered himself into the chair, he felt accomplished and closer to his wife than ever before. That's when it happened, what she must have been talking about that day, right before she passed. The breeze was soft and warm, but it seemed to whisper at him. He got up quickly out of confusion and fear. He had been on this planet for 67 years and not once has wind ever had a voice, let alone speak. “I must be going crazy,” he said out loud, following it up with a laugh. “There is no way wind can talk. It’s impossible” the old man grunted as he made himself believe that his mind was playing tricks on him. He took a large, Deep breath as he closed his eyes and slowly lowered himself into the chair once more. This time it was quiet, the wind stopped momentarily. With his eyes still closed he began to softly rock back and forth. Another breeze picked up, this time it definitely sounded like there were voices but instead of jumping up, the old man decided to open his eyes to see for himself what he must be hearing. As his eyes adjusted to the light, that's when he saw her. His wife. But not the one he saw a year ago, it was the woman he first met. Her long red hair flowed as she sat in the grass reading a book. The man was about to get up, to go after her, but the second his body left the chair she was gone. He sat back down fully on the chair and like magic, there she was again. She looked so happy. Seconds later he saw himself approach her. The younger version of himself. “I remember this,” the old man said to himself. This is how I met her. A joyous feeling that the old man hasn't felt in so long seemed to return to his body as he watched his younger self sit next to her. The wind came to a gentle stop and the scene in front of him disappeared. “No no no no no! Why did it leave? Come back! Please!” The old man pleaded but the only thing in front of him now was just his normal front yard. Hours went by and the old man remained in that chair with no luck, he was determined to sit there for as long as it took to see his beautiful wife again. “It's beautiful. I love it” a voice said next to him causing the old man to wake. He must have sat in that chair so long; it caused him to drift into sleep. He opened his eyes to see his wife again, this time she's a few years older than the last memory. She was holding onto the younger version of the old man's hands and looking directly at the porch he was sitting on. Hopeful thoughts that she could see him went away as she continued to speak. “Oh, look at this porch! Over there maybe we could put a rocking chair” she said excitedly as she pointed in the old man’s general area. “And over there we could start a garden!” She ran over to the other side of the porch pointing to the spot where the old man's wife spent so many hours every year creating a garden that she was so proud of. “Whatever you decide to do, my love. I know you will make this house into a home for us” the younger version of himself said. The memory disappeared again as the wind came to a slow halt once more. THE WIND! That was what was causing these memories! The old man realized. This is why his wife would sit out here for hours every day! She would watch her life as if she was watching a movie play on repeat. A huge smile crept up onto his face as he stood up. He imagined all the memories that she relieved over and over throughout the years. He did not understand why the wind chose this chair to have such an ability, but he decided not to ask any questions and just be grateful for the gift nature has given him. Day by day the old man would wait for the wind to return and when it did, he would go to the rocking chair to feel the wind take him away in stories that he held so dear to him. Him and his wife getting married in the front yard right after they bought the house, his son learning to ride his bike outside in the paved driveway for the first time, the time they watched shooting stars in the grass. All of these memories seemed to make him feel alive again. The wind brings the man great gifts that money cannot buy. But alas, the wind can also bring destruction just as much as it can bring happiness. Dark clouds filled the skies as the wind grew heavy. Rain pattered the house like rocks falling from the sky. The old man could hear the house groaning from the wind beating on its sides, the sounds that the house were making sounded as if the house was pleading for someone to protect it from the harsh storm. But there was nothing the old man could do but hide away in the basement and wait out the storm. Several hours went by and the wind and rain stopped. The old man could hear the songs of birds outside giving him the safe call that it was okay to come out of hiding. The inside of the old house looked unbothered by the storm but as he looked out the window, nothing could prepare him for that sight. Tree limbs littered his yard and on the roof of his garage causing it to cave in. His heart sank seeing his once beautiful property now destroyed. He suddenly remembered the rocking chair. As he made his way to his front door, he started pleading to God that the chair is okay and that the wind didn’t hurt his key to happiness. Opening the front door slowly, he saw it. The once beautiful, hand carved chair that took him weeks to perfect for his wife was now destroyed. The wind picked it up during the storm and it crashed into the side of the porch causing the wood to splinter into a hundred pieces. Dropping to his knees, the old man began to cry. Frantically grabbing the pieces. Attempting to put it back together as if the chair was that easy to fix. But no hope was found. It was gone. A week went by as the old man mourned the loss of a gift mother nature gave to him but then took away. The old man held onto the large piece of wood that survived the storm, on it is where he had engraved him and his wife's initials when he first built it. The old man made his way to the cemetery in which his wife was buried. He didn’t visit it much because he couldn’t deal with the fact that she was actually gone. With a deep sigh the old man kneeled down at his wife's grave. He reached his hand out and softly brushed the dirt off of her tombstone. “A wonderful wife and loving mother” the tombstone read. The man closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly while still holding her tombstone. “Thank you, my love. Thank you for showing me the amazing life I had with you once again” the man said with a tone of voice that no longer held pain. Instead, his voice had a tone of gratuity in it. He reached into his pocket carefully, pulling out the broken piece of wood from her rocking chair and set it on her grave. “The wind showed me so much these past few weeks and now I want the wind to take you to your eternal happiness” he said as he began to stand. Right as he was about to turn and leave a soft, warm breeze blew across the old man’s face. Taking a long deep breath in, he knew that from this moment forward everything is going to be alright.

baet1r

Mistral's song

As Carly stepped off the bus, a gentle breeze tickled her face, causing a strand of her long, blond hair to blow across her cheek. She impatiently brushed it back with her fingers and looked around, searching for the route that would take her to the pier. The outdoor cafes and narrow streets wound their way past old stone buildings with sepia potted flowers on tiny wrought iron balconies. She felt like she was in a scene straight out of a movie. Naive young American takes Europe by storm. The village was so picturesque, it called to her. She really wanted to explore its cobbled roads more, but she couldn’t also wait to make her way down to the waters, to the Mediterranean on the fabulous Cote d’Azur. She couldn’t wait to make her way to Philippe. Carly turned to her equally wide eyed companion who was glancing around, her head swiveling between the town and the ocean, where the water sparkled like diamonds. Boats of all shapes and sizes were docked in long rows waiting for their captains’ hands to take them out. Sarah was her wingman, her fellow American. Or first mate, Carly guessed she should say, since they were about to set sail. Sarah hadn’t hooked up with a French guy herself, but she was up for accompanying her friend on any adventure. And that adventure just happened to include going on a sailboat ride with Carly’s boyfriend Philippe and his friend, Antoine. The girls, American college students studying in the south of France, had met some handsome young rugby players. Despite their limited skills in the French language, the girls had managed to strike up a friendship with the players. Or in Carly’s case, a romance. She thought it might have been the case of opposites attracting. Philippe, the swarthy muscular French athlete who lived in an apartment in Avignon with his family and Carly, the tall, lanky Scandinavian American from Minnesota, who spoke French with a terrible accent. She was here, after all, to study French. She lived with a French family in an immersion program to improve her language skills while studying at the local university. Sarah was doing the same. The girls had quickly bonded, being two Midwesterners in a foreign country. Two fish out of water. Carly had met Philippe and his friend at the local gym when Sarah had begged her to join her in a Pilates class. Carly was now so very glad she had let her friend talk her into it. Post workout, they had been in the sauna, when she had struck up a conversation in stilted French with the handsome young Frenchman. The rest was like a scene from that movie Carly kept seeing in her head about the moony, starry eyed young American set adrift in a foreign country. Despite their cultural differences and the language barrier, she and Philippe had been drawn to one another and had started seeing each other. Much of their romance involved sitting in outdoor cafes and drinking wine underneath starlit skies, followed by furtive kisses and heavy groping. Carly had fallen head over heels for Philippe. Besides being so good looking, his French accent made her swoon. Philippe was like a bottle of fine wine, and she had sampled many of those during her time in Provence. She had made it a point to try a bottle from each one of the surrounding vineyards. This was the wine country, after all. Philippe seemed only too eager to help her in her quest to sample fine wine. She didn’t know how he maintained his athlete’s physique, drinking so much. She guessed it was a French thing. She loved wine, but hadn’t quite worked up any kind of tolerance for it. After many of their nights together, she woke up with a pounding headache and what the French called “gueule de bois", or wooden mouth. Still, it was a small price to pay for heady, romantic, albeit fuzzy nights spent with Philippe. It still felt like a movie or a dream to her. Like she really wasn’t here. But why shouldn’t she have a whirlwind romance with a handsome young Frenchman? She was only young once, after all. This experience was surely one that someday, years later in her old age, she would look back on fondly, with a smile. Her coming of age, her first love, most likely, her first heartbreak when she would leave someday to go back to America. Well, she would cross that bridge when she came to it. For now, they needed to make their way down to the dock where they were meeting the guys. Philippe’s friend Antoine was from a wealthy family. He had a condo and a sailboat here in Nice. They had invited the girls to meet for a day of sailing. Carly thought it was sure to be an experience they would never forget. The girls walked leisurely through the sand by the startling blue water. Carly was glad she had worn her sandals. There was nothing worse than getting sand in your shoes. Along with her sandals, she wore a long, loose comfortable skirt with an oversized, puffy white blouse. Hoop earrings and an infinity scarf around her neck completed her look. She was trying to appear effortlessly chic and French, glamorous and exciting. No jeans and tennis shoes for her. Tennis shoes made you look so American. She was sure Philippe had been with many sophisticated French women before her. She didn’t want to appear like an American hick. Carly wasn’t sure what the proper attire was for sailing. She wondered if she should have worn leather boat shoes. Again, though, she didn’t want to appear gauche. Deck shoes seemed almost as bad as sneakers. She pulled on her scarf, adjusting it so it lay nicely around her neck. She loved infinity scarves. Loved the look of a scarf, hated having to tie them. The looped scarf made it so easy. Infinity meant it had no end and nothing to tie. Kind of like her relationship with Philippe. It had no end at the moment. They weren’t firmly tied together. They hadn’t talked about what would happen when she would eventually return to America. Surprisingly, that was fine with her. Right now, she was just having a good time. Let the end take care of itself eventually when the sands of her hourglass ran out. Carly pushed her dark glasses further up on her nose. While doing so, she once again brushed her wind whipped hair back from her face. She was glad she had worn her shades. The sun was so bright and the sand such a pristine white it hurt the naked eye. Even though the sun beat down on her shoulders, it wasn’t overly hot though. That cool gentle breeze continued to caress her face and tease her hair. She had yet to experience Le Mistral , the famed strong Mediterranean winds. The perfect day matched her mood. Carly felt strangely liberated and light, as free as the breeze that gently swirled the air. All her life someone had always hovered over her, telling her where to go and what to do. Her parents, teachers, roommates, even the resident assistants in her dorm. For the first time, Carly felt like an independent person. She could go wherever she wanted in this amazing foreign country. Everything was so different and appealing, so unlike home. This drastic change of scenery made her feel like she could be a different person. She could shed any preconceived notions of herself and be a totally new person. No one expected anything of her. She could say anything, do anything, be anything. It was a heady thought. Sarah sighed dreamily, interrupting Carly’s reverie. “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” Carly nodded her head enthusiastically. She couldn’t help but echo that sentiment. Suddenly, however, a gust of wind blew fiercely. It blew so strongly, her gauzy scarf rose inches off her neck, before settling back down into its endless loop. She glanced up. The previously bright sky was now overcast. The sun now hid behind an ominous dark cloud. She took off her sunglasses and looked out to sea. The few boats that were on the water were rapidly heading to shore. White caps danced on the surface of the previously serene waters. Carly saw a boat with the name Ursula printed on its bow speeding back to shore, its billowing sail fully inflated. All of a sudden, a booming crash sounded and a cartoon-like, jagged lightning bolt split the sky. “Sarah?” Carly said in a small voice. “What?” “Where are the guys? Weren’t they supposed to meet us here on the dock?” “They were. At least, I think that’s what they said. You know my French isn’t so good. What was the name of their boat again? Maybe we can try to find it,” Sarah reasoned. “I doubt we’re going to go out anyways. Not in this weather . . . “ Carly replied. “I think the boat’s name is Valhalla, though.” “Valhalla? What does that mean? Is that French?” “Actually, it’s Nordic. It means ‘Viking heaven.’ Philippe’s obsessed with Vikings, and he convinced his friend to pick that name for his boat.” She blushed. “He says I’m his Viking princess, being Swedish and being from Minnesota. The Minnesota Vikings, get it?” “Oh, I see.” Sarah laughed. “Well where is this Viking heaven boat?” “Good question.” The girls continued walking, scanning the names written on the bow of each sailboat. The wind was now whipping, and the air had turned cold, making Carly wish she had brought her sweater. Although they had heard that initial clap of thunder and seen lightning illuminate the sky, it had only happened once. The sky was quite dark, however. She had to squint to read the names of the boats. At least it wasn’t raining yet, only very chilly. Carly shivered. She now felt goosebumps pimpling her arms each time the wind blew. “Did you try calling Philippe’s cell?” Sarah asked Carly. “Bonne idee,” Carly said, wondering why she hadn’t thought of that sooner. She pulled her phone out of her purse and punched in the number. It went straight to voicemail. She hunched down into her scarf, now feeling the first rain drop hit her head. “No answer?” Sarah asked. “No,” Carly replied. “What are we going to do?” Sarah looked worried. “Do you think they forgot about us?” “I don’t know.” Carly said. “Maybe we should ask someone if they've seen them.” “Ok. Go ahead. Go for it. Your French is better than mine,” Sarah said. The girls trudged along, their steps heavy. The pier was now deserted. There was no one to ask for help, in either French or English. The foreboding weather must have chased everyone away. The wind was whipping. There wasn’t a sailboat in sight on the water. All had returned to shore. Nor could they find a boat named Valhalla. Off in the distance, thunder cracked. The sky was now pitch black. Rain began to fall. It soon turned into a torrential downpour. Both girls were rapidly becoming soaked to the skin. “Sarah? Let’s go.” Carly urged.  Her teeth were starting to chatter. She was drenched and starting to freeze. “Go where?” Sarah asked. “Go home. We need to catch a bus or a train or something and get out of here. We’ve obviously been deserted. Or stood up. I’m not sure what happened.” Carly felt a stab of pain and disappointment. She had really looked forward to spending the day with Philippe, out on the water. It obviously wasn’t meant to be. “I guess I could try Philippe’s phone one more time,” she continued, punching her phone screen in frustration. Again, it went straight to voicemail. It was now confirmed. She had officially been stood up. That romantic movie was rapidly turning into a nightmare. Little did she know the true horror of the situation. Far out on the water, a lone sailboat had capsized. Its sail was dragging in the water. One man clung desperately to the boat’s hull. His red rimmed eyes were exhausted. He looked around frantically for his friend who was nowhere to be found. The boat’s name. The Valhalla. Legend says that every good captain is supposed to go down with his ship. In this case, however, the boat’s owner had survived, while the first mate had gone overboard, striking his head on the mast when the boat capsized in strong winds that arose out of nowhere. Antoine had tried desperately to save his friend, but Philippe had thrashed in panic. He had almost pulled Antoine under in a choke hold when Antoine tried to rescue him. Antoine reacted instinctively, flailing about and kicking fiercely to the surface, struggling mightily and gasping for air. By the time Antoine dove back down to find Philippe, he was gone, disappearing back into the murky depths of the water. In Philippe’s mind, Valhalla had meant just a peaceful day out on the water with his friends. In his struggle with the fierce Mistral wind, however, the Mistral had won. Like the Viking warriors before him, Philippe was now an immortal in Valhalla’s hallowed walls. The Mistral had claimed her victory by pulling her prize under. She had tossed him about capriciously like a child playing with a toy before dragging him to his doom. Months later, after much digging, Carly finally found out the fate of her erstwhile lover. Another had indeed taken him from her. The Mistral had won.

r9sqt1

Wind Direction

The light breeze buffeted the back of my head, raising a small tuft of hair. It may even have been the breath of a whisper. I cupped my hand around the cigarette dangling from my mouth, while I tried to keep the tiny flame of the match from being extinguished. I inhaled deeply and exhaled a stream of anxiety, relaxing into getting started on my plans for the day. When I turned back around upon achieving success with my habit and shaking out the match, a hungry flame stuttering it’s way though the prairie grass caught my eye. I moved to stomp it out under my boot, but just as I stepped forward, a gust of wind fanned the blaze into three, before I could get there. I tried stomping out all three frantically, but instead, they kept growing and moving with the blustery wind. My heart beat a staccato rhythm hard in my chest as I tried to quickly decide what needed to be done. Soon, I knew the fire had grown beyond control and I needed to escape. I started to run. The flames sprinted after me, pushed by the now strong and steady wind. I’m not sure what was hotter that day – the wind on my neck, or the fire taking chase. I had come to visit the remains of the homestead on this prairie; to sketch the ghosts of my ancestors. I wanted silence and answers. A roaring prairie fire is not what I had expected, but it was a dramatic response, which provided me with clear choice and direction. That is what I was looking for. ------------ The strong wind pushed at my back. When I turned to look over my shoulder, the sharp air caused my eyes to fill with prickling tears and blurred the scene on the horizon. The distant flames melted into an orange/bronze color pallet. It looked like the sunset. I looked ahead again, comforted by the buffeting wind at my back. I had outrun the flames on my heels, fueling themselves on the hot wind and prairie grasses. I was running toward the river. I couldn’t swim, but I jumped in anyway – I floundered and thrashed, yet I did not drown. I made it to the other side, where the fire couldn’t follow. No matter how it licked and jumped with the gusts of wind, the river was too wide. I watched the flames across the bank, mesmerized by the red intensity. Then the winds shifted and the angry beast started moving away, letting me alone. I watched for a moment in it’s retreat, greedily consuming the grasses in another direction. I pulled my eyes away from the insistent orangish storm, and headed into the sparse woods on my side of the river. Maybe sparse, but it felt like the grip of a hand gently leading me. It was getting on twilight. I needed shelter to I could rest safely for the night; get my bearings in the morning. When I found a place to rest not too far into the edge of the forest, my body trembling at the thought of what had happened in what felt like floating in a surreal moment, but even as I closed my eyes I could still hear the crackling of the flames, reminding me of the realness of the day. --------- When I awoke, a lighter breeze was rustling the leaves of the trees, moving the mottling of sunshine back-and-forth on the forested ground. The morning light was welcoming, but the air was already stifling My lungs struggled to refresh themselves in the hot air. I could still hear the crackling of the hungry blaze across the river, building itself back up with the sunrise. I wanted to get moving, to be heading somewhere. I wanted to get a look at the land I had left behind. A glimpse was all I needed to show me the intensity of the fire. The charred prairie left me feeling overwhelmed and sad. The pieces of my ancestors left on the prairie most likely gone. From the bank of the river, to the small rise where my family’s homestead had been, was blackened. A barely noticeable deer path appeared to my view. I chose to follow it, not knowing where it lead, but I didn’t know which way to go, anyway. All I knew, is that I wanted to move in the opposite direction of the fire. I wandered down the path for several hours, not quite knowing where to turn. When the sun shone highest in the blue sky, I decided to sit and I scrounged around in my small bag for the snacks I had packed for the originally planned day trip. It had survived my run and swim, along with the contents. My sketch pad hadn’t fared so well, as I left it sitting on a piece of stone jutting from the ground, where the fire started. I took that as another sign to develop a new direction. I finished my snack and decided to go down a new path I could barely make out. It branched off from the slight deer trail I’d been following, and looked a little different and maybe just a tad bit more obvious. It looked like it moved deeper into the forest and further from the river, though. I still moved forward with determination, even though I hadn’t the slightest idea where this would end, nor how to survive another night in the forest. I did notice, though, that the singing of the birds and the chattering of the squirrels was becoming more prominent than the sounds of the fire. I started down it, soon noticing my surroundings getting a little darker, and the wildlife, quieter, as the growth thickened. The tall trees started to make me feel a sense of foreboding, instead of peace. I needed a chance to sit and rest and think. I made my choice, and when I stood to head forward, I felt a slight breeze once again at my back. Instead of continuing down the path before me, I would make my own.

hle0j4

The Howl of the Djinn

Tarek holds a message in his hand as the harsh winds of the Sahara blow reddish sand against his blistering face. He has been banished by the Caliphate for treason, against a tyrannical leader who used him as a scapegoat for his clandestine missions. He has been ordered to be hanged in public forum, his escape meant only his doom. Noone would dare venture out into the endless desert with nothing to be seen for miles. Hours pass, before the summer night finally gives way to the cooling moonbeam. He hears a faint growl echoing in the distance. Could it be an animal? His instincts tell him otherwise. He's been a tracker all of his life. He can easily distinguish a bat falcon's call from a peregrine's, or a jackal's howl or the fox's screech. This growl is neither human nor animal. He makes camp for but a few short hours. He must journey forth again, before the sun rears its fiery head. He must find shelter from the heat and drink his last few drops of water. As pitch black night covers the barren landscape, Tarek hears a faint laugh as the glinted eyes of a hyena approach him in front of the freshly cooked wild hare he's eating. It was only a matter of time before a predator would come sniffing around his camp. He shoots his crossbow in front of the starving animal and throws a large chunk of his meal to him as the animal catches it in its mouth. "It appears you may need it more, my friend." Always a humble soul, even in dire times, Tarek has achieved within a decade more than any assassin has in a lifetime. Now he's been left to his own devices, to either die within the walls of the Caliph's court or in the violent blistering desert storms. As the sand dunes once again shift against him, he seeks East to make prayer, as he asks for guidance, hoping for a mere sliver of good fortune to befall him, so that he can return once again as an equal, and not as some savage dog in the street. He seeks no vengeance, but merely to return to service and be absolved of all charges. Though the odds are impossibly high that he'll ever be cleared of any wrongdoing , he must either rid the Caliph of his station or present the truth to him, wishing for mercy. 'This would be a foolish endeavour' he thinks 'No amount of proof would deny the Caliph his judgement, and he would rather save face than ever admit to making an error'. An etheral voice beckons in his mind "Perhaps vengeance is the key after all. Think of what you could accomplish. All the righteous struggle and persevere, in this life or the next." 'Maybe so, but the price of blood can leave many bloodied. How can I guarantee revolt if the blood of the innocent could stain my name forever? I must find a way to end this without bloodshed.' The disembodied voice once again speaks 'You cannot ever guarantee such a thing, but...think of all the good it will do. No more senseless wars under tyranny. No more slaves as warriors. No women and children without fathers dying in vain.' 'This is true. This is important to consider.' The voice howls further 'Do you wish to be a fool and die as a criminal or thrive as a patriot and experience glory?' 'I care not for the glory. I choose to remain as the hidden hand that moves mountains in silence. ' 'A wise decision, young Tarek.' The hyena moves forth from the darkness biting down on a black sheathed scimitar emblazoned with a golden script from an ancient script preceding his own ancestors. "God blessed thee, my friend. Indeed there was more to you than I sensed." The assassin finally speaks aloud. "You are perceptive, young Tarek. I've lived here thousands of years long before humanity ever existed, born of smokeless fire, we have thrived as our own race, but the Most High had chosen us to serve humanity. Some rebelled, and some conformed, and others...had quietly forged a path of their own away from divine sight, keeping their mind clear and their souls pure." the voice of the mysterious entity is fierce and powerful, but calm and focused. "This blade has passed leaders in secret circles, and each time they rise to the next life, I retrieve it once again to forge a new justice with a new one to possess it. It was forged by one of our own from a fallen star." "If you feel this to be my fate, I cannot led myself astray from it. This is my path, and I, like you must create my own." Tarek senses its power penetrating the very fabric of his soul as he grasps the handle of the sword and pulls it out of its sheath. "Be warned, young Tarek. Use your newfound power wisely, for life is indeed what you choose to make of it. We transcend good and evil, but the laws of man rule this world. Many have claimed to use this power for selfless reasons, but you will find yourself at an impasse, where you will have to make difficult decisions. Do not stray from your path." The demon cautions him. "I WARN YOU ONCE MORE!!" the djinn's voice growls with fiery rage "do....not...stray..." The mystical figure whispers in the night as its figure fades, with first light making its way out onto the horizon. He takes hold of his new scimitar and sees a wooden chest peering out of the sand with identical black colour as the sheath with golden mysterious ancient script. Tarek touches the wooden chest as it opens revealing more weaponry, bladed and some unusual ones he hasn't seen before, crossbows, composite bows, spears and short swords. 'This is far too much for me to carry. I should only choose another, perhaps two.' he thinks. With his right hand he grasps a glove with large talons made of the blackened meteor metal, they look like a lion's claws and with his left he grasps a small dagger smeared with a yellowish clear substance, a poison as if from a scorpion. Tarek arms himself with his new weaponry as the chest closes on its own and sinks deep into the sandy depths. The journey begins...the scorpion stings, the lion growls, and the blade cuts as he carries his parchment forth into the unknown.

r6zc9o

The Odyssey

As the sea tosses the Odyssey between its mountainous waves like a ping-pong ball, it's all I can do to keep one hand on the rudder. She's in bad shape, and I'm not much better. Ugly purple-blue bruises stain my arms and sides from the amount of times I've been thrown against the edge of the boat. With wind stinging my face in its spiteful embrace, and rain blurring my vision like tears, I can hardly see a foot in front of me. Although it wouldn't be much if I could; the whole ocean from the waves in front of the Odyssey to the horizon is frothed up in a frenzy of raging movement, and everything looks the same. Another wave crashes against the side of the boat, and she tips sideways. My legs slip out from under me. I'm hanging, arms stretched high over my head as all I can hold onto is the rudder. The Odyssey is almost still, stuck in the uncertain midpoint between falling right-way-up or upside-down. I clench my eyes shut and breath in deeply. My stomach clenches as I try to hold in the air I'll need when the boat gets overturned. The vicious wind assaulting my ears stops me from hearing the wave that turns us over. My head hits the deck. I lose my grip on the rudder. My senses flood with water. I try to keep a clear head without opening my eyes. Hopefully, the hundreds of storms I've been in before have adequately prepared me for this. It's what I think every time, but I never know until the storm's passed and I'm still alive. Under the waves, the current's still the same. It tosses me from one wave to another. I grope around for a hand-hold – I must know this deck enough to find one. But within the rage of the storm, I can't place my thoughts steadily enough to get a clear picture of the deck above water, and I plan to spend as little time as possible studying it from beneath. After what seems like hours, I manage to grip something. It's a kind of pole, thick so that I have to use both hands to hold on. My lungs raise a tentative whine, a plea for my mouth to open. Not yet, I tell them. Previous storms have taught me I'll have to wait until the fury is over before I upturn my boat; meanwhile, I'll have to find my way onto the 'bottom' of the boat to catch a breath, and try not to slip off until the storm has passed. I claw my way to the edge of the boat. My eyes are stinging from the exposure to salt water and from how tightly I'm clamping them together. There's a flame alight in my lungs, and I fight the urge to open my mouth for just one second to put the fire out. I grab the end of the keel and try to push myself up, but it's too wet and slippery to get a firm hold. The waves slap me against the boat. My mouth opens involuntarily to groan in pain, and I clamp it shut. Too early – water has managed to creep inside my mouth, but air hasn't. Clinging desperately to the edge of the keel, I wrap my legs around the rope I keep coiled on the end of the deck, not daring to open my eyes. I clench my knees together and try to pull the rope up to me. It slips. I only just catch it with my feet. Suppressing a yell, I force myself to remain calm. Panicking could make me drown. Trying a different tactic, I use my boots to spread the rope out. I have to let go of the keel with one hand so I can hold it. I hesitate, then shake the indecision out of my head. Indecision could make me drown too. My lungs burn as if they're being drenched in lava. My left hand's grip slips, and I take the opportunity to grasp the rope. Pulling it upwards, I grab the keel again, this time holding the rope between two fingers. A lull in the waves lets me take a shaky breath; just enough to keep me going. I try again with my right hand. Letting go of the keel, I grip the rope between two fingers. I fiddle with it until I've got a good grip, then pull my hand up to grasp the keel again. This is always the hardest part. So far, I've always managed it, but there's a first time for everything. If this doesn't work, I'm dead. I can't help the thought. I shove it away, recalling the faces of my wife and daughter. I need to live, at least for them. Gathering my courage, I pull my hands up, bringing the rope with me. It goes taut, and I stop myself breathing a sigh of relief – it will only waste breath. Tugging the rope upwards, I haul myself onto the bottom of the Odyssey, and allow myself a breath. My lungs are still burning, but it's bearable, for now. Only one more job. Taking a deep breath, I lay on my front and force my head under water. I don't waste time tying a Double Anchor Bend around the closest rail of my boat. Finishing it, I drag my head out of the water and quickly tie the other end of rope around my waist in a Bowline Knot. I pull myself back out of the water and treat myself to a well-earned breath. A few drops of salty water splashes past my open lips, but at least I'm not drowning anymore. Lying uncomfortably on my front, I stretch my arms and legs out to improve balance. I can feel my face turning red from being pressed against the keel, so I turn it sideways. One eye is too squished to open, the other is squinted for maximum balance of sight and clarity, given the waves that continue to assault me. Until the storm passes, I'm stuck like this. Afterwards, I can safely overturn the Odyssey – I can only hope it won't happen before I've untied myself. But for now, all I can do is wait.

svdh3x

Island Winds

The bombs had fallen near the village again the previous night, but this time, the house hadn't been hit. Billy and his mother had waited late into the morning around a small fire for news concerning the conflict. The room had a single bay window. It was patched up with cardboard, and harsh winds darted in and around it. Billy peered through curiously as the cardboard flapped. Being situated on a small coastal island, the circulating winds were not unusual in Hamley's Village, but today, amongst the brown leaves and ash, the wind carried a piece of paper. Billy watched as it zig-zagged from unreachable heights down to the dying grass of the yard. "Mum, there is something out there." "Stay inside, Billy. Stayed sheltered now," his mother replied. "But I recognize that paper. I must bring it inside." Before his mother could react, he pushed aside the cardboard, stepped over the window's up-pointing shards, and into the yard. The sheet had landed on the moist turf and was stuck there only by a corner. The lawn was sparse, and what remained of the surrounding fences was torn apart and jagged. Weeks of blasts had done their damage, and the wind had taken away the debris. Now those same winds blew, and Billy watched anxiously as the paper shook. He scurried over, snatched it from the ground, and returned to the house. I miss you. We must never give up It was Lyla's handwriting. "It's from her, Mum!" Billy exclaimed. Billy's home and school were here on the island, whereas Lyla lived on the mainland. He had grown close to her in class, but they had been separated since the island had lost power and the school had closed. Few dared venture over Hamley's footbridge, which crossed the strait and was the only link between the two landmasses; the mainland was considered at greater risk to the bombs, and the powerless island had little to offer except shelter to its inhabitants. On the island, only the lonely and despondent would populate the streets. They would gather by fires and hope for positive news, while others would stay home, leaving only to stock up on supplies from what remained in the village stores. "Your pen pal, Billy? The girl from the mainland?" his mother said. "Leave her be until this is over. Until this conflict ends, it is a time for family." Billy missed his time in class with Lyla. They had been leaving notes for one another for weeks under the litter bin on Hamley's Footbridge. Each would head out, leave a note, and wait a few days. Upon returning to the litter bin, the reply would be waiting. But by yesterday, Billy had counted eight days since Lyla's last note, so he feared the worst. "Mum, this note has come from her hand. I just want to see if she is okay. I know where her house is. I will just say hello and come straight back." "The streets are dangerous; the mainland more so," his mother warned. She directed her eyes upward, gesturing to the shudders of the beaten house. The island winds were familiar, but many had come to fear them since the bombs had fallen. They whistled through the shattered buildings and rattled the broken brick, delivering a constant reminder of the damage done. They brought bitter cold into powerless homes, heated only by small fires threatened by their force. Billy didn't think of the winds this way. To him, they made the streets sound alive. Those familiar howls were invigorating, energetic, and the island's lifeforce—the defiant cries of a hurting village. "Mum, the streets are dangerous, but isn't everywhere? This house has been hit once already. The wind is cold, but it always has been. I will be out thirty minutes only, an hour at most, and the bombs only drop at night. I just want to find her, and if that means going to the mainland, then so be it." Billy's mother looked away. He felt her disapproval but walked into the neighboring room, where an old chest of drawers sat in the corner. He was determined to find Lyla. Aware of his dusty clothes, he opened the top drawer where several of his father's clean shirts were kept. On the top of the pile was a blue one with long sleeves. It was creased but cleaner than the shirt he currently wore. He removed his jacket and shirt before slipping the new one on. The chill of the room fell hard on his chest as he raced to button it from bottom to top. When he picked up his jacket, he noticed it had also become layered with dust, and he shook it before putting it back on. In a tall mirror hung on the wall, Billy attempted to neaten his hair, but his dark curls were stiff with dust and refused to move. With one silent look to the living room, he opened the back door and slipped out of the house and into the street. Billy began his journey, holding his jacket in tightly as the winds swirled around him. He felt the chill, and dust blew into his eyes; light trash hit him on all sides. The empty wrapper of a sweet he was fond of stuck momentarily to his leg before blowing away. Memories of eating the sweet brought warmth to his cheeks. On recent trips to the bridge, Billy had grown prouder of his quaint village. The buildings were blemished with black ash and thick dust, but the unique curvature of the dry stone down each edge had retained its charm. And while the absence of lighting from the houses and shops left the streets dulled, the lack of glare rendered the reddish cobbled roads more distinguished. Turning the first corner, he headed down Cottage Lane, walking alongside a damaged wall, jumping on and off where the bricks had fallen. It had formed the south perimeter of the village gardens, and ornate metal railings crowned the parts that still stood. Billy knew Lyla loved this park. She would tap at the railings, playing it like a xylophone, and it would make him laugh. He picked up a stick and dragged it along the metal, causing a stuttered ring. As he approached the wall's end, he began another jump but hesitated as he noticed a crack through the center of the brick. "You be careful, lad," a voice called from over the street. It was the postman, Duncan Seymour, perched on a stack of two suitcases. He wore his postman's uniform. It was torn and marked with mud and dust, and his cap was lying on the floor beside him under a metal tin. He was drinking whiskey from a bottle. "There are worse things out here than crumbling walls, lad," Mr Seymour continued. "These winds are carrying all sorts. Where are you going?" "I received a letter, Sir," Billy replied. "Letter? The post hasn't run for weeks." "This isn't that kind of letter." "I see. Well, what do you plan to do with this letter?" "Find the girl who sent it, Sir." "What, out here? Young girls are not seen walking around here much. They are home with family." Mr Seymour took a drink from his bottle. "Where is she, anyway?" "The mainland, Sir." "The mainland?! That was hit very badly last night." "But I must try." Billy turned and walked away from Mr Seymour. "Get yourself home, lad. It is way too dangerous. And I suggest finding a bottle of this." Billy put his head down and began to walk more quickly. He waited for another call from Mr Seymour or a hand on the shoulder, but it never came. He turned a corner to the right onto Main Road. The stretch was long, and at the far end stood a church. A fire was burning outside, and people sat around it, warming themselves. As Billy approached, he counted five: two men and three women. Billy recognized one of the men as the village priest, who called to him. "How are you today, young Billy?" "I'm fine, Father. I am on my way to..." "Has your dad sent you out for supplies again?" the priest interrupted. "My dad was killed in the fourth blast. We buried him in the yard. I did most of the digging while Mum wrote some words." "I'm sorry to hear that, Billy," said the priest. "When was the last service you performed, Father?" said one of the women. "Six weeks ago, now," the priest replied to the woman. "Folk have been dealing with it themselves, as Billy just described. I hear many from the mainland are being mourned collectively." "You do right helping your mother, Billy," the woman said, rubbing her hands together. "Yes, you acted with strength and showed great support," the priest added. "How old are you now?" "Twelve, Father."  "Very good," the priest said. "Well, you must send your mother our condolences and love." "Poor child," another one of the women said. "So little hope to be had in this village." Billy thought of Lyla. "But I have lots of hope, Miss," Billy exclaimed. "That's the spirit, Billy," the priest said. "Now, be on your way home, wherever that may be now. Stay sheltered from these winds." The group nodded in agreement, and with no further word spoken, Billy continued toward the bridge with greater urgency. He felt the fire's warmth replaced by the wind's chill, and he held his arms in tight. Grey skies had been carried over the island, and the daylight had dimmed. Around the next corner and across Saville Lane was Manor Square. It was home to many beautiful statues and a popular area for villagers to meet during the day and trade supplies. He would often see Lyla there with her family, and they would run away and hide behind market stalls. Billy entered the Square. It was busy but quiet, and the shadows usually cast by the tall statues were absent under the grey skies. Many decorative slabs were cracked, but the greater floral spectacle they formed across the floor was still discernible. As Billy crossed, the people watched him with a curious sadness. Fires burned on all sides, and those warming themselves beckoned him to join, but he continued forward. A man playing a guitar was on the floor cross-legged at the Square's end. Billy was drawn to the gentle melody, and as he approached, he realized it was Mr Slattery, the music teacher from where he was schooled. "Billy?" Mr Slattery said, looking up from his instrument. "Hello, Mr Slattery. How are you? I must keep..." "Oh, I'm as well as is possible in the current day," Mr Slattery interrupted. "The days are tough, but I can pass through them comfortably with this guitar." "The music sounds very pretty. It reminds me of school." "Yes, we must get you back there. Are you still playing your guitar?" "It was damaged in the fifth blast, Sir." "That is most unfortunate. If there is one thing the war should leave us with, it's music…" As Mr. Slattery spoke, the guitar's acoustics resonated in the wind, and the sound hole voiced a low hum. Billy tried to concentrate on his teacher's words but found the hum pleasant and distracting. "I'm sorry, Mr Slattery. I was distracted by the hum of your guitar." "Isn't it wonderful? Yes, I would miss the winds if they disappeared. They tell me the village is still fighting." "Yes, Mr Slattery. They make the village sound alive." "Exactly... Alive! The winds are as much a part of this village as the people. They sing to us and, soon enough, will sing a victory for us. Now, where are you heading?" "I wish to find my friend, Lyla. You know her from school. She also has a guitar... and plays the piano." "Yes, Lyla, sweet girl. But where is she?" "The mainland, Sir. We leave messages underneath the old litter bin on Hamley's Footbridge, but this one was brought to me only by the wind. I want to see that she is okay." "But… the bridge was taken out in last night's blast. Much of the mainland was hit very badly. These people in the Square await news concerning their friends and loved ones." Billy's shoulders dropped. "Billy?" Mr Slattery said. "Are you okay?" Billy took the note out of his pocket. I miss you. We must never give up "I have to try, Mr Slattery,” he exclaimed, running off toward the bridge. "Be careful," Mr Slattery shouted from behind. Billy darted around the first corner, leaving the Square, passing people and fires left and right. "Where are you going?" a man in the street shouted. "Be careful out here," another said. A dog lay on the sidewalk ahead, and as Billy passed, it jumped up as if wanting to play. Billy continued straight, and the dog lost interest. He ran to the end of the street, turning right, left, and through the alley opposite, which led to the Hamley's Strait. As he exited the alley, he stopped sharply, and he was met with the water and the ruins of the footbridge. The structure stood fractured and useless at each end, while its arch had vanished. Thin fragments of green and red floated atop the water, reminding Billy of the bridge's beauty, but the waves thrashed at the island’s edge and strait was uncrossable. Dejected, he paced back and forth, kicking at stones and branches wedged into the dirt. He looked for the litter bin, but it was nowhere to be seen. He paced in circles as the wind chilled his neck and ears until he heard a voice muffled by the wind. He stopped his kicking and listened, hearing the voice again almost immediately. Across the strait, Lyla was standing, waving her arms, calling. Billy ran to the edge, but the strait was deep. He took the letter out of his pocket and waved it above him. Lyla nodded. Her red hair was billowing wildly. He longed to make contact, hug her, hold her in any way. The paper in his hands was creased but dry and crisp. Lyla's beautiful words stared back at him. I miss you. We must never give up Spotting a smooth surface on a nearby wall, he laid the sheet down. A region of dirt moistened by splashes from the strait was to his right. He pressed his thumb into the dirt and then onto the sheet, leaving a thumbprint, punctuating Lyla's words with a piece of himself. Concentrating hard, he went to work. He curved the sheet, corner to corner, and folded it in half. Beginning with the corners at one end, he folded the sheet bit by bit until he was left with a perfectly formed paper plane. Billy waited for a moment of calm. The winds were powerful, but they eased as if only for him. As he threw the plane, it sailed forward, only to curve upwards. He grimaced as it rocketed toward the sky, but the wind returned, and the plane was sent to the left, wobbling in all directions, and then lower until it was caught by a second gust and sent skyward, this time way up. The plane was tossed across eddies, flipping over and under until it vanished against the grey skies. Billy looked at Lyla and saw she was fixated on the aerobatics. She gasped; the plane, thrown from an air pocket, had come back into view. It glided elegantly but to the right and toward the water, but as the winds lightened, the plane found its wings, curving to the left and in Lyla's direction. She waited with her arms stretched wide, twenty feet away, fifteen feet away, ten, five, before a final gust sent the plane upward and above her head. The winds paused, freezing the plane in one of its pockets, and Billy listened as the waters calmed. The plane began to fall. He watched it topple downward like a dying bird, landing safely in Lyla's hands. He met her gaze momentarily until she closed her eyes, and he watched as she held the letter to her chest and smiled.

xmnygz

The Sailor

The Sailor "Bob, a call just came in and it may be related to our missing poet. Some kid found a sailboat on the beach with a lot of blood in it. It's way the hell up the coast in a place called Lucia Beach. I think it's part of the Birch Point State Park in Maine." Robert Montgomery stirred behind his weathered mahogany desk. A lean northeasterner with a short-cropped beard. He spoke with a crisp Maine accent. "I'm not familiar with it. What makes you think it's our guy this time? There were seven ship wrecks from the last storm and three are still unaccounted for. That was one hell of a storm, even though it was not a direct hit. Sustained winds rose to 112 miles per hour." "This is what the park ranger said. It was a large dingy, maybe 12-15 feet long. The sail was broken off, and the rudder had been badly damaged. The dinghy fits the description of the one owned by Magnus Nielsen, our missing poet. A waterproof portable writing desk was the only item found on the boat. They found a poem in the small desk and they just faxed it over. They said this is why they think it is our missing sailor. Here it is. I'll read it to you." I left Yarmouth town on a sunny day about a week ago  And set my sail for Nantucket Isle The sun was out, the waves were light, and the gods were smiling down  I opened my eyes, I’d been asleep a while The sun was gone, the sky was dark, the sea no longer calm My sail was gone, I grabbed for my oars, no land in sight I must go west, for I knew the coast in that direction lay But I wondered if the tide would make it right Oh, the seabirds soar across majestic waves And sing their songs of desperate times to me I rock my boat, wave my hands and pray to the man above A fisherman or sailor, my plight he will see Out on this vast and empty sea there must be those that look for me But they know not to where I was bound The storm is gone, my boat is torn, my sail has tumbled down. Lord, grant my only wish to plant my feet on solid ground As days go by I no longer cry, it is a peaceful valley now I see myself playing on the sand There’s a party there with beer and girls and friends that I know  Just listen to the angel band Oh, the seabirds soar across the silent sea And sing their joyful songs to me I no longer rock my boat nor wave my hands nor pray to the lord above. A fisherman or sailor, my plight they will never see  Once Jim completed reading the poem, Robert rose from behind his desk and read the poem to himself. He pursed his lips and sadly nodded his head. "I guess that settles it. I wonder what happened? Do you think someone shot him and threw the body overboard? Let's get forensics to look at it, but we may never know what happened." What is your story, Magnus Nielsen? *** The Crazy Rooster Pub was rocking on this particular Friday night. Magnus's latest novels earned him a prestigious award, so he and his friends were celebrating. Magnus Nielsen was a tall, handsome young man. He fit one's perception of his Scandinavian heritage with his wide shoulders, blue-eyes and long blond hair. He was a member of the rowing team at Princeton University. While he was a member of the staff of the college newspaper that he became cognizant of his love of writing. Magnus worked for three years at the Royal River Boat repair shop before his first novel was published. The reviews were great and his book became a number one bestseller. His next novel received the same accolades as the first book. One of his friends brought him a fresh beer. "Magnus, ole buddy. Where do you do your best writing? The last one about the one-armed pirate was great." "Well, I do most of my dreaming about plots and characters while sailing in my dingy. I have a small portable writing desk and I jot down story lines. I enjoy writing poetry while I relax on my boat and feel the gentle rocking of the waves. Of course, I finish my writing at home." Magnus left the party at midnight. Saturday, he would be out in his dingy if the weather was good. A fresh idea for a novel popped into his head. He would have to think about it and get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. *** Magnus set his course and moved out into the open water. It was a beautiful sunny morning with a brisk breeze blowing from the south. He decided to visit Nantucket and have an overnight stay with his Jamaican girlfriend, who worked at a high-end boutique on the island. It should take less than five hours to get there with this wind behind him. Nothing is exact with sailboats, it all hinges on the wind. This morning, the wind stayed steady, and he was making good time. A sailor loves the wind. A rudder positioned at the stern controlled the boat's steering. He held the boat steady on course for an hour hour before his head began to nod and his eyes closed. Three hours of sleep last night was not enough. Magnus looked at his watch. He had time for a quick nap. He tied the rudder to hold steady on course, then spread out a quilt on the floor of the boat, and was asleep in minutes. Magnus woke with a sense of dread. The boat was almost dead in the water, and the sky was ominous, with dark clouds looming overhead. The wind picked up and rain fell in sheets. He stood and looked at his compass. A sudden gust of wind knocked him backward, crashing into the starboard side of the boat. The compass made a soft plopping sound as it landed in the strengthening waves. Magnus crawled to the mast and pulled himself upright. The waves were increasing in size and force every minute. Crawling to the stern, he checked the rudder. It was holding steady. A gust of wind almost capsized the craft. A sharp cracking sound followed as the mast gave way. Fortunately, the mast fell near the stern of the boat on the starboard side. The top rail smashed, but the side held fast. It was impossible to control the boat with the mast hanging over the side. Magnus desperately tried to shove the mast into the ocean, but he could not budge it. Time and again, the waves crashed into the boat, sending him tumbling over to the opposite side of the small dinghy. The boat began to fill with water. He emptied a caulk bucket and used it in a fruitless attempt to bail the water from the boat. It seemed like one bucket out and the waves poured in three more. He looked for the two life jackets he always carried in the boat. Both were gone, along with his oars. The only thing left was his water-proof writing desk that was floating up under the foredeck area. Magnus sat on the seat, dangling his feet in the water and holding tight to the sides of the dinghy. The water was almost up to his knees and he knew before long he would sink. After a while, he realized no more sea water was entering the boat. The storm had passed, and the waves were settling down. He began bailing the water from the boat. It was a lovely evening with almost a full moon. Stars flooded the sky with glorious beams of light. He was totally lost and his compass was gone. He tried to recall the words of his high school science teacher. The sun comes up in the east and goes down in the west. That's good, but how about the moon? Does it also come up in the east? Maybe it comes up in the west and goes down in the east? He looked at the moon, which was off to his right. That probably means he is facing north, the direction the storm went. Land should be west and off to his left. He would pay attention to the rising sun in the morning, and then remove the damn mast so he could try to control where the dingy went. The sea at sunrise was perfectly calm. It was as if the storm had just been a nightmare. Magnus assessed his situation. His body ached from the pounding he took during the storm. Luckily, no bones were broken. He had not intended to be on an extended trip, so he brought no provisions. His two bottles of water had washed away in the storm. He had not informed any of his friends about his destination. In fact, no one even knew he took his boat out. Eventually, his friends might notice his absence and check the slip for his boat. Would that be too late? Where was the wind when he needed it? He could at least move toward land if he had a paddle. Surely, he was not that far out to sea. The broken mast remained attached to the side of the boat. Is there a way to remove some of the sail and make something to catch the wind when it returned? Magnus climbed over the side of the boat and slid down the mast. A small pocket knife was the only tool he had to cut the polyester sail and ropes attached to it. He yanked and pulled on the sail. The mast pulled free and floated away from the boat, leaving Magnus sitting on the mast. Magnus panicked and dropped the knife as he swam for the boat. He tried to pull himself over the side, but the boat almost capsized. He moved to the stern and climbed over the rudder into the boat. That gave him an idea. If he could remove the rudder, maybe he could use it as a paddle. The steering mechanism was a two-part thing, with a metal handle attached to the wooden rudder submersed under water. It was secured to the boat with a large hinge bolted onto the wood frame of the boat. How could he remove the damn thing without tools? He tried kicking with his foot, but the soft soled sailing shoes gave no support and he only managed to hurt his foot. Despite bending the handle nearly in half with his kicks, the hinge remained securely bolted to the boat. He returned to the seat with his legs over the side of the boat and nursed his sore foot in the water. A flock of ten or more birds soared overhead, chattering amongst themselves. Does this mean I am close to land? It was getting dark and Magnus lay down to sleep as the boat gently rocked and floated out further to sea. The bright sun woke Magnus from a troubled sleep. Looking into the distance, he saw no sign of land. Jumping overboard crossed his mind, but it wasn't in his nature to quit. He opened his writing desk and started writing a poem. After some time, his thoughts turned again to making a paddle. Moving to the bow, he inspected the broken area on the port side of the boat that the falling mast had fractured. He cursed his luck again. His boat was relatively new and was made from some either fiberglass or carbon fiber. Not wood like older boats. He went back to his desk and worked on his poem. By noon, his stomach was growling, and he was thirsty. Fortunately, he had the foresight to collect rainwater in his bailing bucket toward the end of the storm. He rationed what little there was, praying for more rain and wind. On the fourth day, the wind returned, driving him on a northwesterly course. Magnus was disoriented and had lost all sense of direction. He returned to his poem and tore it to pieces, and started a new one. That evening there was a light rain, and he collected an inch or two of water in his bucket. He knew he was weakening and had to do something. The rudder was his only hope, but how would he be able to remove the wooden part submerged in the ocean? Removing all his clothes, he lowered himself over the stern of the boat. Magnus was an excellent swimmer and felt at ease in the water. Diving under the boat, he tried breaking the rudder free from the handle. He repeated this action many times before giving up. Why did he have to buy an American-made boat? Climbing back aboard, he felt a stabbing pain in his left leg. He moved to his seat and realized he was hemorrhaging blood across the floor of the boat. A large section of flesh had been removed from his lower leg halfway between the ankle and knee. Sharks, what else could it be? He removed his shirt and made a tourniquet to stop the flow of blood. Blood still oozed around the tourniquet and he felt faint. Magnus woke an hour later, lying face down on the floor of the boat. He crawled to a sitting position and checked the jagged wound in his leg. The bleeding had stopped, but he had lost a good deal of blood. It was day six, and the wind blew strong and steady. The boat moved ever north and west toward the coast of Maine. Magnus closed his eyes. Half asleep, dreamed about his friends and their last party. Opening his desk, he finished his poem. He had nothing to drink since yesterday morning and his tongue was thick and his lips were cracked and dry. He closed the desk and sat it beside him. If only the damn shark had stayed south where he belonged, he might have made it. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. In a fit of rage, he watched as a fin sliced beside the boat. He shouted, you dirty bastard and jumped on the shark. While in the air, he looked to his left. "Is that land I see?" The End

8cjrzx

The Sea Beneath the Stars

Orion was ten years old the first time he went sailing. For years, he had asked his father to take him with him, and for years, his father had said no. It was too dangerous for a little boy. Even the day-long fishing excursions weren’t suitable. It wasn’t until the tenth anniversary of his birth that his father finally said yes. It would be a simple overnight of fishing and leisure on the ocean with his father’s friends, but to Orion, it felt like the dawn of a new world. He was finally enough of a man to learn to sail. That was more than enough for his little heart to handle. His mother had knelt before him, his baby sister on her hip and her dark eyes focused, and was brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Be careful,” she said, moving her gaze to his father. “I mean it.” “You have nothing to worry about,” his father said. “You know that.” “Sure.” She kissed Orion’s cheek and got to her feet to kiss his father. “I love you both.” “We love you too.” His father grinned, as he went to hug Orion’s twin sister, Ophelia, who was standing behind their mother. She allowed him to take her in his arms, but her eyebrows were knit together, her lips set in a thin line. “Why don’t I get to go? It’s not fair.” Their father kissed the top of her head, gesturing for Orion to go ahead of him onto the boat. He never answered her question. There was no answer he could give that she would accept, and he knew it. Orion only wished there was something he could do to make his parents let her come too, but it had been enough of a fight for him to be allowed to go with his father. He wouldn’t jeopardize his chance in a fight he knew he would never win. He left his sister behind and made for the sailboat. It wasn’t large but it wasn’t small either. Rather, it was a medium size, large enough for himself, his father, and eleven other men to spend the night on. As he leaped onto it, it rocked with his weight, the wood strong beneath his feet. His father chuckled. “Mind your movements, son.” “Why?” Orion asked, watching as his mother dragged a still-whining Ophelia away by the hand. He wished she could come too, but their parents had said it wouldn’t be right. A little girl didn’t belong on a boat otherwise occupied entirely by men. It didn’t matter that he knew she could handle it perhaps better than any boy such as himself ever could. “Why? Because this is not a large boat. It’s easy to rock.” “And rocking is bad?” “Too much of it can be, yes,” his father said. He held out his hand. “Now, come here and sit with me until we’re ready to leave. You can ask me all the questions you want.” When Orion looked back on it later, he was certain his father had regretted telling him that, but in the moment, he had taken it as a ticket to talk as much as he pleased. He asked so many questions so quickly that his father hardly had a chance to open his mouth much less answer them. Still, he was patient. He sat and listened to the incessant questioning—a hand on his son’s shoulder—until they had drifted away from the dock. The wind was perfect—not too strong but more than strong enough to move them along—their sail catching it like flames caught on dry brush. The sky was turning a brilliant orange and the clouds a brilliant pink, as the sun descended to make way for the night. The other men on the sailboat were sitting back—drinking, smoking, chewing—and doing anything other than what they were supposed to be doing: fishing. Sitting beside his father as he smoked a pipe, the breeze in his hair, it didn’t make a difference to Orion. The sea was the sea. “Dad?” he said once the sun was gone from the sky and the stars had come into view once again. He was sitting up against the side of the boat, staring up at the sail exploding into the sky. His father slid to the ground beside him, his boots scraping gently against the wood. “What is it?” “Which one is the North Star?” Orion pointed up. It was a remarkably clear night, not a cloud in sight and the moon brighter than he had ever witnessed it. A grin crossed his father’s face. “Do you remember when I showed you the Big Dipper?” Orion nodded. “Find it.” He scanned the sky, remembering the words his father had said to him years ago. The sun god Apollo’s sacred number was seven. There are seven stars in the Big Dipper, the brightest in the sky. Like they’re trying to mimic the light of Apollo’s sun. You can always remember Apollo because he and his twin sister Artemis, goddess of the moon, are the ones the giant Orion was created to destroy. If you find and connect those stars, you have your constellation. He found the seven stars and straightened his back. “What about Little Dipper?” his father murmured. “Can you find it? Follow the line from the Big Dipper’s scoop to the Little Dipper’s handle.” Orion looked up but lost what he was looking for. The stars above the Big Dipper were all the same to him: random little dots lording over their world. “I don’t know how.” “Watch,” his father said, and he took hold of Orion’s wrist. He lifted his arm with a gentleness that made his actions easy to follow and easy to trust. He stopped. He had leaned over so his head was on his son’s shoulder, and they were seeing the sky from the same point of view. Their eyes were on the same star. “There it is. The end of the Little Dipper’s handle. You see?” Orion nodded. “Now what?” “Nothing.” His father brought their hands back down, but neither of them moved their gaze from the star at the end of the handle. “That’s the North Star.” It couldn’t be that simple. “That’s it?” “That’s it.” His father ruffled his hair. “Always remember this, Orion. When you’re lost, it will always lead you home.” A gust of wind caught on the sail and propelled them forward. Orion felt his father tense, but he relaxed before long. They could allow the wind to guide them so long as it was tame. One gust wasn’t enough to be of concern. Orion got to his feet and leaned over the side of the boat. The breeze had returned to being as it was, calm and gentle. The ripples of the ocean were a deep blue under the night sky, and though they were still close enough to the coastline that it was within sight, it felt to Orion as if they had drifted out to the middle of the sea. They were disconnected from everything, separate and free from the world. There was no law here. There was only the mercy of the tempest. His father didn’t have to stand to do the same, remaining on his knees as he turned to look out as Orion was, a hand on his son’s back. “You like this then?” “Yes,” Orion said. “I always wanted to do this.” “Of course. But wanting to do it and actually liking doing it are two very different things.” “I like it.” “I’m glad,” his father said. “Because I think I’ll be needing a new fishing partner.” Orion straightened and let out a small burst of laughter. His heart was on fire. “Really?” His father did not respond but grinned, reaching out to the water below. His arm was just long enough for the tips of his fingers to brush its surface, but he was using his other hand to hold on to the back of Orion’s shirt, preventing him from leaning forward to do the same. He was far too small to reach and would undoubtedly tumble overboard and into the abyss if he tried. Then, there would be only time at sea. Forever and always, as his body drifted to the ocean floor, weighed down by rocks and devoured by schools of fish. “The sea has never been my life,” his father said. “It is a pastime I enjoy. But for you, I suspect it may be more than that.” Orion smiled and closed his eyes. The air was fresh with the faint scent of salt, the breeze as beautiful as his sister’s eyes. She was the only thing he would miss. His partner in everything since utero. But even still, he and Ophelia would not need each other forever. They would become their own people with their own desires. At that moment, the warmth of his father’s hand on his back was one of the only things keeping him in the world of men. He knew he would miss his sisters and his parents if he left home, but he knew even better that leaving would soon become the only thing that could satisfy him. The only free life he could live was a life on the sea beneath the stars.

o8lnd6

Space: 2049

Space: 2049 Jon awoke with the sensation of a breeze brushing against his bare forearms.  It was an unusual feeling since the sleep pods were extremely climate controlled.  There was no wind here.  He was at least a million miles from the nearest natural breeze.  Jon was a member of the first Agri-Mining expedition to Mars.  Since subterranean water had been discovered on Mars, establishing an outpost had become a high priority.  NASA had become a relic of the past, but with discovery of Martian water by a private space agency, congress has refunded NASA and a new global space race had ensued.  But what was the source of the breeze.  Suddenly Jon remembered.  “George, would you watch it.  Your sleep pod is too close for you to be having those whopper sized f**ts”.  The smell came moments after the original breeze of gas.  “That’s more than the climate control system can handle!”             George’s pod was only inches from Jon’s.  Space travel seemed glamorous to civilians, but the attraction quickly wore off when stuffed in a tin can like a sardine.              It was time for Jon’s shift anyhow, and he needed time for the odor to dissipate.  On the command deck things were not any better.  Captain Derrick Brown was strapped in his command chair and was so involved in the information system that he barely noticed Jon’s presence.  Finally, when Jon took a position immediately across from the captain, he responded.  “Jon, we have a problem-- a big problem.” Jon now could see the concern on Derrick’s face.  “How big a problem do we have? “The problem is big enough that we may not be able to initiate the landing thrusters for the base.  That’s bad enough, but without those boosters, we won’t be able to re-enter a course back to earth.  We have enough fuel in the thrusters for either the Martian landing or to regain an Earthward course.  The problem is that we need to start a controlled burn-- A catalyst to start those engines.  It’s like starting an ancient propeller driven aircraft.  Someone had to turn the prop to get the engine running.  We need fuel to start the reactions needed to get the thrusters in action.  That fuel is hydrogen.  Hydrogen is plentiful on earth, but a rare commodity here in space and the hydrogen tanks are dry.”  Jon was astounded.  “How could we be out of hydrogen.  We had ample—more than ample on the last check.” Captain Brown’s face had a new glum appearance.  “Apparently a valve was left in a wrong position and leaked. The sensors should have warned us, but they failed.  The safety board was all green, but there was still a leak. It was also a human error.  It was my responsibility and it’s my fault.  The valve locked in the closed position, but was not quite completely closed.  It was stuck and I thought it was fully closed.  Clearly it wasn’t.” “What do we do?” “Either we figure out how to start the thrusters, or the next Martian crew here in, Oh, about three years, can dispose of our mummified remains.” Captain Brown made the awkward communication with Houston.  “Houston, we have a problem.”  It was not the news that ground control wanted to hear and to make matters worse, it took thirty minutes just to get a message back.  The gist of the return message was that you guys are on your own.  Basically, a refined way of saying—You got yourself in this mess, now get yourself out. At that moment a groggy George appeared in the command section.  He had been awakened by the tumult of the Captain and Jon and could not rest.  The crew was placed on a low maintenance protocol.  Jon returned to his sleep pod and applied a dermal patch which was designed to place him in a low metabolic state, like a fish in icy winter water with lowered pulse and body temp.  The events were certainly momentous, but he had no control of his fate. New York Times article, July 27,2049:             “New Problem Plagues Martian Agri-Mining Mission”             Great hopes were in place for the Martian farming and  mining mission.  It is expected to be a crucial step in the  exploration of the outer solar system as well as further space.  A new problem has arisen and the Martian Outpost is in danger.  It may not be able to land on the Martian surface and there are doubts that it can even return to Earth.             Meanwhile, aboard the Argi-Mining probe things were no better.  In spite of being in a static state, Jon was dreaming.  He was not supposed to dream in such a state, but he clearly was dreaming of his post-adolescent college days.  He and his dorm-mates were having a usual late evening bulls**t session, just like college students on every campus in the nation. They were sharing a contraband six-pack of weak beer and tales of just how gross college students could be.  One of Jon’s buddies let fly a loud and smelly f**t.  Soon a contest developed over who was loudest and grossest.  After a round of f**ts, a Bic lighter was produced.  The next entrant had the lighter clicked near the seat of his jeans.  Flames shot and extended feet from the initiator of the eruption.             In spite of his stasis patch, Jon awoke with a start.  He sprinted to the command section and confronted Captain Brown. “I have an idea.  It may not be a great idea and it certainly not scientific, but it may help.”              The facility on board a space craft is not like an Earth-bound toilet.  In microgravity a toilet becomes a highly engineered complex system.  Jon’s idea was to collect methane gas from human expulsion and use it to start the thrusters.  Some engineering and exotic plumbing was done to jury-rig the system and collect flammable gas and compress it into a tank, rather than expelling it into the vacuum of space.  While this was being accomplished, the crew was invited to have a meal of beans.  Fortunately, their mission was to establish a farming colony in addition to mining, so there was no lack of beans available.   All sorts of beans were eaten to good effect.  The plumbing adjustments had just been completed, when the first of the crew, Jon, exhibited the uncomfortable mid-body distension of abdominal fermentation.             As Jon settled down into the toilet saddle, he felt the low-pressure vacuum as usual, but then the let go with a huge prolonged expulsion of gas. At that moment he heard a faint whining of a pump and he knew that his production was not in vain.  He finished his business and as he exited the facility, he passed three other crew mates eager to contribute. Soon, all ten crew had done their duty.             When Jon returned to the command bridge, there was a definite odor permeating the area, but Captain Brown was smiling.             Testing the new source of gas was successful.  It was flammable enough and plentiful enough to ignite the thrusters.                         New York Times July 29, 2049                         Eighty years after Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon, our new generation of space explorers have taken a brave step to enable exploration of the outer  solar system and indeed, eventually deep space.   The probe successfully landed on Martian soil.  A severe problem with the landing thrusters was  averted due to the ingenuity of Commander Jon Pilgrim and a great debt of gratitude is owed to him for solving an almost insurmountable engineering problem. Six months later, the first vegetables, so necessary to the success of the Agri-Mining mission were harvested.  There were abundant root vegetables including potatoes, carrots, radishes and parsnips.  Kale, chard and peppery endive greens were grown in sheltered areas.  The only planting that was scarce was beans.  They would have to wait for the next growing season.

is4bnd

Skybound

Between the two, what would you consider to be the greater risk to my life: taking on the world’s deadliest sky pirate alone (to rob him of all his worth), or climbing the rope wagging from the bottom of his airship with only one hand? With my grasp locked around this dangling piece of twine, as I hang like an insect beneath the massive ship, suspended high above the restless clouds, I can most certainly assure you–ascending handless in the wind is by far the greater risk. The common consensus is that losing a hand is the price one pays for stealing, striking fear into the hearts of wannabe thieves, dissuading one from the path of depravity. But the way I see it, the loss of a hand has nothing to do with being a thief, and everything to do with getting caught. My missing hand is nothing more than a reminder of how I blundered the last time and the reason I’ll never fail again. What? Surely you didn’t think I would abandon my thieving ways due to the unfortunate fate that befell me! How little you know of my unyielding spirit. My friend, adversity is my playground, a canvas for me to paint my masterpieces of ingenuity. One handed, two handed, or no hands at all, I shall always find a way to liberate a Skyrate of their treasured possessions. And, if I’m being honest, having one hand isn’t all that bad. The key is to breathe life into the stolen goods, rather than leaving them to gather dust. And in those pivotal moments of life, death, and thieving, a multi-tool prosthetic limb, consistently proves invaluable. Yet, in this moment of peril, I find myself grappling with a situation unlike any I've faced before. The wind howls and rages, mercilessly toying with the rope that dangles precariously in the sky. Desperation sets in as I struggle to maintain my grip, feeling the rope slip through my grasp like it's been slicked with butter. With a swift maneuver, I twist my foot around the hanging thread, anchoring myself in a desperate bid for stability. My hand clenches onto the lifeline with a vice-like grip; my knuckles drain of color. Amidst the challenge, my only solace lies in the freedom of my encased prosthetic arm. The irony persists, however, as its arsenal of sharp blades and pointed metals, like a Swiss Army knife, offers little aid in the face of a mere thread. But little aid, is better than none at all. With a flick of my prosthetic-encased wrist, I unleash a gleaming silver hook, barbed at the tip and plunge it between the intertwined fibers–like sticking a fishhook through a narrow piece of cloth. I begin clawing my way upward, placing hook in front of hand then hand in front of hook; inching closer and closer in agonizing strain. As I draw closer to the underbelly of the ship, the wind taunts me like an immature child. "Don't look down” it whispers in my ear. Now, why would I do something so foolish? Make no mistake, fear does not course through my veins. After all, would I attempt such a daring feat if I were afraid? It's merely a matter of cold logic. Gazing into a vat of empty space, with the threat of an unforgiving fall, serves no purpose but to tempt fate. So I climb with eyes locked on the goal. But this wind. This God-forsaken wind seems to harbor a personal vendetta against me and the tenuous rope I’m bound to. It lunges at me like a high school bully, demanding my surrender. I refuse. I repeatedly unfasten and impale my hook into the rope, ascending upward one inch at a time. My biceps scream in torment as my muscles rip apart. I clench my jaw and grind my teeth; my brain begging me to stop lest they turn into dust. Yet nothing will stop me from robbing a Skyrate. But as I raise my hand to impale the rope once more, the ship turns abruptly and a burst of wind rams me like an angry bull. I try to keep my grip, but I have nothing else to give. In a heart-stopping moment, I lose my hold. In an unexpected turn of events, I fall. I’m not sure what it is about falling from certain heights, but time seems to last forever; and who has time for that? The rope snaps taut, snatching the foot I had wrapped around and jerks me up across the air until I slam my head against the hull. I’m carelessly dropped back down, rendered unconscious. Like a spider desperately clinging to her a silk thread amidst a cyclone, here I hang, swinging freely in the wind under an airship governed by ruthless Skyrates. This may very well be the single most dumbest thing I’ve done. Nevertheless, I never embark on a venture if I do not intend to finish it. Gradually emerging from my unconscious state, I glance into a topsy-turvy world where the ground sits above me, spinning with a dizzying fervor that threatens to unsettle even the sturdiest of men. Summoning every ounce of strength, I muster a sit-up in mid-air, straining to grasp the elusive rope. Alas, my efforts prove in vain, and I tumble backward, left hanging like a puppet on a string. I let out a frustrating yelp and make a second attempt but fall short, just shy of grabbing the rope and hang lifeless once more. I would rather swallow a campfire and ingest its flames than bear the unique searing burn I feel in my abdomen right now. But again I try, channeling every ounce of strength into the sit-up and swing my hooked hand at the rope. It catches. I shout with relief and laugh hysterically as I haul myself into an upright position, clinging to the rope like a lifeline. I hang there for a moment and heave with exhaustion. I came here for one purpose. And I’m going to finish it. This time, I wrap my hand around the rope, until the searing agony of rope burn brands its mark on my hand. Few things in this world are worse, but plummeting to your demise surely claims a spot on that list. I ascend with a newfound urgency, battling against the relentless onslaught of wind with my silver hook clawing at the rope. The wind shoves against me, but I sink my teeth into the cord, biting like a rabid dog to give me extra grip. Death flirts, but I’m not flattered by its charm. I claw, and bite, and pull my way up, until finally, I reach the ship. Flipping the silver hook back into my prosthetic, I flip out a large, jagged-teethed blade in its place and begin sawing an opening through the hull of the ship. When I said having a multi-tool prosthetic hand isn’t all that bad, this is what I meant. As I carve the hole, saw dust stings my eyes and tears stream down my face, but given the choice between dangling upside down from an airship soon to fall to my death or having dust blown into my eyes, I’d rather take the latter. The hole is made and with a final pull, I manage to haul myself inside the orlop deck of the ship where ropes and cables are stored. I lay on the floor, and offer a smile; I laugh and place a hand on my head. All things considered, things went pretty well. Now, you might object to my ways of life and tell me there is no honor among thieves. Perhaps you are right. But I would hardly call stealing from a Skyrate an act of dishonor. You see, I am not an indiscriminate savage like those Skyrate marauders who reign mercilessly in their airborne vessels, plundering the innocent and slaying at will. I rob to survive beneath their ruthless dominion. I steal what’s mine and give back what’s been taken from others. Granted, I would be remiss if I claimed no similarity to the Skyrates at all. They too pilfer to survive. The difference lies within their targets and motives: the lowly destitute who cannot defend themselves and among each other, all in the relentless pursuit of amassing further wealth for their own wicked pleasures. I, on the other hand, solely plunder from the Skyrates to restore what has been taken from the poor and less fortunate. I reclaim that which was stolen. And if a thief merely reclaims what rightfully belongs to him, can they still be labeled a thief? I don’t know, but I didn't arrive here to engage in philosophical debates or ethics. The greater risk is over and now the fun begins.

sjj5cn

Isolation Breeds Appreciation

Rory couldn’t believe the spectacular view of the sea as he gazed downwards from the gantry at the top of the lighthouse. The different hues of blue and green of the sea crashing against the jagged rocks 161 feet below him were spectacular. From the towering height of the lighthouse, he marvelled at the untamed splendour of the rugged coastline. “God, I love nature,” he said to himself. He watched as a group of seagulls flew past, noisily squawking to each other as they dive bombed the lighthouse. They were huge! He breathed in the salty sea air, mixed with the smell of brine and seaweed. “Much better than the smell of humanity.” He thought to himself. He worked previously as a car mechanic for a large, busy garage based in Central London, and felt burned out by the daily grind of commuting to and from the garage to his flat in Clapham, South London every day. The sharp tone of annoyed customers echoed through the garage, punctuated by exasperated sighs, and heated complaints. They were either complaining about the cost of the repair work to their car, or the time it took to repair it. He was desperate for a change from his hectic London lifestyle. An advertisement intrigued him for a job as a lighthouse technician he spotted in the Evening Standard some weeks before, and not knowing exactly what was involved, discovered the role required him to help maintain a lighthouse in Cornwall built in 1858. The duties noted in the job description seemed straightforward and were within his skillset. He applied and got the job. Rory was still a young man by lighthouse keeper standards. In his early thirties, he wasn’t yet married, but came from a large family of eight. He loved his brothers and sisters, but they were very demanding, always wanting help with this or that. Family politics often annoyed him, and he found himself arguing with his family more often than not. Perhaps that’s also why he craved the peace and absolute isolation the lighthouse offered him. He was fit, often going to his local gym, but not muscular, just wiry in appearance. His duties at the lighthouse were straightforward. He didn't have to worry about regulating the large sweeping beam because the lighthouse operated automatically. His main role was to observe and report on the weather. Both reporting regularly to the Coast Guard and meticulously filling out logbooks, which could be useful to scientists later on. He was told by the lightkeeper that he was replacing for the next few months, to take notes on the weather in total darkness. He was to estimate visibility, the intensity of rainfall, cloud cover, wind speed and sea conditions. Pete, the previous lighthouse keeper, wished Rory luck with a warm smile and a pat on the back. “Bishop Rock has its foibles.” “Nah, I will be fine, Pete. If Bishop Rock is good to me, I will be good to Bishop Rock. I’m not sure about being up at 3.00am every day, though.” “You have to, Rory. It’s crucial you send that first weather report through to the Coast Guard for the safety of the ships.” “I better get to bed early then.” “Aye, that’s it. You have to. But ignore the mermaid sirens, Rory.” He patted Rory hard on the back again and said laughingly. “I’ll be off now.” Rory laughed too, thinking Pete, the old lighthouse keeper, was just teasing him. As he waved Pete off, watching the large, noisy, diesel engine Land Rover climb its way smoothly up a steep bank, he decided he better plan out his days. Bishop Rock was a beautiful, awe-inspiring antique. It needed constant maintenance, and Rory knew there was plenty to do, such as painting, oiling parts, and generally keeping things in order. That first night on his own, Rory knew he needed to get to sleep, to be up at 3.00am to post his first weather report. His tired eyes scanned the clock, watching the minutes ticking away relentlessly. He tossed and turned, imagining he heard angry voices. His sleep was fitful and unfulfilling. He knew that Bishop Rock was one of the oldest lighthouses in existence, but also one of the most isolated. His feeling of security vanished after Pete left, leaving him feeling uneasy. “God damn it.” He said, frustrated at his inability to get to sleep. He was a night owl in London. So going to bed at 8.00pm didn’t work for him. “I guess that’s something I will have to get used to.” The weather seemed to be deteriorating already. The wind’s force was getting up. He shivered involuntarily. The wind squeaked and squawked around the lighthouse. The sounds were different to his expectations. The lighthouse seemed to creak, as if it was bending and flexing in the force of the wind, but having stood for over 100 years, Rory knew it was rock solid. He put the radio on in the living area for a bit of comfort. Not music, but chatter from Radio 4. He wasn’t really listening to it. It was just background noise. He made himself a cup of tea and looked out to sea. He scanned the horizon. It was forbidding and dark. He was told not to put the lights on where he was in the living space, as he needed to develop his night vision. As he looked down at the rocks below, he thought the sea looked like it was boiling. It was bubbling and eddying against the rocks. He rubbed his eyes. What was that? A large fish? An enormous fish? He thought he spotted a large fin. He ran to get the binoculars. A massive fin emerged from the water, creating a splash before swiftly vanishing. It wasn’t a whale or a dolphin, was it? He laughed to himself. “Stop it, Rory. No such thing as mermaids.” The wind was really whipping up now. He looked up the weather forecast. “Oh my God, tonight there will be gale force winds. Great! My first night here, and I’m going to experience the worst nature can throw at me.” Rory’s desire for isolation was ebbing. The gale force winds were building, and he was feeling terrified. As the wind howled round the lighthouse, he looked at his watch. 1.00am. “Fantastic, he thought, only two hours until I send my first weather report. It will read, bloody windy”, he laughed to himself. He went back to the highest point he could without actually going outside. The sea was thrashing and pounding the rocks below. He took his binoculars but no fins in sight this time, but then he saw it. In the distance. A ship, but it wasn’t an ordinary type of ship. It was a clipper. A clipper was a 19th century sailing ship, probably built around a similar time to the lighthouse. How the hell was a clipper in the sea off the Cornish coast? He continued to watch the wondrous ship sailing in the wild sea whilst the wind whipped up huge white horses either side of it. He knew of only two of these amazing ships to still exist. One was the Cutty Sark, located in a museum in Greenwich, and the other City of Adelaide which resided in Australia. He rubbed his eyes. He must be seeing things. Perhaps it was just a modern ship with a similar style. Maybe his night vision was just not well developed yet. The lighthouse was surrounded by strong, battering gale force winds and the sea was buffeting and crashing against the bow of the ship. Rory was aghast. Whatever ship this is, it doesn’t seem to see the light from the lighthouse, it’s getting far too close for comfort. He checked his watch. 2.00am. Then he heard it. A sharp wailing. It was distant, but he caught it on the wind. It was like a long scream, but also a song. It was an unearthly, beautiful, compelling, sound. It grew louder, and Rory watched in horror as the ship, the clipper, seemed to change course, and although it was near the lighthouse previously, now it seemed to be bearing down on the lighthouse and the rocks directly below it. Rory was in a state of terror. He didn’t know what to do. “Breathe, Rory, and think.” He tried to get his emotions under control. What was the advice from Pete? Oh yes, if in doubt, call the coastguard. He paced to and from the circular living room which was only 12 feet across in diameter. He heard the song of the mermaid sirens again. They were louder, closer now. Rory realised they were guiding the ship, directly onto the rocks. Their song was mesmerising, haunting, an enchanting melody, and he realised that he too felt compelled to move towards the water and the rocks. Even though the wind was howling round the lighthouse and rattling the very light itself, he could still hear their song ebbing and flowing on the wind. He took his eyes from the approaching ship and looked down into the water. He couldn’t believe what he saw. At first it looked like a shoal of dolphins. He blinked and looked again. It was four mermaids, with silvery grey scales along their backs. They moved at high speed through the water. These were the sirens directing the poor sailors to their doom. He tried his radio, but all he heard was static. He tried over and over again to get hold of the coastguard, but to no avail. Tears welled up in his eyes. He didn’t want any harm to befall the sailors, he felt responsible, he was the lightkeeper, it was his job to keep them safe. He screamed out now, “Someone help me, what do I do, what do I do?” Just then, the light in the lighthouse went dark. Everything went dark. Complete silence. Rory was horrified. He stumbled around, looking for his torch. He found it and shone his torch on his watch face. It was 3.00am precisely. The light in the lighthouse suddenly flashed on again. The storm was abating, and the gale force winds died away. It was so quiet. He contacted the coastguard again and managed to get through this time. He told them the winds were gone, and all was well. He hesitated. He was still shaky from his experience. Should he tell them about the clipper, which he could no longer see, or the mermaid sirens which he heard, but could no longer hear? They would probably laugh at him, or think he was bonkers. The coastguard said.” By the way, Pete the old lighthouse keeper. He said to pass you this message. ‘I told you to watch out for the mermaid sirens, didn’t I?’” “Why would he say that?” Rory was flabbergasted. "That's just Pete misbehaving as usual. There is a famous story about a clipper sailing ship being dashed on the rocks in 1860, not long after the lighthouse was built. Unfortunately, the keeper that night couldn’t keep the lantern working. The clipper was dashed on the rocks and most of the sailors died. The ones that lived, and there weren’t many, told of hearing a strange song from the sea. Old wives’ tale, Rory.” Rory said, “Can you get an urgent message to Pete please. I’m sorry, family emergency. I have to leave immediately.” “He thought you might say that. It’s not a job for everyone, Rory. You are at the mercy of the elements, and it’s lonely.” Rory couldn’t wait to return to the hustle and bustle of his previous life. He experienced the full force of nature, and whilst it was beautiful, it was also fearful. He wasn’t sure if he imagined the clipper and the mermaids with their siren song, but the story of the historic sinking of the clipper on the rocks was too coincidental. He decided that isolation was not really for him and appreciated being with people. He learned a valuable lesson, family is everything. They always have your back. Isolation sucked, and he never wanted to be alone again.

e5oie2

Please take me home

The sunshine gleams across the lumbers, lighting them up to a warm honey that reflects off even the darkest eyes. Though, dust clouds linger at every corner—even sliding my finger down open boxes accumulates a hefty patch of dust. “Even the boxes have dust.” I stagger while flicking the dust off my finger. Rummaging through the tacky clothes and crumpled pieces of paper, I seem to only find junk waiting to be thrown away—someday. “Where is it?” Taking long strides, I evade, dodge, swiftly side step and maneuver through, up and over attic junk. Even the slightest faint whiff of dust I deflect off my clothes with a nice swift strum of the palm. I make it to the center of the attic and rest my hands on my knees. The attic is a host to expired and overhoarded junk that should’ve gone long ago! Thus the heaps of clothes accumulated to make their own hills and dunes—even climbing over a pile of clothes takes vigorous effort! I glance up to the far end of the attic where spider webs create a dense complex network of webbing. It’s like a freeway for spiders. Dust clouds reign the far end that it’s almost a thick gas of charcoal, and the lumber on the ground leading up to the end is but smashed in. The attic light flickers but it’s luminosity barely touches the corner—that the flicker is more like a wink. But the far end of the attic is held by some kind of long fabric. I can’t tell if it’s a mustard color due to being dirty or brown due to the dust or the lack of light. Yet, it stands tall separating the attic. “What’s it covering?” I creep up to the fabric soaring high. “It’s held tight by the corners” I mutter to myself. I extend both hands as far as I can and scoop the fabric in—I begin to pull; the fabric is soft and thick, every bristle that brushes up against my hand feels like a puppy’s fur fresh out the shower. Every tug is a delight, but yet—is not affected by dust in any way? Is this a blank— “Helios!” I jump back as the fabric plummets to the ground. The fabric clumps but does not move. “Helios! Helios!” The fabric continues to scream—the clump kicks occasionally like a balloon but itself does not move. I hover over the fabric. “Hey.” I bend down. “Is there someone in there?” I turn my head to ear side. “Where are you? I can’t see you!” “Look! What or who are you before I step on you dude!” My foot hovers over the fabric. “I don’t know! I can’t move!” Can’t move..? I relent back as I reach for the fabric. Grabbing the fabric tight, I quickly sway it over as I dash back. It’s a lion! Within the quarters of the fabric, the lion manipulates the dyes to seem like it’s moving—like being stuck in a mirror. “You’re a lion!” I preempt. For a moment of silence, the lion surveys its window of confinement. It looks up and scans the perimeter of the blanket, seeming to look at my environment. The lion then centers itself in. “I’m not quite sure where I am—I simply know I’m not in my domain.” The lion approaches the brim of the fabric—as close as it can. “And where’s Helios?” “What the hell is a Helios?” “Helios!” The lion slams its paws down within its quarters. “Helios! The bright beacon that reigns the sky and beyond. Its radiant energy flourishes and nourishes; renews and resurrects!” The lion raises its head high. “Empowers and flows—” “Right, the sun.” “Yes! The sun. Please take me home.” “And that is?” “In Greece.” “What?” I stumble back and stagger over heaps of clothes. “No! I’m not going to Greece!” “You must!” “There’s a sun outside, I can’t just leave you out there?” “You don’t understand—this must covet the utmost urgency—I must get home!” “No!” I repel away from the stranded blanket. Take ‘me’ home he says! I can’t take him home! My hands swing and claw the air as I march in orbit. I only came to look for a sword and a talking blanket wants me to take him home! Oh ho! I slap the air as I combo it into a strangle. “Please take me home, friend.” The lion says. “You’re a talking blanket!” I scream to the other side of the attic. “What would you do if some cosmic entity robbed you of something that you didn’t know you were meant to have?” The lion interjects. “What?” The lumbers creak in slow melancholy as I shift my weight forward. The lion gets as close to the edge of the blanket as is allowed, seeming to find me within its given peripherals. I withheld my foot back and approach the blanket. Every step the wood creaks as if the next step could be its last to snap. “What are you talking about?” “I withdraw my statement—though I did captivate your conscience. Please take me home.” “I’m not taking you home.” “I’m going home!” The blanket scuffs around my body doing a happy dance. “Hey, hey! Calm down!” I sway from my seat to look down the plane aisle and look around for any gazes. “People can hear you!” I preemptively readjust the blanket to coil up and over my neck and back “Of course. I apologize.” The lion confirms. “I gotta wear you for now. It'd be weird if I walk into Greece with just a blanket—and a big one not to mention.” Looking outside the window is a vast plain ocean with hazy clouds; birds far from the plane are orbiting in circles down below—must be seagulls. The lion peering from my chest leisurely lays on the ground noticeably scanning outside the perimeter of the blanket—towards the window. “So.” I relay. “What are you? As in—if you’re really a lion, why are you in a blanket?” The lion but gazes outside. The sun beautifully reflects off the plane wing—a mesmerizing glossy white gleams rays off. “A challenger impertinently bestowed a curse upon me.” “They turned you into a lion or a blank—” “They approached swiftly!” The lion interjects. “At the far end of the cliff they arrived! They channeled the power of the sun at dusk and inflicted a curse!” The lion’s claws drag across the ground as his teeth protrude. I lean weight back onto my seat. “Ok cat, you gotta calm down.” I mutter. My hands unravel the blanket coiled from my neck. “That unbelievable hypocrite heathen broke the foundation of man!” The lion bursts. “Lion!” I breathily mutter. “Stop screaming!” At an instant, the lion jumps to its paws head up high. Before the lion’s mouth can open, I immediately strangle the blanket and slam it onto my seat—the lion mumbles and bumbles inaudible sounds. Vibrations radiate from my seat as I scan the environment. From at least 5 rows away, a passenger can be seen fiddling with their headphones. “Yeah—you’re on timeout lion.” For the next few minutes the blanket’s tantrum subsides. I pull the lion up. “I shall reign victorious!” The lion pleads as the blanket flaps its corners.” “Yeah, ok. You good now?” “Indeed! Now: We must jump out of the aircraft!” “You’re crazy! We’re—I’m not gonna jump!” “Yes. We must jump and now!” The blanket coils its corners around my wrists tightly. “Wait, what are you doing?” The lion catapults itself through the window like a bullet; my chest slams against outside of the window before plummeting. “Lion!” The force of the wind pierces through my body, tugging my shirt at the hook of my neck. A head dive in, a fierce barrage of relentless wind pummels my face—unabling any oxygen to be properly inhaled. Falling further, I collapse into the blanket as it becomes a jumbled mess over my body. “AhHhh! Lion! I’m going to kill you!” Not a single word was rendered audible by the lion due to the unbearable winds. Nothing but flapping and my screaming are able to be heard. At an instant, the blanket propels me down as it spreads apart and suspends up into the sky. The blanket tendrils still wrapped around my arms tighten as I am pulled along with. We whip up before slowing in velocity—now but slowly gliding down. My lips smack as my eyelids seal exhaustively. “You’re gonna kill me, lion.” “On the contrary, we’re saved!” “You just threw us off the plane!” “Undoubtedly—but alas, we have nothing to fear!” “We have to get back on that plane! We’re not going to get to Greece like this!” “We’re already on Greece.” “In?” “On Greece. Look down.” Beyond the seas is the beginning of a shore part of a big island. Around are smaller islands with rocky but green cliff sides. Gliding towards the shores, the sun shines bright as ever. The waters are fresh and foamy—yet at the far glance the sunshine gleams across like a vibrant streak. The waves swiftly approach the beachy shores before receding back in just as swift as they arrived. “Wow. This place is—-nice.” “Indeed. Quite the spectacle. We shall land at the sand and the rest is on foot.” Within heel range, I land on my tippy toes as I sluggishly march before collapsing on the ground. The blanket’s tendrils loosen before gliding to the ground. “Where exactly are we going?” I moan, stretching my limbs on the sand. “East—at the brink of this island. We must arrive at the cliffside before dusk.” “What’s happening at dusk? And what are we doing?” “There’s no time for squabble—the lore behind this occurrence is too tedious for such courtesy—which we do not have.” “I get it. But even if it takes the whole day to get there, I can’t keep carrying you around. You’re. Big.” “Use this.” The blanket props itself up by the tendrils like a lion. The blanket then ejects a bladed weapon that lands point into the sand. “You have a sword?” I cry. “No time for epiphanies! Carved me into a compact being—and knowing the customs of this land: I will direct you!” I run to the sword and approach the blanket before going to work. “Ok—initiate your incision here.” Within the blanket, the lion runs to the edge of it and points. I anchor my leg onto the blanket and pull one end with my hand for stability. I cautiously aim the edge of the blade alongside the lion’s guide point and saw. The blade immediately shows it’s sharpness by slicing the end with minimal effort. I cut further with precise slices. “Ok now here—and cut all the way to here—this line.” The lion says while guiding me. “Here leave some space—and cut here but don’t separate the fabrics.” The result is a long strip of fabric—still wide enough for the lion to be seen doing his tricks. The ends of the fabric cut are rugged and imperfect—the threads of the blanket protrude like strings, some sticking out more than others. “I shall fix this.” The threads sew themselves together—like muscle fibers intertwining and stitching their ends. “Equip me with haste and we shall continue.” I grab the long fabric and sling it around my body and neck before tying it. A sash. I take the sword and begin to run into the body of the island. I climb slopes, hills, dunes, before coming into a rocky hilly incline. I toss the sword at the very top before jumping, lunging and climbing the rocks. I make it to the very top, grab my sword and run ahead. What I came to astounded me. “A village.” I say. The outskirts of the village are home to tents and stands that are set up outside wooden huts. Approaching the village, townsfolk roam as some are arranging fruit in their stands; others leisurely stand as they banter with other townsfolk. Farther deep into the town there lays butchers and tailors that hone their craft. I now leave the village. “That was such a nice town—why couldn’t we stay longer?” I say while swinging my arms close to the floor. “The son is going down very soon—we must tread hastefully.” For the remainder of the day, I run across open fields, hop over ravines and lakes, streams and rivers—tread over and around hills and desserts, and through towns and cities. I march and make it to a final field. The sky is now a indigo color and a gleeful violet deeper in. The clouds fissure across the sky in a red orange coloring. Shadows collapse into the island—and the sun cuts into the horizon. A tree stands as the last monument before the sea begins. “Lion—we’re here.” “We’re late.” The lion concludes. “I don’t get it. We’re here now. And for what?” “The challenger died long ago.” “I don’t understand.” “In the endeavor of crossing this landscape I realized that everything is far different than when I was alive.” “Lion.” I slowly approach the tree and peering into the sea. The horizon encapsulates the sun’s red orange color as a streak slashes down the sea. Fresh breeze glides through the grassy vegetation—like little firecrackers extinguishing. Seagulls flap their wings and squeal at the far horizon. “Lion—what are we doing here? How do we change you back?” The lion longfully looks into the sunset. “Lion.” I persist. “Lion. How. Do. We. Change you back.” No response still. “We cannot.” “Lion! There’s no way I paid eight hundred dollars to take a plane to Greece! To be thrown out of a plane mid-flight and to waste one two days to help you, not help me!” I strangle the sash and look at the longful lion. “Don’t you see! I was robbed!” The lion lunges—only prevented by the confines of the sash. “I was meant to die a noble death—and to resurrect but still not have the chance and redemption due to a mishap that happened a long time ago!” “You—want to die?” “He killed my family at dusk. At a time of lull—a time of rest—-and the challenger killed my family.” A long silence overheads the atmosphere. “He challenged me through the sun—helios did this to me!” The sun. The sun. If the sun turned him into a lion—maybe it can turn him back. I firmly cup the front of the sash where the lion rests. The lion but has his back turned against me. I raise the sash straight forward—directly towards the collapsing sun. The sash’s mustard color illuminates and saturates the sun’s vibrance. “Come on you stupid sun!” The sun continues to plummet into the horizon—a little less than half is left to go. The sash is left unphased. I propel the sash ahead—straight ahead—still nothing. “This has to work! Come on!” “Human, this will not work.” “This has too! I don’t know how you made the sword but try using your powers on the sun!” “Human, stop. It’s ok.” “No it’s not ok! There has to be a way to bring you back!” “Human.” The lion states. “I already am home.”

a9gbon

The Immigrant

I felt the breeze against my skin. Then I saw a soldier rip a baby from its mother's arms. He swung it by the ankle against the concrete wreckage beside us with a thwack . He threw the baby aside like he was littering, and his dogs tore into it. I was in shock, staring at the grotesque scene of infant flesh being torn from its bones with eyes wide. The sound of bones breaking under the force of the dog’s jaws was just too surreal. The soldier stood over the mother who was hysterically crying. He grabbed her by the hair and walked her over to a car that was on fire. He pressed her face against the hot metal. I could smell her flesh burning. Even at a distance I could see her skin melt and drip away like water from a leaky faucet. His fellow soldiers laughed at her anguished cries. With my hands bound behind my back, I rushed the soldier in front of me while his attention was diverted. Getting past him, I rounded the wreckage of a falling building. I ran as fast as I could amongst piles of rubble with my hands behind my back. The soldiers shot at me, kicking up dust and gravel. I cut into a building to avoid their bullets. I saw a rough, rusty rod sticking out of some concrete. I stopped long enough to rub the ropes binding my hands against it to free them. Just as I freed my hands, I heard a low rumbling growl behind me. I turned and looked up. There on top of the concrete was one of the soldier’s dogs. It leapt at me, knocking me over. It jumped on top of me. I had to use all of my strength to keep it from tearing into my face. Drool dripping down on me, its breath, warm and foul. I grabbed a piece of rubble; a handful of concrete that I slammed it into its head. Grabbing onto its collar, I wouldn’t let it up. I kept smashing. It yiped. Its skull cracked. Blood sprayed. Finally, I stopped and dropped the rock, exhausted, covered in sweat. I heard a gunshot. I dropped and covered my head. I looked in the direction the shot came from. A woman in civilian clothes was lowering her rifle. I heard a thud behind me, and I looked. On the concrete was a soldier who had snuck up behind me. I looked back at the woman. She was waving at me to hurry her way.  She muscled open a door that led deeper into the building. We ran from room to room until we came out onto the other side of the building. I heard in the distance explosions and gunfire, men and women screaming, the sound of tanks, and buildings crumbling. She led me away from that, mainly moving through buildings. We exited one building and she let out a noise like that of a rooster. The same noise came from the building across the street. We climbed over a pile of rubble where other men and women in civilian clothes were gathered. The woman was greeted by two men and a woman who I assumed to be her superiors. She talked to them as a man took me aside, giving me a blanket and a hot can of beans. He said something to me, but it was in a language I didn’t understand. In fact, everyone was talking in this unfamiliar language. I dug into the beans. They were meaty and tangy with little chunks of bacon in them. After not eating for three days, they tasted as good as lamb medallions with mint jelly. As I was eating, the woman came back. She looked at me like she was going to say something then paused. She was trying to figure out how to communicate with me. She put two hands together, laid her head on them, and closed her eyes. Sleep. Then she made wave like motions with her hand. Water, snake, I don’t know. I motioned for a drink, and she was happy to get me some water. The next word I knew. America. She posed like The Statue of Liberty anyway. I nodded my head and said, “America,” to let her know I understood that tomorrow she will take me to a boat bound for America. I finished my beans and water and stretched out with my blanket, falling fast asleep. I woke to the sound of gunfire. Everyone was frantically running around getting into position, returning fire. One man gave me a machine gun and showed me how to use it. I shook my head, no. I had never used one before and I was scared. He pushed it into my chest and left. I went and I laid on the pile of rubble like everyone else. I timidly pulled the trigger. Bullets came flying out and the force knocked me back. I got back up, that time ready, and I started shooting. I had no idea what I was shooting at. It was pitch black. But I do know I was being shot at because gravel and dust were kicked up in my face. Out of the darkness came a horrible yell as the enemy stormed across the street. We were vastly outnumbered. The small wall of rubble did present an obstacle for our attackers. We shot down many before they breached that line, overrunning us. I got tackled. The soldier pulled out a knife and aimed it at my heart. I used both hands to block him, but he used both hands to apply pressure. I felt the knife pierce my skin. It was like a needle prick at first. Then it got deeper despite my efforts to keep him from stabbing me. I could feel the cut get wider and the knife penetrate the muscle. I started to panic as my arms grew weaker and the knife slowly sank deeper. Then a shot rang out. It was her. My savior, warrior angel. She grabbed me and led me to the back of the building. She guided me out the far side. We ran from building to building, dodging soldiers everywhere we went. The sun was rising and with every passing second the more anxious she became. She got me to the beach where a man was waiting with an inflatable boat. They got me in and covered me with a tarp. The driver of the boat sped off to a cargo ship waiting off the coast. As soon as I was on board, the ship set a course for open waters. There were nineteen of us they were able to rescue and smuggle out that day. When The Statue of Liberty came into sight, we were all jubilant, hugging and cheering. We were met at the docks by social services, who were notified of our arrival ahead of time. There was a lot of information they went over with us and a lot of paperwork to fill out, but when it was all said and done, I had a place to live, food to eat, and some spending money as long as I looked for a job. I met with an employment specialist who got me a job at a factory that was walking distance from my apartment. It paid more money than I had ever made in my life, plus benefits. My boss spoke my language, which was good because I had just started English classes at night a week before. He set me up with a man who was supposed to teach me the assembly process. Before he did, he said a lot of things to me that I didn’t understand. His tone was gruff, his face angry, his body language rigid. I assumed he was mad. I didn’t know why he was mad. I was confused. I just nodded. I caught on to the job quickly. It wasn’t hard. You just had to focus on what you were doing. I was making my quota or better every hour. I was happily doing my job one day when one of my coworkers came and knocked all my parts on the floor. “It’s bad enough you foreigners come over here taking all our jobs, but now you have to show us up too. Slow down or the bosses are going to expect that kind of production from all of us.” Between my English classes and the job, I was learning the language pretty fast too. I knew what he said. I just kept my mouth shut. I was only eighteen and most of these guys were twice my age. I focused on picking up my parts so I could get back to work. Despite his intrusion, I still hit my quota for the day. On the way home, a pick-up truck came to a screeching halt right next to me. Three guys from work hopped out. One hit me over the head with a beer bottle. A mixture of warm wet and cold wet could be felt on the back of my head. Another guy shoved me to the ground where another man kicked me in the head. Two guys lifted me up by the arms and held me while the third guy punched me in the face repeatedly. I thought I was going to pass out. My legs gave out from beneath me. They hoisted me back up and started on my stomach. “I think that’s good boys. Let’s see if he understands that.” I limped to work the next day, my face swollen and bruised. My boss asked me what happened. I told him everything. He sent me home, saying I couldn’t work in that condition. He also said he would talk to the guys responsible, but with it happening off the work site, there was nothing he could do. I returned to work a couple days later and made sure to miss my quotas. At the end of the day, when the supervisor came around, he put a sympathetic hand on my shoulder and nodded before patting me on the back and walking off. I graduated from my English class, earned my General Education Degree, received an associate degree from LaGuardia, quit the factory and moved into the dorms at NYU. There, I worked bussing tables and washing dishes at the campus café while earning a bachelor’s degree in education. Then I took a job as a teacher’s assistant while I studied for my master’s degree. I moved to Albany to take a job as an associate professor and write my dissertation. I earned my doctorate and became a full-fledged professor. Life in academia was far more accepting, far more enriching, far more rewarding. Ten years after coming to America, I did some research and sought out my warrior angel. I contacted her and she met me in the city for dinner one night. I got to tell her thank you in English for getting me out of that war-torn country and away from that oppressive regime. That night, when we parted ways, she kissed me on the cheek, thanking me for letting her see what her work does for the people she helps. We’ve been in touch ever since.

rzz87q

Forest of FIre and Spells.

I stood atop a crumbling hill that flourished with flowers and weeds. A sky hung with narwhals wailing, and birds singing. In the vast distance, I could see a village with crooked little houses in rows upon rows with little fences bordering them. Fountains were streaming with bright blue water and trees blooming with vivid flowers. But the thing that attracted my eye the most, was the cracked white marble statue in the middle standing higher than the other buildings.” This is my next city,” I said as the howling wind buried my words into the empty sky. It better be worth it. I took hold of my oak wagon, and made my way down the hill, slowly disappearing into the sunrise. As I walk across a concrete stone path lined with blazing dandelions, I glance around the small town. Ladies walking around with striking blouses, and deep red aprons, fixing up clay pots housing tomatoes and beans. Vines dangling across the broken tiles of curvy rooftops. Old men sitting around a table with cards at their mercy. Along with children jumping and spinning and frolicking around with wooden oak toys in their small, chubby hands. I get checked into an inn nearby and look around for a spot to set my wagon. As I'm strolling away, I find myself right in the heart of this village. I could tell that this was it because of all the stalls and merchants lined up on the side, with busy old ladies speaking in rather noisy tones, ‘asking’ for lower prices. I set up my place on a wall next to a shoe shop, with my cart facing directly at the marble statue from earlier. I put up my coffee-stained sign and set out all the products for viewing. Then I take out some parchment paper, ink, and a quill, and start writing. My hobby, or a more fitting term, my job, is to write spells. I write different ones for particular occasions and then sell them to potential buyers. Now, when I say I write spells, I don’t mean those normal ones though. They are, in no way, any fun to write. I write ones that are interesting and unusual. Ones that you would never think of. Besides, writing is a hobby, it shouldn’t stop me with restrictions, whether it be about turning milk spoiled, or summoning ancient warlords. Now, usually, my reputation in villages like these would remain quite high, but these villagers seemed very easy to irritate and misunderstand. So my influence slowly started to diminish. Furthermore, since rumors tend to spread faster than the wind could catch clear of, my personality was greatly known all around. Therefore, I was expecting a very quick leave from the village. But, I decided to stay, since profit could be made (somehow?). I began enduring all of the silent glances, whispers, and little nudges to the gate of the village. But, every second I spent in the vicinity of this village made the villagers even more weary of me, and thus, I decided it was my time to leave. I started packing things up one by one. Taking the sign down, putting the spells into the compartment under the wagon, and pulling on the curtains, when I suddenly hear footsteps behind me. I suspect it’s the old lady trying to explain in her “polite voice”, to get me to leave, so, without turning around, I say, “I’m closing up, alright, no need to continue persuading me.” “Oh. Are you sure you can’t spare a moment?” asks a voice that I don’t seem to recognize. I turn around to see a boy, likely my age, walking towards me. “Make it quick,” I say while turning back around. “ I was wondering if you would have a spell that would create Lotus Wing flowers.” I would’ve given him a flower-creating spell, but that name is one that I haven’t heard in a long time. “Lotus Wing?” I say turning around to face the boy. He steps back a little, and smiles while saying,” Yes, I would like a spell for conjuring them up.” “How could I give a spell that creates flowers that don’t exist anymore?” I’m unamused as I’ve had to deal with stuff like this for a while now. “No, no, no. You don’t understand. Why would I ask you for something that doesn’t exist?” He backtracked, waving his hands around in frantic motions. “ I know that you have specific conditions. That’s why I’ve come to you in the first place. I have…a place I would like to take you to,” Well, I could charge him for overtime work compensation. I didn’t even make a dime, so that would cover the money loss. Win-win situation. “Alright, I’ll go. But I'll be expecting a heavy compensation for overtime work.” I say smugly. “Name your price.” He remarked brightly. I’m standing outside on the cold concrete stone tiles, with the blazing orange sun rising behind me in its steady path, when I see him walking towards me. He’s carrying a golden brown basket with what seems to be food and is lugging around a spotted, sky-blue scooter down the crooked path. I straighten my posture and dust off my long buttoned white dress. “Sorry for being late,” he says awkwardly, as he sets down his basket on the scooter. “ Where are we headed?” I remarked quickly to hint that no small talk was going to happen. “Oh, well here is a map I have of the directions.” I guess he got the hint because he’s now taking a rolled map out of his basket, opening it up, and shimmying his way beside me so I could take a look. “We're going from here, Smartep Village, down to La Ssien Valley, and upwards to OakWard Den. We’ll then have to walk from there to a cavern a bit up north.” He hands the map over, and I quickly glance at the route that has been marked up. “ I’ve made this trek a couple of times now, so there will be no chance of getting lost anytime soon.” He says smiling, like a child who is showing their proudest work. I hand the map back and he starts up the scooter. It was an old one. It had many silver scratches, and some rust on the back wheel protector, but otherwise, it was kept in good condition. “ There’s a seat behind where you can sit down on- umm. Mind me, your name?” “Aeress,” I say while settling down onto the musky leather cushion of the scooter. “Aeress. Like the Goddess Eris?” He says as he starts shifting the gears. “Yes.” I remark, pushing and resting my feet on the foot pedal, “ You might want to hold on tight, the road ahead is very unstable.” He says just as the scooter starts moving. I take my cold hands and wrap them around his waist while tucking my skirt and cardigan around my feet, as the scooter starts picking up speed. We began to ride off into the morning rites of the golden sky, just as the milky white clouds started to wake up. We’ve been riding along the La Ssien Valley for a while now. But it wasn’t necessarily a boring ride. If you looked around, you would see acres on end of gorgeous, vibrant flowers sprinkled across the valley. There were blue tints, vivid pinks, purple hues, glistening greens, and fiery reds just dispersed along the iridescent grass and cobalt sky. The narwhals wailed gleefully, and birds sang their sweet song. The trees whistled on end, and their leaves joined with a shuttering tune. Baby pink deers and fawns traveled across the paint palette garden in steady paces. The air was warm and smooth, and the road sent grainy dust into the mellow atmosphere. It was like life stopped at that moment, to paint this picture of a reality. “Whatcha thinking about?” The boy said over his shoulder. I still didn’t know his name even though we’d been traveling for a while, so I felt the need to ask out of respect. “ Nothing much. By the way, what’s your name?” I say staring at the scenery. “Knox.” He replied non-chantly. It was quiet once again. But that silence was broken quickly this time. “ How long have you been traveling for?” he questioned. “Around five years now,” I say, admiring the lotuses on the clear, luminescent waters. "Must have been hard all alone,” he said, pitying me. “Not really. It was lonely at first, but after a while, it started to feel- convenient of sorts.” I say, closing my eyes and sighing. The rest of the ride was quiet with the soft blow of the sun's kisses landing on our faces, as clouds welcomed our silence. Some time passes by when the scooter comes to an abrupt halt. “What happened?” I say, steadying myself on the cushion. “This is it,” Knox said as he got off the scooter. I do the same as him and start strutting beside him to get a look. “Looks like a normal forest,” I remark. “That’s why no one really goes to this place often.” he started walking to his right, towards the meadow filled with dazzling dandelions fluttering across the field. I follow up with him, and we start walking through the meadow. I was about to say something when I felt a tug at my boots. I look around to see a cat kneeing me. “Who is yo?” uttered the cat. “Umm…” I silently take some steps backward and turn to face Knox who’s beaming from ear to ear. “Mini-bee!” He gets on his knees excitedly and fistbumps the little cat who in turn follows his fistbump. “Mini-shoap!” the cat eagerly says. “Mini-shoap?” I say sarcastically. I end up bending to my knees as well, to try to get to their height and look towards Knox. “Mini-bee this is Aeress. Aeress, this is Mini-bee.” He smiled joyfully. “Lady Mini-aroshoap.” “Umm… right. Thank you Mini-bee.” I look towards Knox signaling for an explanation. “Mini-bee is here protecting the forest from those with bad intentions.” and is if they were practicing this introduction, Mini-bee takes his little silver sword and points it to the sky with one (limb?) on a small rock. It was a very bizarre sight if you have never seen a dwarf cat before, but that wasn’t to say that it wasn’t cute. “Wow. You protect this forest by yourself?” I say trying to sound impressed. “Yash. Mini-bee Pretoct de ferost.” He proudly remarked. “And he does a fine job at it,” Knox replied. “Now Mini-bee, me, and Miniaroshoap need to go to Emisfin Cavern. Could you take us there?” He smiled at Mini-bee like he was bribing a child with those sweet words. I mean I guess it wasn’t that different. “Yash. Mini-bee shael take Lady Mini-aroshoap to emi-cav.” Mini-bee got up and raised his paw towards me, asking for me to hold it. With a laugh, I let out my index finger, and he grabs onto it. He started leading me forward through the fiery dandelions, and bold olive grass with Knox following behind us. Trekking through the fuzzy moss, rotten leaves, and very slimy mud was horrendously awful. Branches would trickle down our neck, and the wind had a cold sheer to it. But eventually, we got to the cavern. “Fair lady, thish iz whee me take yo.” Mini-bee said while bowing his down. I offered a courtesy of respect, and Mini-bee was off. “Whatcha think about Mini-bee?” Knox asked next to me. “He’s a perfect gentleman.” I smiled and tried to dust off the suspicious… substances that had made streaks down my dress. Not the best time to wear white at all. “Well, here we are,” Knox said, putting his hands on the cavern’s door and gently creating a small opening. “Ladies first.” he let out his hand for me to go through the gate. And without thinking much of it, I took his hand and led myself inside. The corridor was very stuffy with the humidity that had been trapped inside. The vines that dangled and the weeds that scaled up the walls looked as if no one had disturbed them for years. The musky smell had filled the corridor to the very end, where light was emerging from. I looked behind Knox, and he motioned to continue. After each step, the light became increasingly closer and closer, and in seconds I was in front of it. There were lanterns and vines longer than the one before, dropping from the ceiling. The lanterns had a blueish, yellowish hue to them, with the amount of them increasing each time. Then, suddenly, it felt like I was taken to that garden of flowers again. But this time, all you could see would be fiery reds and blazing oranges. Bright yellows, and those olive greens. There were little spore buddies, strolling around and tending to the sun-kissed flowers with care and diligence. There were torches along the wall and a small waterfall that was consistently carrying out crystal blue water. I looked back to see Knox smiling cheerfully. “See? I told you I had a reason.” He sounded so sure in his voice, and I guess he was right. I bent down to the ground and started surveying the flowers' details. Huge spotted petals dropped downward with orange flames reaching out from the center. A thin green stem and prickly leaves with a red-hued center. The petals had intricate layers and folds and would’ve looked lovely basking in the morning sun’s radiance, housed in an earthy clay pot. No wonder they died out so quickly. “They're beautiful, aren’t they? But they were hunted to extinction for the very same reason that made them alive. This is the only place that they’ve been able to be preserved for so long. That’s why I want to bring them back.” I smile at the conviction In his voice. “Well, now you can,” I remark with a genuine smile. After a while spent inside the cavern, we end up leaving and get escorted to the foothold of the forest. We say our farewells to Mini-bee and start riding off back to the village, with faint smiles on our faces. The bright, pale moon was shining down on the dark wooden fences around the village. Knox let out his hand and I took it, steadying myself from jumping off the scooter. I ruffle out my dress and dust anything that might be off about it, as he turns the scooter off and gets the basket. We walk in silence to my Inn, get my things together, and prepare for me to leave. I grab my wagon, and we start walking side by side with nothing but the gentle breeze of humidity brushing against our cheeks. The weeds were sharp, the grass was tall and it looked as if the clouds had finally taken their rest. I set my cart down by the entrance and turned to him. “Thank you very much for showing that cavern. It was a surreal experience.” I smile, intertwining my hands together. “No problem. I’m just glad that I was able to finally share it with someone.” A lulled peace surrounded us. “Well, I’ll be taking my leave now.” I offer a bow of respect take my wagon in hand, and start walking up the hill we came from. I walked a couple steps, then a couple more, waiting for something. Then I heard it. He called for the spell. At that moment, I let my wagon go, pulled out a piece of paper from my pocket, and blew it away. The sheet turned to dust into the air, and that was when my proudest work had been displayed. An intense golden light blinded our eyes, turning into brilliant, lush sparks of green, red, and blue. Flaming flowers with this intense yellow and golden hue lit up the dark starry night, like fireworks in a dead sky. The air filled with white silvery spores, and light, featherly petals falling down on us. A meadow of fire was created around us, devouring us in its red-hot flames of purity. I saw him standing there. Eyes wide, and mouth open. Looking around, but only to see the same flowers in that tiny cavern. “I gave you your wish better than any spell I could make,” I told him with a smile. Moments passed by like years on end while flaming sparks filled the silence between. The quietness turned to me getting a hold of my wagon, grinning, and continuing walking up the hill. I turned my head to see him standing with a lotus wing in his hand. “Writing doesn’t have to be spoken, or written, or even thought of. It can be imagined, and still be just as magical.” I said to the narwhals in the sky. To the spore buddies tending to blazing flowers. And to the boy that was standing in the smoldering flora. With that, I took a step with burning foliage trailing behind, as I disappeared into the sunrise.

ynxldt

Beacon of Light

Val smiled. He smiled a smile that reflected the light of the Summer sun, just like the rippling light dancing on the waves as they played along the rocks of the shore. Trent took in that smile and wished that he could give something of such worth to his friend. He stifled the sorrowful frown that threatened to break across his face and ruin the moment. Val was a delight. Trent knew Val was too good for him and it shamed him that he kept the secret of Val’s delight to himself, fearing that if he were to tell his friend, their bond would break and Val would drift off for far away shores. Shores where he belonged. Shores filled with the bright happy people that were the tribe that Val so richly deserved. Part of the trick, Trent knew, was to keep moving. If he ever stopped then he would be found out. The lies he contained were more difficult to spot when he was in fluid motion. Never mind sleight of hand, it was better to use the entire banquet of body. Leaping from rock to rock he let forth a joyful laugh. The truth of that simple sound escaped him. His truth eluded him and he lied casually to himself in his mistaken belief that he had mislaid it. Val saw it alright. Val saw it and revelled in it. If only he had told his friend this or at least a part of the truth that they so readily shared between them. But then, a lifelong friendship can leave these most important of words left unsaid. Love unspoken, but ever present all the same. The two lads leapt along the line of rocks. Each time they ventured along the coast they went that bit further. Cautious dare devils sharing the secrets of their brave adventures. Not wanting to get into trouble with their parents for being here at all, let alone pushing the boundaries of their childhoods away from the watchful eyes of those responsible for the bubble of innocence they resided within. Neither of the boys had noted that this was the longest of days. The sun carried away with the game the lads were engrossed in, lingering a little more each time. Reluctant to return home for its well earned slumber. There was a magic to this day and the boys breathed its briny taste in as they laughed and shouted their way all the way to the very end of the coast. This was the day that this series of adventures would come to its conclusion. They both felt it as they reached their destination at last. Tired and happy, they slowed to a reverential walk towards their Summer objective. Unaware that they were in step as they walked side by side. A democracy of two. Neither wanting to be the first to touch the tangible goal of their Summer of fun. This was to be shared. Neither of them had spoken of this. Some truths needed no words. Some magic spells are silent. Stopping, they turned their head to look at each other. Solemn, they stood before their church and nodded. Right hands raising, they sought to touch the door at the very same moment. But before they could, it swung towards them in one fluid motion until it was wide open. This shock invitation both terrified and thrilled the lads. Another truth they would not bring themselves to give word to. Looking again at each other, they missed the pleading mirrored in their eyes. This was the point at which they could have ended this day’s adventure. This was good enough. More than good enough. There was no defeat in turning back now, but a looming feeling of shame triumphed over their fear. Neither of them wanted to back down. An impasse that had furthered the human race time and again. An impasse that had also sent many a young buck over a cliff that in the cold light of a dispassionate day it should never have ventured near. But that was a heartless and ignorant day that brought a grey reality with it. The grey was envious of the fanned rainbow tail of life, and its envy left it insensible and hateful of the vibrancy of those colours. Never would Val and Trent establish who it was that walked through the inviting doorway first. To argue that point would be to miss the point; they were in this together. Two parts of the whole. Perhaps they had been two boys right up until they made their silent pact and issued forth into that most sacred of places. That and much else changed in an unremarkable moment that they would not mark until they found an oasis of unremarkable again. One of them closed the door behind them. Again, as to which one, there was no noting. That it should be done was all that counted. The closing door plunged the boys into darkness. A darkness that was a counterpoint to the place they had entered. A darkness that held no fear for them. They felt a warmth of welcome, besides which, they were never intended to remain within the darkness. Their place was far higher than where they now stood. As one, they climbed cold, stone steps that wound around the tower they had entered. Painstakingly, they took each and every step together. The staircase was wide. Designed for big men and large items that would need to brought to the very top of the structure. Time sat beyond the walls of the tower and having lost sight of the boys and the delight of their youthful fun, it moved churlishly to punish them for leaving without a backwards glance or a by-your-leave. By the time the lads reached the final steps they were curious to witness the changing of the guard. The last of this Summer Day was nigh and the sun had become red with embarrassment as it peered at them from the horizon. Val was already looking askance at Trent as Trent turned towards him. They had lost the best part of the day in walking the stairs and they were on the cusp of losing themselves to a maelstrom of emotion when they were distracted in the most wonderful of ways. Heralded by a thunderous click that shook the floor under their feet, a blinding white light crashed into existence. This light was so intense that the boys could feel it shining through them so that they cast no shadow. So bright was that light that they instinctively turned their backs to it, even as it moved around the tower in a slow and purposeful circle. The boys gazed out at the world from their perch and were filled with an unspeakable joy. They had been transformed into giants. Lords of all they surveyed. They had gone upwards and with each step they had grown up. Grown and grown until they were all they could be and much, much more. This tower was their chrysalis and they were now emerging as something beyond the imagining of the grubs they once were. The light moved around the land. A finger pointing out the lad’s kingdom. On the third sweep, they heard the coming of the dragon, but they did not see it. At first it was a whisper. A whisper that promised so much more. Then it was a groan. A herald of dark and hard times. By the time the screaming started, the boys knew that nothing would ever be the same again. This was the counter to their beautiful transformation. The dragon’s wings brought the winds of change and those winds were fierce. And they were hungry. The lads watched as far off trees bent double like elderly shoppers shambling along the promenade as they searched for all those they had lost. Always looking down. Never up. A sad sight made worse by their sad sight. The screaming winds whipped this way and that, besieging the tower of light, but unable to enter. Unable to drag the boys away from their sanctuary, dash them on the sharp, cruel rocks and then feast upon their carcasses in the depths of the sea. In the underwater cavern that the dragon had made its lair. A place away from the prying eyes of a disbelieving population that had lost its way when it lost those beliefs. Trent fancied he felt the tower move a little as the dragon beat its wings all the harder. He sought the hand of his friend and was relieved to find Val’s seeking hand. Fingers entangled they bore witness to the coming battle. Cheated of its prize, the dragon threw itself upon the small, seaside town. It lifted the seas high into the air and threw them over the scant defences. Each onslaught saw the shops and houses disappear only to defiantly reappear moments later. The brave town stood bold and proud, but there was only so much it could take. After all, it was not built for war, whereas the dragon was created only to destroy. Flanks of impenetrable shields. A vast array of teeth the size of a man and a fire in its belly that must be fed. It was the pier that went first. The dragon broke it’s spine and it lay helpless as the roiling seas pulled and harried at it. It clung on valiantly, but there was no denying its end. Waiting under the surface, the dragon opened its mouth wide and swallowed the broken half in one gulp, steam bubbling from its nostrils as the pier burnt in its midst. The Odeon was next. The once glorious façade had grown old and wrinkled over the years and those who had once loved it and gloried in its presence were long gone. Even the bent and crooked elderly of the town could not remember the Odeon’s youthful heyday. As it collapsed into the maw of the dragon, there was something of a sorrowful mercy in its demise. The town lost much in that moment though and the watching boys knew that things could never be the same again. A place needs its monuments to its makers. Just the same as a child should never forget the face of its parents, a place has to be grounded in what counts and where true obligations lay. The seafront face of the town doubled down in grim determination. The fallen Odeon galvanised it. But the dragon was not done. Not yet. There was a price to pay and it would take what it was owed. Wings beat the wind down into the town like an invisible volley of spears. There was a terrible whooshing that the town responded to with gruesome groans and teeth shattering rending and wrenching. Clinging on for dear life the town hunkered down as the dragon did its worse. The canopy of a service station let go like a ragged chocolate wrapper. Floating this way and that it was carried across town until it crashed into and through a large house in the most surreal juxtaposition the boys had ever witnessed. In an odd, choreographed dance, five house roofs rose from their structures and cartwheeled over the town and into the hillside that hid this drama from the rest of the land. Then the lights of the town blinked three times as it began to send out an SOS. But the distress signal was smothered by the dragon and the lights went out. All that was left was the light from the tower that swept around in a painfully slow and deliberate arc. Illuminating comic book frames of destruction each time. Freeze frames of violence that became more awful with every passing. The boys squeezed each other’s hands in unison, willing the end of the battle. An end that would not come. Their feeling of helplessness and impotence weighed upon them a little more with each sweeping revelation until they could stand it no longer. The growing weight of the unfolding horror threatened to crush them. There was only one thing for it. To heed the suggestion of that foul gravity and go down to meet this dragon head on. They ran hand in hand down the steps. Down into the bowels of the tower and the waiting darkness. A benign darkness that went unnoticed. The lads knew there was much worse awaiting them on the other side of the door. At the door, Trent pushed down the doorhandle and they both shouldered the door in an effort to open it. In the scant light provided by the wandering eye above them, they looked at each other incredulously. They understood the conflicted nature of their plight even as they went at the door again with all their might. It was not the tower holding them inside in a protective act, but the dragon’s anger holding the door shut as it attacked everything about it in its fury at having been deprived of the boys. Again and again they tried to open the door, leave the tower and confront the hungry dragon. But the screaming dragon thwarted their each and every attempt. They did all they could and would have sacrificed themselves for the town if only the dragon had let them. It was with heavy hearts and even heavier steps that they climbed back to the top of the tower. Time relented as they travelled upwards, understanding that it had behaved badly on the previous occasion and wanting to make amends. This time as they reached the last step, the dark and stormy skies were beginning to soften. Again the thunderous click and the eye of the tower winked out and ceased its movement. This heralded one last roar from the dragon and then the sighs of wind as it travelled away from this place to a slumber that should have been for a hundred years. Val and Trent retook their place at the top of the tower. Trent fancied he heard the belligerent door swing open as they stood and awaited the coming of the sun to provide them with a view of what was left of the town. They had awhile to wait and when the sun began its chores for that day, it took its time in revealing the dragon’s work. This kindness was wasted on the lads. Sometimes words are not needed in order to reveal truths. Other times, seeing is not required for believing. They both believed they knew that the town was no more, and once the sun illuminated the truth in all its terrible glory, they knew they were the only two souls to have been spared from the worst storm in a century. The Dragon Storm they called it. A storm that only came along once every hundred years or so. The Odeon had been a lad itself back then and had laughed at and goaded the dragon in its youthful defiance. But the dragon had a long memory. And the dragon would always have its due. Always. They called Val and Trent The Miracle Boys, but those boys knew the truth, and the truth was that the dragon was still hungry and they were living on borrowed time. Even if they stayed well away from the seas and oceans, the dragon would find them and the dragon would have its due.

luogx1

Funayūrei

Orders are shouted forth from the helm and echo across the deck. The ship’s anchor is dragged up, the ropes are cast off, and the boat’s large sails fall and quickly fill with soft winds. Soon enough, the open waters engulf us and the coast of steady land is left behind. We sail for hours, setting off flares to light up the night. Sometimes, I hear the shouts of gulls and albatrosses, but the seas that surround us are empty. It’s just an endless void of water, but there’s always a nagging feeling that there’s something lurking just out of sight. Right underneath us. It triggers my fear of heights enough that I try to stay away from the ship’s edges if I can. Cold air blows across constantly, never ceasing no matter the time. The sea grows dangerous fast once the sun sets, forcing us to narrowly weave around whirlpools on two separate occasions, risking being dashed against rocks that jut out of the waters or sucked into the ocean’s ravenous mouths. Still, it’s hard not to be memorised when the swirling waters glow bright blue in the night. Once the danger has passed, we retire and emerge from under the decks in the morning. “Y’know, you said Cassidy’s name in yo’ sleep,” Karla asks, a curious mildly suggestive smile on her face. I think the open ocean with no sight of land is triggering her agoraphobia, so she’s been clinging to any familiar person that she can for most of the trip. “Oh, did I?” “Yep. ‘nother weird dream?” “Well…I wouldn’t call it weird,” I say, blushing a little. “But it was nice.” “Yeah?” “Aye. It was short an’ she appeared for just a moment, but she could see an’ ‘ear me this time! She was wearing her normal clothes too. An’ she smiled upon seeing me!” I grin. “Eye-Spy Afa, any sightings on the horizon?” Commander Nevitt calls up to the front of the ship. “No sign of any life, Commander,” they reply, fixing their spyglass back to their eye. “But amidst the vast expanse, land emerges before my eyes.” “Land?” I echo as they slide down, landing beside us with a thud. “Aye, there lie a couple of islands, mere miles away.” They grin, genuine and handsome, with the bloom of a kowhai tree hanging from their neck. Heavy black lines, arrows, and dots tattoo their skin from the middle of their exposed back to their knees. “Do you reckon your beloved companion might have sought refuge there?” “We ‘ave to check!” I demand. Somebody clears their throat. I awkwardly glance over. “Uh, if- if it’s alright with you, Commander.” He has a small smile on his lips. “Crew, land is in sight! After our long journey, shall we venture forth and explore?” He bellows across the ship. “Aye aye, sir!” comes the response. The once calm ship quickly becomes a frenzy of work. Strong rapids shove against the ship, the sea crashing and spraying against the wood. We manage to plough through and the ocean grows wide and flat soon enough. I just about see the silhouettes of a cluster of islands on the shifting horizon, appearing from the mists and drawing us in like moths to a flame. Link bites their lower lip, grinning madly, bouncing up and down with excitement at the ship’s bow as we get closer. “Ahhh, this is so cool!” they squeal. They’ve already adopted some of the attire of the crew, having eagerly changed their old trainers for newer boots and donned a pirate hat. It’s even got a little seagull feather and everything. “G, Karla, come check this out!” “Argh, G-d, no. Can’t…unable to budge,” Greyson groans. The top half of his body is bent over the side. His cheeks briefly swell and he claps a hand over his mouth. He shudders after swallowing and spits out the taste into the foaming waters. Karla wrinkles her nose in disgust, her hand gently rubbing his back. “What, are you scared? C’mon, it’s not that bad!” Link says, grabbing Greyson by the sleeve of his shirt. “We’re almost there, you gotta see!” “No, no. Leave me alone,” he mumbles, turning away, trying to push Link back. We seem to be the odd ones out with our seasickness. It makes sense that the crew wouldn’t get it though, plus Cassidy if she were here. According to her and her family, growing up as a naval military brat influenced her sense of balance and equilibrium. The gentle rocking motion of the ships soothed her as a baby and helped strengthen her core muscles and coordination as she learned to walk. She quickly adapted to the variable ship motion which sharpened her reflexes. Her inner ear attuned itself to detect subtle motions to help keep her oriented. This gives her great stability and spatial awareness, though she often needed support as a kid to avoid falling. After a life at sea, steady unmoving land initially seemed abnormal and required reorientation. Years at sea left a lasting effect on Cassidy’s natural gait on land. She retains a slight sway as if moving with phantom ocean swells. Sudden motions cause her to quickly regain footing with smooth reflexes, compensating for motion no longer there. Her muscles seem imprinted with memories of adjusting stance to shifting equilibrium. She moves fluidly, pivoting to stay centred. Her hips sway, arms counterbalance, knees bend ready to grip the ground. She takes deliberate braced steps as if still on a rocking ship. Her motions are efficient yet powerful as she leans into an unseen horizon. Even standing, she subtly sways and adjusts as if on a deck, keeping a wide stance for balance. Her body compensates for phantom pitching, shifting weight and regaining equilibrium against imagined rolls. Her innate sea legs endure though firmly planted on land. I only bring it up because Commander Nevitt, as well as the rest of his crew, have the same little nuances to their bodies too. And Cordelia and Herleif, now that I think about it. I begin to ponder it more until a sound echoes across the air. Everyone goes quiet, suddenly wary and alert. The ship ropes creak and the unlit lanterns sway a little. The deep groan rumbles, carried by an ominous wind that sweeps across the sea. “Oh, no,” Afa whispers, stowing away their spyglass. The crew members exchange worried glances. The waves starts to roughen, clawing at the ship. I peer at the sea. The waves look like…people, almost. “Secure the cargo! Fasten every rope!” Commander Nevitt orders (kinda hot). “Trouble’s approaching, everyone!” The wind intensifies, whipping through the ship’s rigging and causing the crew’s hair to dance wildly. One crew member rushes to secure loose cargo, tying down barrels and crates with sturdy ropes, ensuring they won’t be swept away by the tempest’s fury. It takes me a moment to realise that it isn’t wind. It sounds more like howling or wailing. Another crew member climbs the mast, their movements agile despite the swaying deck. The sea quickly grows rougher and rougher. Water splashes over the side and I get a glimpse of something almost trying to take shape in the curl of the wave. A person? A small wooden ladle clatters to the deck, thrown over by the sea. The crew works quickly, furiously lashing the sails to prevent them from being torn apart by the relentless wind. Karla, Link, Greyson, and I hurry to rush in and help out until a figure looms over us. “Big Flame?” I frown. “Doctor and friends, this is for your safety,” she states before easily scooping the four of us into her massive arms. “Wot the- Hey! Big Flame!” We struggle fruitlessly against her muscles. I catch the sight of the crew members moving with practised efficiency, their muscles straining as they battle against the elements. More water and more ladles are thrown over onto the deck. The crew secures ropes, tightens knots, and double-checks their work, their focus unyielding. I notice the water taking shape until we’re unceremoniously shoved below deck into the captain’s cabin. “Stay away from the windows,” is all she says before shutting the door and disappearing. The sounds of desperate preparation, indistinct shouts, and our thudding heartbeats are still loud enough to reach us. “Hold on, everyone! We can’t afford to lose control of the ship!” I hear Big Flame yell. The sea almost seems to rumble as the storm blows closer. The ship now feels tiny compared to when we first stepped on it. The captain’s cabin is quite cramped, stuffed full of bolted furniture and tied supplies: a table, a shelf, some barrels, and a couch. We avoid the skylight and the two windows that frame the desk, our only views of outside. The boat sways to the side again, thrustedupward, teetering perilously on the edge of disaster. The once-calm sea transforms into a tumultuous battleground as waves rise and crash against the boat, threatening to engulf it. Panicked cries escape us as we’re thrown across the room and knocked to the ground. I smack my head against the wall. Greyson and Karla are both shoved into the couch on top of each other. Link clings to whatever they can to steady themselves. Eyes wide and darting, their chest heaves rapidly. Their hat has gone flying but they don’t even seem to notice in the moment. Clutching their abdomen and wheezing, a half gasp-half word tries to escape their lips but it comes out strangled and indecipherable. A colossal wall of water rises from the depths, dwarfing the boat in its immense power. Greyson hurriedly crawls over to Link, softly shushing them, gently holding their face to his chest, running his fingers through their hair in an attempt to calm them down. I recognise it as what he’d do with Cassidy when she was freaking out. His mouth moves but I don’t hear his words over the chaos of the ship. Link seems to though and does their best to follow his directives, shakily breathing through pursed lips and holding their breath for a few seconds at a time. The ship rocks, like it’s being cradled and crushed on both sides. The window panes strain and crack when the wave smacks against it. I make the horrible mistake of looking through them. Teal molluscs and green barnacles are launched at the ship by the water. The sea shrapnel pierces the deck. Water starts to leak in. And then I see a stray anchor heading for the crack windows. I forget how to breathe. The metal crashes through the windows, shattering the glass. Water follows immediately. I’m swallowed. “DEVIN!” Karla screams. Our hands brush against each other’s for a moment, before I’m forced out. The rough sea throws me about like I’m little more than a feather. I gasp when I feel my head break the surface. I crash onto the upper deck. The wood cracks against my cuirass and claws at whatever parts of the gambeson underneath are exposed. Groaning in immense pain, I struggle to uncurl myself and get up. The crew struggles to keep their balance too, along with the ship. Strange people made of water, the remnants of people who have died in shipwrecks, have invaded the ship. “Sink. Drown. Join us (シンク. 溺れる. ぜひご参加ください),”  they whisper as they use their wooden ladles to fill the boat with water. And they seem entirely unaffected by the storm, like it’s their doing. The crew’s eyes widen in horror as the ship is lifted high into the air, suspended for a brief moment before gravity takes hold. The boat crashes down with a thunderous impact, its fragile frame shattering upon contact with the unforgiving sea. Splintered wood and debris fly in all directions as we’re thrown into the tumultuous waters. “Hold on, everyone! Prepare for impact!” Commander Nevitt cries. The sea crashes against the wood, splashing and frothing. The sheets ripple in the harsh winds as we’re pulled along. I cling to the splintered wood, frowning at the sight of how much damage has been done to the lower decks. They’ve been ripped open, looking almost punctured, and some of the sails have been shredded. Lots of supplies float in the water. We fight against the current, our bodies battered by the relentless waves. “The tempest has ensnared us!” Afa yells. Various crew members cry out. “Oh, God!” “We’re doomed!” “We’re gonna die!” “Hold on tight!” Commander Nevitt roars. “Brace yourselves, everyone!” The air gets colder. My teeth begin to chatter. I can’t breathe. My head is spinning. It’s too much. The ship is shoved so harshly that we almost capsize. When it rocks back, I’m hovering slightly as we fly. Everything seems to slow down. My stomach drops. I involuntarily look over the edge. The sea splashes at my feet, a shifting blanket of blue and white that’s getting further and further away. Bits of the ship fall off. I see Commander Nevitt’s face, twisted in terror and shock. In a very strange way, the weightless is a peaceful break. Until the ship starts falling backwards. I begin to turn around to see land rushing up to meet us. “Oh, no.” 

gi6ioh

Handsome Pete and the Cosmic Sailboat

Handsome Pete and the Cosmic Sailboat We sailed high tides, just me and Handsome Pete. We were guided only by the eternal winds of change as we sailed across the cosmic sea. We glided down an ethereal wormhole, traveling through time and space. When our sails flapped against the oceanic pitter patter of starry magnificence, I would brush my hair back and bask in its primordial breeze. Handsome Pete rode beside me, a bashful Jack Russel Terrier, with black, wiry hair and pearly white teeth. He began each day, the same as the one before it—with no recollection and not a care in the world. There were no alarm clocks or deadlines, nor arbitrary rules to bog Petey down. As far as he was aware, he was just as much the breeze as the wind and sails—and so he leaned into it and followed its gentle flow. He woke with each sunrise, letting out a wiggle of his tush and a big stretch from limb to limb. Then he’d buzz about the hull, shimmying his tail as he boogied across the starboard floor. He would twirl around for a few rotations, sprint up the stairs to get to the top deck. Then he would spend the day chasing the moon fish and angel bee’s that swam the electric currents above our heads. And in the evenings, Handsome Pete would just gaze at the stars for hours, allowing the dazzling images to flutter across his marble blue eyes. But Handsome Pete was not simply a happy-go-lucky ray of blissful sunshine. There were plenty of days where he did not have much care for dancing at all. “No, not today” he would say with contempt, flashing his belly in the air. And in those days, with his head pressed against the bow, he would simply lie there and ponder underneath the canopy of stars. The ponderous pup would ask the same question, “How, universe? How can it be? How can my tiny little paw print be seen amongst this enormous canvas of heaven’s great masterpiece?” And I would always walk by and tussle his furrowed little brow. I’d kneel down and ease his nerves, saying “Hey there, pal—look at the masterpiece we all take part in shaping out. Look at it, Petey. It’s not up or over but simply all around. Look how even your tiny little paw print has a part to play in shaping this beautiful landscape we have”. And then he’d smile and I’d smile too. And from there, when the melancholy pup was revived from his disdainful dread, he would jump up and bark at the sky to alert me of a new school of critters just above our heads. I would grab the rods and skyliner poles to begin collecting our daily dose of dewdrop slugs and galaxy juice. I'd thank the heavens for a glorious sacrifice, and then crack the slug to suck up the primordial stew. I’d drink half, and then throw the other on the deck to allure Handsome Pete. He’d dart up the stairs and scarf it down, sipping that glorious space slug treat. But then he’d begin to mope—coming to the stark realization that the same little slug was once a living being. He would always sulk and think to himself “How dare I take advantage of this poor little soul. That scrumptious snack I ate used to be a precious life form, just like me. I bet he liked basking in the solar rays and gazing at the moons. I bet he loved to swim and play and feel the flow of the eternal stream just like I do”. And then he would start to whimper, realizing what tragedy his joy had caused. But every time, I would work with all my might to remind that pup of the natural way these winds will blow. I scratched his tummy, tousled his scruff, and told him that the little slug’s joys, delights, wisdom, and humility can now be descended onto someone else.  “The world is ever-evolving, Petey. That slug carried through him the lives and memories of a thousand previous slugs. Each generation, like the one before it. Giving itself to the divine, that sweet slug keeps these cool winds blowing and these cosmic rivers flowing. We are all doing it, boy. We are all just enjoying a simple game of fetch. And when we have had our turn, we will take the stick, and fetch it to the next". Pete would always smile, his tongue yo-yo’d up and down. He would slap his chops and pick up his head just before it descended back down into my lap. Once he got settled for a moment, he would shuffle his little body up my side and nestle his snout into my arm. Then he would just snuggle there beside me on the floor for a while, watching the passing nebula clouds. Sharing this voyage with such a sweet and gentle soul, I was left feeling so abundantly proud. We traveled together for what felt like a moment and an eternity, all the same. We were always mesmerized by the strange and swirly ride we took together through that cosmic cave. But eventually that river guided us down a strange new path. I woke up one day, and I could see the shrouding of a neon nebula fog. Our sails began to tatter as we sputtered out of control. Handsome Pete could not remember what was now nor what was before. He would dart around in circles, chasing the nothing that he so believed was there. And that Handsome Pete began to grow more gentle, spending less mornings on his prances and more of them in bed. Now, his days were largely taken up by bumps into railings and unprovoked tinkles of pee. He was a silly little man, but I could see it start to drift one day. The cosmic radiance that bursted like lightning when he was a pup, I could see beginning to dim. And with each day, he let it pass, ignoring the neon nebulas and illuminescent flares of galactic delight. He would huff and moan and whimper, as his body was beginning to have enough. One day, he could no longer jump, nor could he see any motive in sprinting for that half-eaten slug. He lost that flare but the spark still lingered. At least for a few more gorgeous tours across the neon skies, he remained with me in that sailboat. We had some time to float. But eventually I could see it in that whitened face and shriveled brow. I could see his snout bello and his legs grow thin. From sunken shoulders and depleted limbs, I knew it was his time. Handsome Pete was ready to release the stick. And so I saw it, and I spent days in my cabin, just sulking and feeling dull. I couldn’t be strong, no matter how much I tried. I lost all sense of composure for some days. Other days I just whistled along, pretending this ride on the floating spaceship had not taken us down this strange new course. But eventually that day came, the one I was avoiding the most. When the tides began to sunder and the stream reached a frostridden gulf, I grabbed that rudder and tried with all my might to turn our precious ship around and quickly change our course. But I had failed. And it came all the same. We were now sailing a cosmic grave of deserted dwarf planets and fossilized moons. Gods who lie marooned there left bones and mallets in the field of the untouched and unknown. It was on that day, that tragic drift into a frozen sea, that the icy desolation had chilled my poor Petey’s big heart. We sat there once more on that deck, staring at the fractal skies and milky seas. We gazed at it one last time, just Petey and me. Then he hopped on my chest and licked my cheeks for the first time in several months. The life of that precious dog had returned for just one last hop. And then we sat there slowly, as the cold had caressed his veins. And like the thousands of beings before him, Handsome Pete returned to the stars from whence he came. I wept. I wept. And I wept for weeks on end. I wept for what felt like months, years, even centuries as I thought of my old friend. “Where did my puppy go? Is he safe? Is he unharmed? Was this really the way of things? Was the wind blowing us on the right course all along? Was everything I thought I knew, of life and of death--was it all backed by science, or was it just an educated guess? It’s easy to believe in the beauty of life and its evolving, infinite flow. It’s so much easier to believe it when you are not face to face with the end of the road” I don’t remember when it started but it felt like it would never stop. And in my never-ending weeping, I continued to drift through that gulf with his body in my arms. Until one day, when we drifted through a storm. A massive hurricane of solar flares and colliding rock had knocked me astray. The sails ripped clean from the mast, as the bow rammed itself into a frost moon; a foul consequence of its delirious battle with the bitter space storm. I planted myself on the floor, holding Petey’s body in my hands, and I cried some tears of terrified excitement, as I reckoned I was about to meet him once again. But a wave of starry dust shrouded our bodies, left me wet, and mildly annoyed. In its clutches, it scooped up Petey’s remains--and just like that, it was just me. I was ransacked. The cosmic sailboat was ravished by the gargantuan waves. So I found a tarnished wooden door floating by, and used it as a raft. Then, I found a small chunk of plank, most likely left over from the tarnished mast, and used it to paddle my way across the sea. I paddled on and I felt so weak. “Come on, cosmos, come and take me!” I shouted, tilting my head into the cloudy pools of galactic soup, I begged and pleaded to finally give up. But before I felt I could take no more, Handsome Pete returned from the shining stars above me. His body was reborn as a constellation glowing in the vast night sky. I could even see his pawprint, as large as the Great God’s eye. “Thank you, papa. Thank you for all the wisdom and for all the love. Thank you for reminding me of our unified consciousness, and how we are never truly gone. For when our breaths are shortened and our sails are tattered and torn, our rudders and our floorboards float to take on all new forms''. Handsome Pete was there with me, in the stars and in the breeze. As I docked my raft on a newfound world, I felt him float around me. And as he passed that desolate gulf, I looked up into the stars. There I watched my precious Petey sail into the great beyond. 

xnxr1c

Salt in the Wind

The wind caressed my cheek, ebbing and flowing like a thief in the night. Sending the tips of my hair flitting about like dust in the wind. Stealing away the last bit of warmth that I’d been clinging to. The sun set an hour ago, but I still stood on the porch staring at where it once blazed a deep orange. My friend’s waited for me inside. My family waited for me. But still, I stood here. The wooden handrail was rough against my skin. The cabin we’d picked was advertised as “ rustic .” Which really meant it was old. The glass door that shielded me from the others was like an invisible barrier. With my back to them, I took a steadying breath. If only it was as easy to breathe through all of the chemically enhanced perfumes and designer totes being thrown at me. This was supposed to be a joyous event. A beautiful time. So why does it feel so much like I’m drowning? I heard the soft click of the door shutting behind me, pulling me from my thoughts and back to reality. The face of my sister comes into view just to my right and I know she’s been sent by my mother to lure me back into my own party. “What are you doing out here? They’re going to start opening the rest of your gifts without you.”  Her voice was soft, just like the rest of us. Out of four girls, Genevieve and I were the closest. Closest in age and in friendship. She was the whoopsie baby that came about almost exactly nine months after I did. “I just needed a minute. With everyone looking at me, I felt like I was going to be executed and they were all here to watch.” I joked. “Maybe you shouldn’t say things like that about getting married.” She’s right. I should be over the moon. I glanced over her shoulder at the group of women, being led by my future mother in law. She was giggling over one of the nice decorative pillows I received. It was all about the designer bags and the fur rugs. Every bit of it was just as prestigious as it sounds. They all donned themselves in enough jewelry to feed a thief for life and designer dresses. Meanwhile, my family and friends were wearing dresses from the sale rack at the local mall. I was content to never have to put on the pair of expensive pumps that were sending an electric, burning pain up my legs at this very moment. I was happy to never experience the rich society lifestyle. Then , I met Davis. Davis was just another guy at my school. We both majored in the arts and while he uses his degree for his photography business, I use mine to help a group of kids in the choir program. It’s more than enough to keep us happy. We get to spend our time doing what we love, even if his mother is still peeved that he didn’t go into the business world and marry the daughter of a congressman or some other politician. No, I am not what she had in mind for him. Davis doesn’t care what his mother thinks, though. And for that, I’m grateful. I’m marrying him, not because of his money, but in spite of it. I’m marrying the man, not the money. “It’s not the getting married part that gets to me, Gen. It’s the richy-rich family of his that feels like swallowing broken glass.” I tried not to let my frustration show on my face, though the gaggles of women never once glanced my way through the glass. “Well. The quicker you come inside and get this over with, the quicker you can go home to Davis.” She looped her arm through mine, pulling me back toward the door. “Davis is doing a midnight photoshoot on some boat tonight. By the time we’re done here, I won’t be able to make it to launch. Even if I left now, I’d be pushing it.” She puckered her lips in thought before she glanced over my shoulder and pulled me just out of view from anyone who could be watching. “Why don’t you tell everyone that you aren’t feeling well and try to catch the boat? It’s not like anyone in there is going to say anything good about this party anyways. They’ve been making snooty comments about mom’s dress all night.” She rolled her eyes on the last bit, which only heightened my anger. “You’re right. Even if I stayed and answered all of their questions with the right answers, they’d still find something about me to crucify. Maybe it’s safer for me to just leave now and go see my future husband.” I answered. She formulated a plan quickly, smearing the makeup under my eyes so that my look is more tarnished. Before I even had time to prepare myself, she was shoving me through the glass door and apologizing to everyone on my behalf. I kept my head down as she ushered me through the crowd of overly botoxed faces. Every single one of them had the same look of disdain, trying to hide behind concern. It didn’t work. Once she was shutting the driver’s door of my vehicle behind me, I finally dropped the mask. I was out of there so fast I think I might have been on two wheels. The only thing keeping me from physically flying through the air was physics and gravity. Speeding down the old back road that led to the dingey, old cabin, I let down the windows to feel the cool night breeze. Even with the goosebumps climbing my skin, I didn’t roll them back up. The wind was whipping through my hair, curling around my neck and leaving soft kisses on my skin. Each second that passed meant I was closer to him. Closer to my peace . I can only imagine the look on his face when he sees me. Turning on the freeway, I let my hand hang out the window. I enjoyed the way my hand cut through the air like a dolphin in the waves. It occurred to me all at once that having the big, ideal wedding, maybe wasn’t the best idea. It would make his mother happy, that’s for sure. His aunt’s and their preppy daughters, yes. Would having a huge, blow out wedding, make him love me more? No. Would having the most beautiful, sparkly wedding make his mother love me more? Also, no. But, she would probably be much happier with his decision in marrying me if I allowed her to have the wedding she wanted… for her son. I parked at the port and threw the excruciating heels in the backseat before sprinting toward the boat. The men were untying the ropes, just a few more to go until they would be pushing off and out to sea. The large platform that once let passengers onto the boat had already been pulled back in, leaving a gap between the peer and the edge of the boat that was about three feet wide. If I ran and jumped, I could make it. “Davis!” I called, waving my arms above my head as I sprinted. The smell of salty ocean water practically knocked me back as I sucked in another lungful of air. Calling to him again, I ran even faster toward the boat. Once I got on the portion of the dock that was just anchored and swaying with the water, running became more difficult. There was a barge ship passing by ahead, and the waves were sending the different sections of the dock up in their wake. “Davis, honey!” I called again, just a few yards away from the jump. A few more steps. The boat began moving, ever so slowly inching toward the open water ahead of us. The panic in my chest climbed up my throat and forged itself into a scream as I took one last step before pushing off of the dock with every ounce of power I could muster. Time slowed around me as I watched the boat still moving as I flew through the air. Maybe this was a really bad idea. I’m going to smell like a fish. I’m going to ruin the leather interior of my car when I drive myself home covered in port water. Just when I expected my feet to enter the drip, I felt the smooth surface of the boat under my toes. I scrambled to reach for absolutely anything to hang onto, something to balance me. The sloppy footing I had on the edge of the boat was beginning to slip by the second. I could feel gravity’s pull, trying to yank me back and into the cool water. I could practically feel the icy welcome that was waiting for me. But, in all my flailing, I seemed to have caught something. I looked back up toward the boat at the exact same time a strong hand pulled me in. I landed with a thump against a solid chest, his familiar scent flooding my senses. “Oh, there you are!” I gasped, trying to catch my breath. He pulled back and looked me over, grinning like an idiot when he noticed my bare feet. “What are you doing here? My mom said you left your shower early and told everyone you were sick?” He questioned. I gave him a little fake cough, smiling up at him as he rolled his eyes playfully. “What? I was sick. Now, I’m better.” He pulled me under his arm as he led me toward the captain, introducing me to a gray-haired man named Frank. Then, he went on to tell me about how Frank had been a captain for fifty years and how this was his last voyage. His wife wanted pictures of him doing what he loved to commemorate the occasion. I got to sit in amazed silence while I watched Davis do what he loved. As the old man made each announcement, his voice quivering with age, I sat idle. I could have watched him sail a boat all day. The life he’d already given to the ocean, the work he’d done on it, it was all much greater to hear than a million congratulations from people who do not mean it. “Would you still love me if I bought a boat and lived on the sea?” Davis asked, settling in behind me. He wrapped his arms around my torso and pulled me back into his chest. “If you were doing what you loved, and let me be by your side, I wouldn’t care what you did.” I smiled to myself as I imagined it. Him steering a large vessel through the never ending, vastness of the ocean. I imagined him coming home every night with salt on his lips as he kissed me, and a messy head of hair from wearing a silly captain's cap. He would never take it off, that much I know. And I know, just like I know now, that any role he was in, I would love. If he were a mailman, I’d love him. If he drove a garbage truck, I would love him. Because in each of these scenarios, Davis would never cease to be himself. He would always give more love than he ever received, except from me. He would never hurt a soul, no matter how wrong he was treated. If he had become obsessed with the ocean instead of taking photos, I’d be right beside him. Learning how to say things like sea anemone and memorize every plane of the atlantic. I’d live a life on the sand, breathing in the salty breeze while he irritated the ocean’s creatures. If he came home smelling like a sun-baked fish everyday, I’d endure. And I’d still love him.

x6gq0e

Something in the Forest

It is a warm night. The moon shines through the trees as I walk through the woods. It is a silent beauty of a night, hearing the wind whispering to the trees while the moon gave both light to see and shadow to hide in. I hit play on the recording.  “I often take these walks. Helps calm my mind from the “woes of the world” and gives me an appreciation for the small beauties of nature. Now I know that it probably isn’t the smartest thing to go for a walk at night but I take the proper precautions. I let my friends know where I am, I carry pepper spray and bear spray with me, and I make sure to carry a compass so I can find my way back. I’m also adept at martial arts so I feel confident that even if I run into trouble, I can fight through it. After doing these walks for months, I’ve never run into trouble. At first, I found it a little bit odd. You would think there would at least be animals you might have to worry about, but the few times I’ve run into an animal, they simply pass on by. I once followed one for an hour. It never really acknowledged my existence, it just kept on moving. The only reason I stopped following it was that I looked at the moon for a second and it was gone. It was as if it vanished from thin air. I searched around for a bit but couldn’t find it, so I simply headed back. That was a strange night ‘cause before it disappeared, I felt it getting colder fast. As I walked back, I felt like something was watching me. Once I got out of the forest, it was warm again and the “being watched” feeling was gone. Even now I still wonder what it might have been but I think it was just a cold wind and stress getting to me. Anyway, I’ve made it to my goal today. A large open field where you can clearly see the stars and the moon. I was planning to set up a chair and look up at the stars for a bit before heading back when I decided to make this recording. Would be nice to have to help me remember this when I’m older. Maybe pass the idea on to my future kids. I’ve got to say, these stars are amazing! I didn’t know there were so many, with all the light pollution in the city! I could watch them all night! Wish I could at least…Hm? Something is over by the trees…What is that? Doesn’t look like anything I…” *click*  The recording stopped. What happened? Didn’t sound like he turned off the recorder. At least I got another clue. An ‘open field where you can clearly see the moon and stars’ isn’t very specific but it’s a start. There should be an opening a mile north so let's start there. As I walk, I hear a wolf howl in the distance. Just in case, I pull out my pistol and continue walking. It didn’t take long as the path was rather flat. I arrive at a warm breeze blowing through the grass, creating a mesmerizing pattern across the field. I look up and what lies before me is the cosmos in all their glory. It is enough to make me stop for a moment just to appreciate it. This is probably the place where the recording stopped. If that’s the case, there might be something nearby. Hopefully. With that thought in mind, I began searching the grass. Mindless work but being able to see the stars above makes it easier. Now that I think about it, Father used to take Mother and I up to the mountains a lot. The stars up there were really beautiful, just like tonight. Although, we can’t enjoy those days anymore. Not after Father disappeared in these mountains. Mother was distraught when it happened and I was too naive to understand at first. Once I did, well, I can’t remember much after that. All I remember was feeling nothing. Perhaps empty would be a better word. But then they found this recording and returned it to Mother and I. Mother couldn’t bring herself to listen to it, to hear Father’s voice again, but I did. And it was on that day that I swore I would figure out what had happened to him. It didn’t matter if he was dead or alive, I would find him, or at least find out what happened to him. After what feels like an hour, I stop searching. I could tell that there wasn’t anything to be found in the grass. It was disappointing, but I figured that it wouldn’t be that easy. After all, it has been 10 years since it happened. Was there anything else Father’s recording said that I could use? As I ponder this, I notice something moving through the grass of the field. A mountain lion. I stayed on guard, but then I remembered Father had mentioned following an animal for a while. It was then that he noticed the strange occurrences. Perhaps if I followed this one, the same thing will happen to me. So I did. I keep following and following the large cat. I get close enough to touch it at some points. Just as the recording said, it seems the mountain lion didn’t even know I am here, despite it looking at me multiple times. After following it for a while, I suddenly feel as if something is staring at me. Quickly, I glance around but don’t see anything. I look back again to find the mountain lion but it disappeared, as if it had never been there in the first place. But that can’t be true, I definitely followed a mountain lion here. As I stand to process what happened, my breath hangs in the air. Each breath, another cloud of white appeared. A shiver ran down my spine as I suddenly feel something watching me. What is it? Where is it? I don’t know, but it is watching me closely. Perhaps it’s the same thing Dad felt when he came up here. Only one thing was certain: It was wary of me, keeping its distance while watching me. I made sure my gun was loaded and ready to fire and began to study my surroundings. Dad had simply walked back when this happened and whatever it was seemed to leave him alone, but I am here for it. I’m not going to simply leave, especially after knowing it is real and close by. I turn my head to check behind me when I hear another wolf howl, closer this time. On second thought, it sounds a bit different from a wolf howl. It was a bit more…human. As this realization set on me, I break into a cold sweat. My breath hastens, each puff leaving a thicker cloud of white in the air. I’ve heard stories, but there’s no way it could be real, right? But there is no mistaking that it sounds human. If it really is what I think it is, I am not prepared for a confrontation. I have to confirm my fears, ‘cause it could mean that Dad is alive. I continue to scan around me. Slowly but steadily I look around, trying to find even the smallest trace of it being there. Suddenly, I see it. Taupe fur attached to a large, burly body. Powerful hind legs that held the weight of its body easily. Lengthy arms that almost touched the ground. And finally, a face like a wolf, with a long nose and two white eyes that almost shine. A werewolf. Our eyes met and it was as if time froze. Neither of us makes a move, and neither of us dare to look away. My heart rests in my throat, preventing any noise from escaping. Another howl rang, snapping both of us back to our senses. Slowly, I start to back away as the werewolf begins lowering its body. It gives a small growl but doesn’t move from where it is standing. With every step, the distance between us grows larger. Part of me thought that I might be able to get away, to escape, but I don’t dare turn my back to it. I just keep walking backward, hoping that I won’t run into anything. The beast keeps a close eye on me, standing as still as a statue. Slowly, as the distance between us grows wider, it turns away and walks into the forest, disappearing from my sight. Had I done it? Had I survived? These thoughts run through my mind as I let out a breath of air. I turn around and walk back to the large field. I still feel I am being watched, but I continue walking as if I don’t notice. With every step I take, I feel the air getting a little warmer. Eventually, I am back in the field. I can see the road from here. My heart beats faster as I realize I might truly make it back alive. Just as I am about to begin walking back, I see something in the corner of my eye. It is the werewolf, approaching me slowly. I freeze mid-step. There is something different about it. It seems smaller, perhaps because it is lower to the ground. As it comes closer, I notice something hanging out of its mouth; An old bracelet, tattered and worn. On the bracelet are beads with letters, spelling ‘Jermy.’ It’s the bracelet I gave my father when I was young. The bracelet with my misspelled name. The one my father never left home without. As I realize this, the werewolf stops only a few steps away from me, watching me closely. I want to say something, to shout something, but I can’t. I can only stand there, thinking of what might have happened. The werewolf lowers its head and drops the bracelet on the ground as if it wanted me to take it. It backed away as I approached the bracelet. As I bent down to pick it up, a howl came from the woods. Suddenly, the werewolf growls and jumps at me. A claw comes at me, scratching the right side of my face, and knocking me to the ground. It pounces and attempts to bite my throat, but narrowly misses. I can barely move with it on top of me, and it takes all of my strength just to hold back its jaws from crushing my throat. As blood from the scratch clouds my right eye, I think that I am going to die. Thoughts of my mother, wife, and daughter begin flooding my mind as I think that I’ll never see them again. Then I remember I have my pistol. If I can buy enough time to pull it out, I just might be able to scare the werewolf off. Using as much strength as I can muster, I push the werewolf off me and reach into my holster. As the werewolf prepares to pounce once more, I turn the barrel toward it and pull the trigger. A loud “bang” rings out in the forest. The werewolf stood still for a moment, then turned around and ran back to the forest. I had missed but somehow, I still managed to scare it off. With the adrenaline still running through my body, I pick up the bracelet and walk back to the road. As I come through the trees back onto the road, the fact that I survived settles in. With the adrenaline wearing off, the scratch on my face begins to burn. As I approach my car, I look at the bracelet in my hand, and a single tear rolls down my cheek. My father is gone, I know that now. I get in the car and begin driving home.

goq1rn

Lost and Found

On my last shift as a lighthouse keeper, I climbed the seventy-six spiral iron stairs and two ladders to the watch room, the number of steps the same as my age. The thwomp and snare of each step laid an ominous background score. Something wasn’t right. At that very moment, Richie Tedesco was pointing a fire extinguisher at the burning electrical panel in the engine room of his boat a few miles offshore. The placard in the watch room read “Marge Mabrity, Lightkeeper—First lighted the depths on March 2nd, 1985, and hasn’t missed a night.” Already so close to forty years. I could still read the skies like a book. The lighthouse smelled of aging wood, dried-out moss, and the bitter acid spritz of corrosion. But out on the gallery deck, leaning against the handrails, there was the unmistakable scent of petrichor. The clouds in the distance grew taller, black shading growing across their swelling bellies, with the storm caps flattening under the weight of the system. I tasted the metallic hint of ozone on my tongue. I felt the intensity of the pressure in my ears and on my forehead. I know what you are thinking. Why had I even done it? For all those years. I guess finding lost things was always the one thing about me that was uniquely my own. And I didn’t know if I could give it up. A few miles back toward the mainland, Cappie patrolled the Long Island ports and seaways on his tug, waiting for salvage and rescue calls. There were still enough of them to get by. Especially with these yahoos taking up boating. But the seas were not what they used to be, and Cappie barely eked out a life of sustenance back on land. Lone rangers like us were going extinct in this world of ubiquitous connection and universal alienation. It was a world of gadgets now. But it turned out our kind was more needed than ever when the gadgets failed. The three of us, in our solitary orbits, were bound on an intersecting course. How many things had I retired from in a lifetime of retirements? However many it was, this one felt different. A transplant from Norway, full of Viking blood, I’d had a brief career on the national downhill skiing circuit. I’d hung that up for university. Then I’d hung up the mantle of a student for a job in forestry. Quit that to start a family. That transient period that seemed never-ending before the kids left home turned out not to be. My marriage ended too. And on and on. But the longest stint was my forty years as the Lighthouse Keeper at Montauk Point. It was to be a ceremonial night. Still, it felt wrong. Even if I was pushing eighty. Who was I to buy into this twaddle about graceful exits and diminished capacity? My thoughts were disturbed by a call on the radio. Channel 19. It was Cappie. I didn’t want a mayday call. Not tonight. * * * Richie Tedesco was lost at sea. As lost as lost can be. The fire in the engine room had only taken minutes to put out, but the electrical lines were irreparably damaged. Hours later, when the last of the juice in the ship’s backup batteries ran out, Richie watched as the monitors with the electronic ocean maps and satellite-supported GPS positioning flickered and went black. Richie might as well have been surveying the moon. He had no idea of his location. It’s odd how easily we take for granted that we know where we are, never realizing how often we are hopelessly lost and don’t even know it. Night navigation is a real son-of-a-bitch. A swabbie mug untrained in navigation would be facing long odds of surviving such a calamity. And on the spectrum of swabbie mugs, Richie wasn’t even at the top of the class. But how did Richie get here? A few months back, Richie had bought a custom Sea Ray Sundancer 370 when he was promoted. Of course, he couldn’t afford the new model. He settled for a year-old model with the same look and feel, but which had been heavily used and abused by the prior owner, who was a real boater. But no bother. It was his prized possession. Richie hadn't accounted for the cost of marina dues and other ancillary costs. With the hefty loan he’d taken on the boat, he lacked the funds for all the accouterments of the boating life, things both expensive and confusing for the uninitiated seaman. These turned out to be necessary. Richie had skimped on maintenance and hired an inexperienced handyman named Louie (who was known around the marina as ‘Louie the Wrench’) to help with keeping the vessel seaworthy. A gamble that failed. Louie spent a lot more time on the phone with his bookie than with his wrench in hand. The sun lounge and dining area in the hollowed-out front hull was what first had sold him. Richie had imagined spending long romantic weekends, with Rene, from the spring to the fall, jaunting from marina to marina, exploring the New England coast. Enjoying white wine or a martini together in the sun lounge at sundown, over a decadent charcuterie board, and raw seafood on ice. By Richie’s calculations, this routine would somehow make up for his soulless existence earning obscene—but still inadequate-to-the-expected-lifestyle wages—spending all his daylight hours keeping his employer out of hot water by enforcing labyrinthine government regulations, effective only in the great lengths his employer was willing to go through and the great costs his employer was willing to expend to completely avoid the salutary, remedial purposes the regulations stood for in the first place. Rene didn’t care about the predatory nature of the enterprise or how monotonous and unsexy the work was, but the fact that Richie was not the top dog. Not by a long shot. And there was little hope of improvement there. Five years for a promotion of title with a raise in bonus but not base pay? Rene knew what that meant long before Richie did. Rene was not an adventurer. She was a social climber. Replacement Richie had a proper yacht, a newer model Mercedes, and a pricier high-rise condominium. He ran his own company doing something that sounded borderline illegal, and let’s be honest, probably was. He cheated on his taxes. Replacement Richie wasn’t apologizing for it either—it was a kick. He took what he wanted. Rene spent the weekends with Replacement Richie and her exchangeable NPC girlfriends sunbathing on the deck of Replacement Richie’s yacht, surrounded by a display of designer bags and branded bathing suit pullovers and slides. The yacht stayed permanently moored at the Star Island Yacht Club & Marina (more prestigious than Richie’s Jersey City marina). The yacht was used exclusively for marina clout and cocktail convos. It never once saw the open seas all spring and summer. But everyone had a fabulous time of it and didn’t seem bothered at all. Rene’s Instagram post of her engagement ring, anchoring her fates to Replacement Richie had done it. NPC girlfriend Vic was sure to comment first, for everyone’s knowledge, that it was, in fact, a 4.05-carat round diamond with a perfect “colorless” grade. The NPC’s knew on sight, like puppies who can sense one of their litter about to be adopted. It took Richie longer to find out. It was a $250K ring. In one moment, Richie knew for certain that this romance would have no second act. He did the only thing that made sense at the time. He took to the open seas. Alone. Without telling anyone. Richie sat out in the sun lounge alone in the darkness trying to gain enough night vision to make out a landmark in the fog of dark. Richie had made all the rookie boating mistakes. The first rule of boat safety is not to go out alone. Chart a course. Tell a friend. Most people who get lost at sea stay lost. That is true on land as well. Despite getting his boating license, Richie skipped on-water training. The list went on and on. Perhaps worst of all, Richie couldn’t tell land-based lights from navigation lights from buoys and markers. He’d spent the last two hours heading further out to sea and nearly scraping the side of a three-meter-tall red ocean buoy that towered over the deck of his humble cruiser. And that was when he panicked and started firing off his flares. * * * “How is my best girl tonight?” Cappie asked. “Don’t be fresh with me. You old rake. You mean, with it being my last night?” “Ahh, fiddlesticks. Last night my arse. We both know you are gonna be buried on that rock, and me with you.” “As romantic as that is, I like a nice dinner and some wine before committing to a joint burial.” “Well, well. You little siren. Whetting my appetite. Marge, you’re gonna love this one.” “What is it Cappie?” “I’ve been tuned in on Channel 19 for the last fucking hour.” Cappie chuckled. His voice rattled. A deep raspy bass that hit like a fine brass-colored Scotch. It intoxicated my senses and warmed my chest off the first sip. It sang a lifetime of hard songs, but the calloused old heart was in there. He was old salt. Everything you imagined a seaman to be. Gray beard, sun-scorched skin, and a temperament mercurial enough to match the open seas. In his mid-seventies, Cappie was still fit and lean. But a little tired of a lifetime of wandering. “Sounds delightful,” I said. “Did they locate your chivalry and manners? Or have those gone the way of Davy Jones too?” “Get this. Some clueless yo-pro has been singing an off-key Rhianna playlist—Ree-ann-eh—all the way through, non-stop, not realizing his radio line is open. Must have pushed the microphone button into something. The radio went dark after sundown.” “God help us.” “You see that black squall coming in from the west? Well, this yo-pro, let’s call him Chadwick. Well, Chadwick here, he has been headed east out into the open seas, and he’s going to get clipped by that sail shredder on his way back to port, if he even knows enough to head back to port. Coast Guard has been trying to reach him, with no response.” I could hear it in his voice. Cappie’s full name was Jack “Tommy” Rogers. And Cappie was always into a bottle of his namesake. Cappie only had a few rules, and one was that he never touched the bottle until he’d finished his calls. Someone could lose their life if he broke that rule like he’d done tonight. Something serious was going on with Cappie. “How are the seas tonight,” I asked. “Seas are building. Cthulhu is growing restless. We are just chugging along on the gasoline breeze out here waiting for our damsel in distress to call for a knight in shining armor on his noble stallion or in this case a hundred-year-old tugger.” “Oh, Cappie! I didn’t know it was your hundredth birthday today. Happy birthday!” “Touché,” he said. Cthulhu is what he called his tugboat. I asked once. I regretted it. To this day. Something about how his straight lines were like the tentacles of some weird Octopus god. “She’s all buttoned up, tight as a button, and I’m getting a bit high off the diesel fumes.” It was more than the diesel that Cappie was high on. I imagined Cappie out there. Be careful to avoid the reef, old man. I can see him threading through frigates, tankers, cutters, and cruise ships (like floating cities). I worry about Cappie. And that night, I wanted to tell him how I felt. But I tried to restrain myself. It was a big night. No sense in complicating it. “I was afraid this was going to be a mayday call,” I said. Then it occurred to me, that maybe it was one. * * * It was a moonless night. Richie couldn’t tell the sea from the sky. It was so dark that all that was visible was the wake of the ship drawing a white foam trail through the otherwise black void. There is that verse in Revelations where the heavens and earth pass away and there is no longer any sea. Richie didn’t believe in that kind of thing. But it had happened. All that was left was infinite negative space. Richie’s skin crawled, and his forehead dampened. The night was muggy, and an invisible cooling mist enveloped the cruiser. The only sounds were lapping waves, and the only smell was a briny whiff of sea foam. How lost are you when you have lost your bearings and don’t know the distance to any safe harbor? Richie had not considered this before. The darkness is impartial. Absolute. Unforgiving. But in its grip, you felt that its horrors were custom-tailored, handcrafted, and made-to-measure. Just for you. Richie sure felt that way. There was that foreboding, ominous sense. That the evils at play, which seemed resolved to engineer your demise, are the earned wages for some sin, the gravity of which you failed to appreciate. Whose wrath was stirred by your trespasses? God? Nature? Some malignant spirit of vengeance? What evil deed tipped the scales to a sentence of death? These were Richie’s thoughts. The gas gauge became an instrument of terror. Richie cursed his reckless disregard. Why didn’t he pack extra canned goods and five more reserve five-liter fuel cans? How could he have been so arrogant? So foolish? And then, the rains started to fall, like icy darts from the heavens. * * * “Marge to Cappie. Where are you?” “Headed out to sea.” “What?” “Chadwick isn’t going to save himself.” “Cappie! You old fool. It isn’t safe.” “Don’t get sentimental on me now, you old cow. I’ve got a job to do.” “Stay safe out there, will you.” Cappie barked like a dog. “Roof roof.” And that’s all I needed to hear. * * * No one was coming to save him. That was Richie’s last thought before firing off his last flare. He pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds and lit one up. Richie smoked on the sun lounge and thought about his life, which might be coming to an end. He judged his life poorly. He hadn’t lived it. He’d bought the marketing in the pamphlet but hadn’t pursued the dream the pamphlet was selling. And now it was too late. For the first time in years, Richie felt reinvigorated. Clear. Awakened. Alive. * * * Cappie’s tugger was at full tilt, boat-jumping the waves. The gales of the squall buffeted the front visor and tossed the ship among the crests, pushing it off course, making it hard to keep a broad breach and hit the waves at a clean 45° to avoid the worst of the punch of the storm. Cappie located Richie’s cruiser. And then reached it. He took out a bullhorn and tried to tell Richie he was there, but the winds were like a dark room for sound. And Richie had no idea Cappie was out there. Cappie pulled up and started setting the straight wires, attaching them to the stern of Richie’s cruiser. After a while, Richie came out and realized what was happening. He stood there holding tight to the table in the galley as the cruiser bobbed in the wake. After the winch brought the ships together, Cappie came aboard. “What you doing out here son?” “Long story. Can you get me back to shore?” “Can I? Will do is more like it. First, let’s check the vessel.” While Cappie was on the galley, inspecting the cruiser, a sadistic gust rocked the boat and Cappie tumbled over the safety pole. Richie looked down and saw he had grabbed the ropes along the trim and molding and was rocking with the boat, his legs gusting in the winds. “Get the line from the capstan on my boat, get it to me.” “The what?” “The circular thing with the ropes.” In seconds, Richie was back with the rope. Cappie clutched it and climbed back aboard. He slumped on the deck, breathing heavily. “Not bad son. You’ve graduated from Greenhorn to Seaman tonight. Congratulations. Now let’s get you back to shore.” * * * “Cthulhu inbound,” Cappie called back to me. “Thank God,” I said. “Chadwick’s name is Richie. Works in finance. Heartbroken Greenhorn. Can’t make this up.” “Do you see the beacon?” “Like I need a beacon to get me back to you.” “You old salty dog.” “The kid told me he’s leaving finance. Might move to Montauk. Said the sea is calling.” “God help us.” “So, are you following through on this thing?” “I’m an old woman, Jack.” “We could do it together.” “Give me a break.” “I’ll spend nights up there with you. Patrol days.” “Don’t tease me.” “I’m serious Marge. I’ll be back in half an hour. Once the emergency folks take Chadwick here to the hospital, I say we have that dinner and those drinks.” “We’ve known each other thirty years.” “You want to wait for forty?” “I just…” “Just nothing Marge. I almost died tonight.” “What?” “But my last thought was that I almost let you fucking retire.” “You almost died?” “I’ll be back in a half hour and I’m coming up there, invited or not, so get yourself ready. And you are not retiring. That’s also not negotiable, Marge. Not up for discussion.” “Where has this Cappie been all my life?” “Lost at sea, I guess. But I’m coming ashore.” I’m a modest woman, so I won’t tell you how it all turned out. But let’s just say, it’s hard to refuse an old salty dog that won’t take no for an answer.

sqxowk

Et Mortui Partium.

As Rafael stepped out into the rain, it wasn't the ordinary drops that fell from the sky. Instead, it was a storm of souls, each one taking the form of shimmering jewelry as it cascaded toward the ground. Rubies, diamonds, and sapphires twinkled amidst the downpour, a surreal sight that had become all too common in this topsy-turvy world. Rafael shielded his eyes with his hand, trying to make sense of the chaos around him. The streets were a labyrinth of madness, where the laws of physics had long since ceased to apply. Buildings leaned at impossible angles, their structures twisting and contorting as if caught in the throes of some cosmic dance. People moved about in a daze, their faces etched with expressions of disbelief and confusion. Rafael navigated through the crowd with practiced ease, his senses attuned to the ever-shifting currents of this new reality. In the aftermath of the collision between the afterlife and the mortal world, reality itself had become a twisted tapestry of madness and surrealism. The very fabric of existence seemed to warp and bend, giving rise to phenomena that defied all logic and reason. In the skies above, clouds took on bizarre shapes, morphing into grotesque caricatures of animals and objects that seemed to leer down at the world below. On the streets, the boundaries between the living and the dead blurred into a hazy, indistinct fog. Spectral figures drifted through the crowds, their ethereal forms passing through solid objects as if they were little more than wisps of smoke. Some of these spirits were benign, their presence a mere curiosity in the grand scheme of things. But others harbored darker intentions, their whispers carrying the promise of untold horrors yet to come. The very laws of nature had been upended, leaving chaos and uncertainty in their wake. Time itself seemed to ebb and flow like a tide, with moments stretching into eternity and seconds passing in the blink of an eye. Days bled into nights in a never-ending cycle of twilight, casting the world into a perpetual state of flux where nothing remained constant for long. Amidst this maelstrom of madness, humanity struggled to cling to some semblance of normalcy. Cities became sprawling mazes of confusion and disarray, their once-familiar streets now alien and foreboding to those who dared to tread them. Technology faltered in the face of such overwhelming strangeness, its once-reliable systems rendered obsolete in the face of forces beyond comprehension. And yet, amidst the chaos, there were whispers of hope. For there are people like Rafael, a Parca. Parcas are the guardians of the delicate balance between the realms of the living and the dead, tasked with restoring order to a world thrown into disarray by the collision of these two realities. They are beings of both worlds, able to navigate the shifting boundaries between the mundane and the supernatural with ease. Clad in attire that blends elements of the mortal and the ethereal, Parcas move through the chaos like silent specters, their presence a beacon of hope in a world gone mad. Armed with ancient knowledge and mystical artifacts, Parcas possess the ability to sense disturbances in the fabric of reality caused by restless souls and otherworldly phenomena. They are skilled in the art of soul manipulation, able to calm the spirits of the departed and guide them to their rightful place in the afterlife. With each soul they soothe, a small measure of stability is restored to the fractured world, like a stitch in the fabric of reality holding back the tide of chaos. Rafael De La Rosa ventured into the heart of the chaos, his senses assaulted by the cacophony of sights and sounds that greeted him as he approached the Dead Man's party. The air crackled with energy as souls of all kinds gathered in a twisted parody of revelry, their ghostly forms swaying to an otherworldly melody that echoed through the night. At first, it seemed like harmless fun, a celebration of the afterlife in all its bizarre glory. But as Rafael drew nearer, he sensed a growing undercurrent of danger lurking beneath the surface. As he stepped into the fray, Rafael's eyes scanned the crowd, taking in the surreal spectacle before him. Specters of every shape and size danced and twirled amidst the swirling mist, their laughter echoing through the darkness like a haunting refrain. Yet, beneath their jovial facade, there was a sense of unease, a primal instinct warning Rafael of the danger that lurked within their midst. As Rafael delved deeper into the chaotic maelstrom of the Dead Man's party, he witnessed a disturbing sight: souls, intoxicated by the revelry of the afterlife, were reaching out hungrily toward the world of the living. Their spectral hands stretched forth, grasping at the very fabric of reality, their eyes alight with a feverish hunger as they sought to drag unsuspecting mortals into their twisted dance. It was a grotesque spectacle, a perverse inversion of celebration turned sinister as the souls of the departed lusted after the souls of the living. With grim determination, Rafael brandished his scythe and vacuum cleaner, the tools of his trade gleaming in the moonlight. He knew that he had to act quickly before the chaos spiraled out of control and before the souls of the departed became a threat to the living world beyond. With each step he took, reality seemed to warp and twist around him, the very fabric of the universe bending to the will of the spirits that held sway over this unholy gathering. But Rafael was undeterred. With a steely resolve born of years of experience, he waded into the fray, his every movement a testament to his unwavering commitment to restoring order to a world gone mad. As he swung his scythe and activated his vacuum cleaner, he cut a path through the swirling masses, dispelling the illusions that held them captive and guiding them back to the realm of the dead where they belonged. With the Dead Man's party subdued and order restored to the chaotic gathering, Rafael De La Rosa breathed a weary sigh of relief. His task as a Parca was never easy, but it was a duty he bore with solemn determination. As he surveyed the now-quiet streets, the echoes of the spectral revelry fading into the night, Rafael knew that his work here was done. Yet, even as he prepared to depart, he couldn't shake the feeling of weariness that settled upon his shoulders like a heavy burden. Gathering his tools once more, Rafael set out into the darkness, his footsteps echoing in the empty streets as he made his way to his next destination. Life as a Parca was a constant cycle of chaos and order, a never-ending dance between the realms of the living and the dead. And though Rafael yearned for respite, he knew that his duty called him onward, to wherever the forces of chaos threatened to disrupt the fragile balance of the world. But the most ironic thing of this cycle is the mundane reason for Rafael taking on this job. "Me lleva la... This job is always so tiring. Oh well, it pays well at least. Aaaaaaaaah (deep sigh). Well, time to hit another party. Must be careful to not leave my body and soul at the door."

59rwno

Winds of Chance Revisited

   The paper flew maniacally around, until it tapped Elena on the head. She snatched at it, hesitating to read the message scrawled on it. Never again would she fall for the treacherous wind message. She looked back mentally as she unconsciously squeezed the paper.     Two years ago she had almost died. Carefree and naive, Elena had come across a paper blown in the wind. A thrill of adventure lit her brandy brown eyes as she read the handwritten message: Meet me in the gazebo at ten pm . There was a gazebo in the nearby park that was used as a meeting place by friends and more- than-friends alike. She thought, “that gazebo has to be the one.” She lived with her sister and aunt a few miles from the park. She planned to sneak out and drive there that night..      Back at home, the door stuck as usual, and no one commented on her arrival. Her aunt was listening to an Agatha Christie on audiobook, and her sister was polishing her toe nails azure blue. Good. She just wanted to bide her time, and go meet a stranger. Nothing ever had happened to her, and she wanted adventure more than anything.      Dinner was chicken and mashed potatoes, and hardly a word was spoken between the three, all going their separate ways right afterwards in the small and cluttered two-bedroom apartment. The wind was audible from within. Elena wanted the wind to accompany her and guide her back to the park later.       As luck would have it, her sister and aunt both retired at 9:30, her sister collapsing on the other twin bed in their room, face down. The escape would be easy.      Elena tiptoed out, a frisson of excitement rippling all over her. Or was that the playful wind? She stumbled around her car, laughing at herself, and wondering who awaited her at the gazebo. Just a short drive, and she would know.       When she arrived at the gazebo, she realized she was early. She parked her car a block away. Back by the gazebo, she quickly spied a clump of hydrangea bushes nearby, and hid in them. She could see what happened at ten first, and then approach if he was appealing. How did she know it was a he? Well, the writing seemed more like a man. Hiding was a good idea.      A few minutes later, a tall young man entered the gazebo, one hand in his pocket, and glancing at his watch. He had blond hair, fair and handsome, with regular features, and nice clothes. Elena clutched the paper in her hand, straightened up her windblown dark hair, and slowly made her way back to the gazebo.        She entered without a word, but with an expectant look. His features instantly brightened at the sight of her, and he looked at her hand, which held the paper. “So, you found my message!” “Were you expecting me?” “Well, I thought I’d try and see what would happen, you know, like the song ‘Message in a bottle’. My name is Troy.” “Hi, I’m Elena.” “Elena, a beautiful name, it suits you. Okay, Elena, tell me, you don’t like popcorn, do you? Elena did, but it was a leading question. She looked up into his sapphire blue eyes. She decided she could do without popcorn, and answered, “No, it gets stuck in your teeth.” Troy seemed pleased. “So tell me all about yourself, Elena.” “Well, I enjoy the outdoors, and swimming. I live with my aunt and sister near here. I work at the library. I love the band The Script, and I like k-dramas.” “Wow, me too, me too, me too. We have so much in common!” “Tell me more about yourself, Troy.” “Well, I live near here too with a brother. I sell cars with him. But let’s hear more from you. Do you swim in pools, or lakes?” “Either is fine with me.” “Do you go to concerts?” “Sometimes, not often.” “Me too. What a lucky wind that blew my paper to you!”       They spoke for another hour, Troy learning all there was to know about Elena, while Elena didn’t learn more about Troy, except that he seemed to approve of her, and find a lot in common. As they parted that evening, Troy touched her face gently, and kissed her mouth briefly. She was amazed. It was like a fairy tale, she thought. She drove home a little dazzled and distracted, but running the red light had no bad consequences. She tried to get in quietly, but the darned door made a scraping sound. However, all was quiet at home, and soon Elena was in bed, staying awake, thinking of Troy.        That was the first encounter. Though they hadn’t set up a second meeting, both were there the following night at ten pm. Troy was a cheerful companion, and soon, they were getting quite physical. Elena thought he was her husband-to-be, and she tried to reassure herself, that he must be as fond of her, as committed to her, as she was to him. He was her prince, and she had never felt that way before.         They only ever met in the gazebo. Troy spoke grandly of taking her out on a boat, and concerts, but somehow those plans never happened. They would meet there, and after a time, they would leave in separate cars. Several nights later, her younger sister couldn’t sleep. This sister, Amelia, followed Elena to the gazebo with her bicycle. She hid in those same hydrangea bushes, and looked on in concern when she saw her sister passionately caressed by this stranger whom she had never mentioned to her or their aunt. Amelia quickly rode home on her bicycle. She waited for Elena to come back. When Elena finally did, Amelia didn’t waste any time. “Elena, I followed you tonight.” Elena froze and blushed. “Ella, why didn’t you tell me about your boyfriend?” “I don’t know, Amelia. I’ve only known him for a week or so.” “Don’t you think things are getting pretty steamy pretty fast between you?” “Yes..but I love him.” “Who is he?” “His name is Troy, and he sells cars with his brother.” “Where does he live? Has he talked about your future?” “Well no, we hardly talk anymore,” Elena admitted, blushing darker. “Next time you see him, you should ask him a few questions, about his family, about his intentions towards you..” “Okay.” The next day, Elena drove Amelia to her college, and then headed towards the used car lot in town. She was almost there when she spotted her handsome prince on the sidewalk, strolling and holding hands with a beautiful red haired girl! She quickly parked at the nursery on her right. She watched them walk, and heard the girl say, “See you later, Tristan!” after they had kissed and parted. Elena bore holes into the man to make sure that that was her “Troy.” She could not mistake that certain walk, with one hand in his pocket. He was going back to the dealership as if he worked there. Yes, it was him. She was crushed. It hurt like a dagger inside her, but she was determined to hold in her feelings under a facade of calm. Elena had an idea. She slowly drove after the red headed girl, and waved her down. Then she said, “Come to the gazebo in the park tonight about 10:05 pm. There is something you have to see.” The red head looked unsure, but said, “I’ll try.” Elena smiled at her cheerfully, and drove home, letting the tears spill out after a few blocks.        When she went to pick up Amelia at the college hours later, she couldn’t hide her tear-ravaged face from her sister. Amelia was shocked that things could have gone wrong so soon. Then Elena told her that she was being used by someone who may have even given her a fake name! She told Amelia about her plan, and Amelia approved.         About 9:20, Elena put on her best dress, a swishy emerald colored chiffon, and took extra care with her makeup and hair. She would make him sorry, somehow. She drove carefully to the gazebo, and was waiting for “Troy” when he entered. He looked at her approvingly, and immediately took her in his arms. She was in such an agony of conflicting emotions, as she pretended to respond to his kisses and caresses, when she knew things would end badly and soon. Now that she thought about it, what a little fool she was to answer this anonymous summons. He never even invited her back, she had just kept coming like a faithful dog, she thought bitterly.           At last, she heard the words she had anticipated, “Tristan, how could you!” Troy/Tristan pushed Elena away, and turned. The red head was at the entrance, boring holes into Troy/Tristan with her mouth open in outraged surprise. As Elena suspected, this discovery would have him concerned at the red head’s anger more than anything else. He immediately began to apologize, and to say that “she doesn’t mean anything to me,” pointing at Elena carelessly, but flushing in dismay. The red head came forward, strongly slapped him, and said, “It’s over!” She slipped into her white car, and zoomed away. Tristan chased her car for a while, then returned to the gazebo. “So who are you,” Elena demanded, “Troy or Tristan?” “Tristan,” he replied. Elena stared at him for a few seconds, and then said, “You know, I thought you were The One. You just used me. I was such a fool. Goodbye.” Tristan said nothing, which seemed like a fresh dagger in Elena’s heart. He only cared that the other girl was going away.          The tears just flowed and flowed as she stumbled into her car. She couldn’t stop thinking about his warm kisses, and then his cold words of rejection that came so soon after. She was blinded by her tears. A truck drove forwards as she crossed a red light again. She crashed right into the side of the truck, and was hit hard on the head.          Elena's next conscious thought was, "Where am I?” She soon understood she was in the hospital, and had been there for about three days already. There was a dry erase board that told the tale: when the patient had arrived, and how many days unconscious. She saw signs that her sister and her aunt had visited. There was a silly card, the type Amelia always enjoyed buying for people, and some blondies that her aunt would bake for her on special occasions. She couldn’t wait to see them, and reassure them that she was on the mend. Oh, this hospital bill, how would they pay it?          Amelia soon came bounding into the room. “The nurses say you’ve woken up! Thank God! I’ve been so worried.” “I’ll be better, my head only hurts a little.” “What happened?” “Oh.. let me see. His real name is Tristan, and he told another girl that I meant nothing to him.” “I’ll kill him.” “No, I feel like such a fool. Deep down, I knew I was wrong to let him use me like that, that’s why I never brought him home. It has been a painful lesson.” “You deserve so much better.” “Yes, Amelia. I don’t think anyone deserves that jerk.”          After a few more days, the hospital consented to let Elena go home. She changed more than a little after her accident. She was more serious and thoughtful than before. She was a little more shy meeting people. Two years went by, and she was the quiet librarian, while Amelia had met a nice man at her first office job out of school, and they were getting to know each other in a very natural way. All this flashed through Elena’s mind as she held the crumpled piece of paper. She was forming a resolution through it all. I will confront the sender, and warn him/her that this wild method of getting attention is not the way.         She peered at the note. It said,”Meet me at the slide at 9 pm.” Hmmm. Elena saw that it was only 6 pm. Her aunt would be getting dinner set. Elena hurried home, and told them both of the new message and her intention to talk sense into the sender. They both agreed, and couldn’t resist adding that they appreciated being told about her plans. Elena smiled a little sadly. At ten minutes to nine, Elena made her way purposefully to the park and the playground area. She stood under the shadow of the slide and waited. Then she heard footsteps. Someone was coming. “Tristan! What! Will you never learn? This is not the way!” She tore his note up in twenty pieces, while he looked amazed, and embarrassed. “Elena, I know, I’m sorry. I was so stupid to throw your love away, and I just wondered what would happen if I aimed another message at your head.” “Do you mean, you singled me out for the message?" “I did both times, yes. I’m so sorry I hurt you.” Suddenly, the whole sad chapter of her life felt really really funny somehow. She was over him, and she thought she finally had closure with his apology. She laughed for a minute, then turned on her heel, and said, “Fool me twice..”

v0vxnq

Melothia

Me and my twin sister, Pselati, had decided to go out to enjoy the morning breeze in the city. Usually, the area outside the park was crowded with people, chatting with each other. Noise was a common thing throughout this packed urban area-the most populated in the whole world. Talata Park was right in the central area of the city, and also the most commerce-packed. This was the time of day in which the general population had gone into their houses for the day. Even though this city was nocturnal, it still seemed packed in the daytime. I easily handled this fact. Pselati was the one who was barely able to stand that many people. Especially this region-we lived out in the suburbs, and those areas were pretty lightly packed. Thus, we were used to that. Pselati was on her phone, scrolling through Spotify. She had a lot of favorite artists, mostly of Atlasian music. Very few were European, and to my knowledge, only one was American. For startlingly obvious reasons, she had the default language as Rengeti. The breeze was refreshing. Yesterday was a Friday, and thus we had all classes that day. All night last night I had been preparing for the exam on mathematics and linguistics, two of the most important topics here in East America. My sister had used the opportunity to go on a shopping spree instead. She was unconcerned about the exam. “How was your studying last night? You were buried in your room and wouldn’t come out.” she asked me, in the elegant Solarian language. “I made a lot of progress. I am already confident in my ability to pass it. However, I think I could still use a little bit more practice beforehand, just to be prepared.” I replied, in the same language. “Cool! I was able to buy a tremendous lot of things. I barely finished putting them away when you came.” she exclaimed. We continued to chatter for a little more time, before I noticed something: one sign now said West instead of North, like it was supposed to. Probably someone stole it. “I think perhaps somebody stole that and replaced it, or maybe they’re just pranking us.” My sister dismissed it carelessly, and I found reason in the madness of her usual logic. We continued to chatter, changing the topic to the sunrise. It was a beautiful, natural yellow-red color, blending into a deep blue on the far horizon. The clouds around it made the whole city even more beautiful, taking the colors of the sunrise and casting them upon the city. Then, another strange thing that was completely unexpected happened. The Sun seemed to be getting somewhat brighter. The signs we could easily ignore, but not this. People couldn’t have done that. Maybe it was space bending, or just air lensing. “What do you think is going on?” I asked my sister, as if she would know. “And you expect me to know?” she asked. Now, the sun was fluctuating, in size and position. It was now wandering across the sky far faster than it should be able to. It was growing significantly hotter, too. And now, it was visibly fluctuating in size. A car horn honked, and I jumped as it ran into a pole. Almost instantly, distant sirens started to wail. Probably called for some other reason, though. The city was clearly already in a panic. People dashed from building to building. They dialed various other people. Cars were beginning to ignore traffic lights. This was clearly a dangerous thing, considering they were there for a purpose. Even as this was happening, the grass turned blue. I decided the world had gone truly mad and got up. “Pselati, we should get going. It’s getting more and more dangerous by the moment.” “I agree, Ramalo. We should. It’s probably a lot safer in the suburbs. Certainly a lot less people.” Even as we went, the chaos seemed to increase. This was probably because more and more people were realizing that they didn’t know what was happening. Even though the walk home only lasted ten minutes, it seemed like forever. We were relieved to finally get there. Even there, though, it was somewhat chaotic. I didn’t like chaos, and promptly went to my room to think. A while later, I went back outside, to enjoy the breeze and ignore the changes. Suddenly, however, three houses picked themselves up and rotated ninety degrees. I could not possibly ignore that. The air felt very strained, almost as if it would snap, and I headed straight back inside. This was too much. Even compared to the chaos outside, this was a bit much for me. I retreated to my bed and tried to take a nap. However, with all the noise going on outside, that was not possible. My phone had no signal, either. So, I went over to Pselati’s room. “I want to be able to end this chaos. Who even caused this in the first place?” “You really expect me to know.” my sister responded. “Then what are we going to do about it?” “Let’s find out!” “I’m not sure if I want to…” This was probably the third time that we had come out of the house today, which was unusual for me but not for Pselati. I managed to get to the curb. Then the truly strange thing happened. I noticed that the cars were going by a lot faster suddenly. So were the people. This was a very strange thing that was happening to the world, and suddenly I felt alone, even though Pselati was right next to me. This was the strangest day of my life. I did not like new experiences. I liked life the way it usually was. I hated the fact that time was seemingly speeding up. The cars and people kept moving faster and faster. At the point where I thought they couldn’t possibly go faster, however, things snapped back to normal. The sun was suddenly back in the position it should be. But I still felt afraid. I felt that this was not going to be the end of it. “Sister, what do you think will happen next?” I asked. She said something unintelligible in another language that I hadn’t encountered before. “I didn’t know that you knew another language! Why didn’t you tell me?” I was wondering. Then I realized: I was speaking in a language that I had never heard before. She said something else. I realized that this couldn’t have been a prank from her. She didn’t know a Fliani language-and I knew that this was one because of the sound of it. Since nobody from here knew one, I wondered what had happened to this world. I most likely would not want to know. I saw somebody on the road trying to talk to someone else, and I realized that we were not alone. Everyone was also having this problem, which made this even worse. I didn’t even know what this language was. I witnessed more and more people having this happen to them. It seemed to be an extremely wide variety of languages, too. I guessed that this was the effect of what had happened earlier. But all effects have causes, and if you think about it, all causes can be an effect. So, what happened to make that happen? I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know, and I wasn’t sure if I could ever know. This would certainly a mystery to plague us. My sister seemed to get the idea as well, which was a surprise, because she usually took time to get ideas. I saw a traffic warden yelling at some old lady, to no effect. I had no clue what language he was speaking. She seemed to be fairly confused too. Perhaps everyone felt the same way I did. Just then, I realized that I had lost knowledge of all languages except this one. As the chaos subsided, I returned once more to my room. At least it was quiet. I got onto my phone to message my half-brother Khalagis about this. He lived over in Atlantici, which was several thousand miles away. If this had happened to him too, then we were screwed. If not, he would speak Ignan, characterized by its harsh consonants, and I could feel relief. “Khal, Khal! How are you?” I said on the call to him. I, to my despair, heard him speaking in another language. I recognised it, though-it sounded European. Probably German, but I had no clue beyond the phonemes. “Khal, stop messing around. I need to talk to you. Also, when did you learn German?” He continued to speak in that language. I was beginning to get frustrated by this new change. “Khal! Stop messing around! I actually have to talk to you! I know you cannot understand me, but please-” He hung up on me. I now knew that this was possibly a nationwide thing-a government test. But there should have been a warning. There would probably have been multiple warnings, so that people could prepare. I wished that people could be reasonable for once. Now, the air was filled with the sounds of shouting, alongside police sirens. Distant fire sirens had begun to fill the air. I knew that if this continued, shortly the world would end. I was also increasingly anxious about it. I knew that there was one last thing I could do: if I called my Dutch friend Luuk, I could see if it was worldwide or not. If it was worldwide, then we could possibly still check if the influence extended to online. I found out that he, also, was having issues with this. This meant that everyone on earth was having issues. I guessed, we would have to cope with it until it ended. I didn’t even know how long it would last. The government should have told us about this. But, they did not, and this was what happened. There were over 10,000 languages on this continent alone. People around the world were probably panicking. I checked the news, to see what people would have to say about this issue. It turned out, the captions were unreadable and the reporter was in tears. They seemed to be babbling in yet another language. The cityscape behind her was brighter than usual: I could pick out several pixelated fires. My next stop would be google translate. It was entirely dedicated to languages, and there were over two hundred on it. I watched as the website loaded on my computer. Then, I found that the same thing had happened to it. By chance, one language was one that I had heard of: Navajo. The rest might as well have been gibberish, invented languages. My last stop on the internet was email. Since the other two stops had been affected, I had no doubt this would be too. Besides, I had my weekly email of strange events around the world coming in today. Unfortunately, it was unreadable-but I somehow could tell it was a Turkic dialect. I knew that there would be thousands of mini-crashes in the stock market as people found themselves unable to read what was on it. Millions would lose their jobs. The entire rest of the day went by like that. Nobody would be able to understand each other. The next morning, I woke up expecting the same thing to be happening. However, I instantly realized: I had the knowledge of the original languages back. I knew Solarian, Ignan, Basicca and this new language: I also realized, from the context of the other languages, that it was called Logavidese, and it was a Coldonese dialect. I figured that this language would be quite useful in the future. It would, for instance, help me gain a deeper understanding of the Peladi-Nestoi languages to the south. Two, it would give me an advantage over anyone who didn’t know that language: my older sister knew all the languages I did, plus Rengeti. Based on what I knew, only 600,000 other people would know it, plus the natives and 50,000 extras in Atlasia. So, it was unlikely that I would find someone else who would know that language. After that one fateful day, the world became more connected, as people realized the urgency of this. Plus, it had connected people on a personal level, and in society, it revitalized previously moribund languages. Suddenly, the 600,000+ people who knew them would be able to share the knowledge of it online. Not everyone had internet access, however, so they wouldn’t be able to. Anyway, it would be hard to find all the extra speakers of any particular language. But, it would prove to be a unifying, as opposed to a dividing force. Cultures around the world would connect with each other, and people would find their careers easier now that they knew another language. Elements of languages as diverse as Avvan and Thai would have influence on speakers of, for example, Belarusian, or Swahili. Linguistic barriers would be erased, and this would hasten the globalization of technology. Looking back on this event, six years later, I would say that it also changed me as a person. It got me very interested in the cultures of other people. It also connected me to the millions of people who spoke a Coldonese language. It has inspired me to learn as many languages as possible. Now, as opposed to then, I know the additional languages Tseric, Zelua, Piscan, Rengeti, English and Hindi. Luuk, Khalagis, Pselati and I had found many, many differences and similarities in the languages. We found that we were able to create a code-language between the new ones, and were brought closer together by this. On the other hand, it has also made us more unique. For example, I myself had been drawn outside my shell, and now enjoyed the company of several new friends. Luuk was even more social than he already had been, and had grown a close bond with his brother and aunt, who he lived with. Khalagis was now more interested in the intricacies of nature, and he was taking biology classes. Pselati herself became influenced by the culture of the Fliani language that she had learned-she had converted to their faith. She was the one perhaps the most dramatically affected by that day. Even dad had become closer to his coworkers-and was lucky enough to find someone who had learned the same language as he had. Now, the two were excellent friends, and did everything together. Overall, that day-with the intensely multinational dialogues, exchanges and more-has changed humanity, linguistics, culture and the sciences, as a whole.

hk80d2

Endless Pathways: Mission for Truth

The street loosened up perpetually before Marcus, vanishing into the distance like a lace of dark against the infertile scene. He had been strolling for what felt like days, his strides repeating hollowly against the black-top. Each step felt heavier than the last, and Marcus couldn't shake the sensation of being caught in an endless circle. Everything began when Marcus chose to pursue a faster route through the forsaken open country. He had been driving for a really long time, the tedium of the open street quieting him into a shock. At the point when he saw the tight soil way slicing through the fields, he figured it would save him some time. Much to his dismay, it would lead him to a spot past existence. As he walked forward, Marcus really wanted to think about how he had wound up in this abnormal dilemma. The sun beat down barbarously, creating cruel shaded areas across the scene. There was no evidence that something is going on under the surface anyplace - no trees, no creatures, simply the unending span of the street. With each passing mile, Marcus' considerations started to twisting into frenzy. He was unable to recollect where he had come from or where he was going. Maybe his whole presence had been diminished to this perpetual stretch of asphalt. Hours transformed into days, nevertheless, the street extended on, unflinching in its refusal to end. Marcus' body throbbed with weariness, his brain wavering near the precarious edge of breakdown. He had a go at turning around many times, however each time he did, he ended up right back where he began. At the point when Marcus figured he was unable to make another stride, he seen something somewhere far off. It was a figure, sparkling in the intensity dimness, standing still in the center of the street. With a flood of trust, Marcus enlivened his speed, frantic for any evidence that something is going on under the surface. As he moved nearer, Marcus could see that the figure was a lady, her elements obscured and unclear. She appeared to glint all through presence, similar to a delusion in the desert. Marcus shouted to her, his voice breaking with feeling, however she stayed quiet, her eyes fixed on some concealed point somewhere far off. All of a sudden, the lady disappeared, letting Marcus be indeed on the interminable street. He sank to his knees, destroys streaming his face as he understood the purposelessness of his circumstance. He was caught in a bad dream from which there was never a way out. In any case, similarly as Marcus was going to give up to surrender, he heard a weak sound somewhere out there. It was a thundering, similar to roar not too far off, becoming stronger as time passes. Marcus looked into, his heart beating in his chest, as a shape rose up out of the gleaming intensity. It was a vehicle, smooth and dark, speeding towards him with total surrender. Marcus mixed to his feet, waving his arms wildly as the vehicle overwhelmed him. He could see the driver now, a shadowy figure in the driver's seat, their highlights darkened by the brightness of the sun. With a shriek of tires, the vehicle halted simply crawls from Marcus, the smell of consuming elastic swirling all around. The driver lowered the window, uncovering a face covered in haziness. "Get in," they said, their voice low and gravelly. Marcus delayed the slightest bit, his psyche hustling with dread and vulnerability. However at that point he recalled the perpetual street loosening up before him, and he realized he had no other decision. Without a word, Marcus moved into the vehicle, the entryway closing behind him. As the vehicle pulled away, abandoning the desolate scene, Marcus couldn't resist the opportunity to think about what lay ahead on this abnormal and winding excursion. As the vehicle sped not too far off, Marcus couldn't shake the sensation of disquiet that got comfortable the pit of his stomach. The driver stayed quiet, their face clouded by shadows, passing on Marcus to ponder what their identity was and where they were taking him. The inside of the vehicle was faintly lit, the main wellspring of light coming from the dashboard. Marcus looked through the window, however all he could see was dimness loosening up into boundlessness. There were no milestones, no indications of civilization, simply the interminable field of the unexplored world. After what felt like long periods of driving peacefully, the driver at last talked, their voice slicing through the quietness of the vehicle. "You're not the first to wind up on this street," they said, their tone enigmatic. Marcus went to take a gander at the driver, however their elements stayed secret in the shadows. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice shudder somewhat. The driver laughed obscurely. "This street has an approach to bringing individuals like you to it. Lost spirits looking for something they can't find." Marcus felt a shudder run down his spine. "Be that as it may, why? For what reason does this street exist? What's more, where is it taking us?" The driver fell quiet briefly, as though taking into account their words. "Some say it's a street to no place, a spot past existence. Others trust it's a test, a preliminary to see who has the solidarity to persevere." Marcus glared, attempting to get a handle on the driver's words. "In any case, what are we being tried for? What's more, who is behind all of this?" The driver shrugged. "A few inquiries have no responses, Marcus. Once in a while, you simply need to continue to push ahead and remain cautiously optimistic." With a premonition in his chest, Marcus understood that the driver won't furnish him with any more data. He reclined in his seat, the heaviness of the obscure pushing down on him like a significant weight. As the vehicle kept on rushing not too far off, Marcus' contemplations went to the lady he had seen before. Who was she, and what had befallen her? Might it be said that she was one more lost soul such as himself, caught in this unending limbo? Lost in his viewpoints, Marcus didn't understand how long had passed until the vehicle started to ease back and eventually stop. He glanced through the window, his heart beating with expectation, as the headlights enlightened a figure remaining in the street. It was the lady from previously, her structure glimmering all through presence like a phantom. Marcus felt a flood of acknowledgment wash over him, as though he had known her in another life. The driver went to Marcus, their demeanor incomprehensible. "This is where you get out," they said, their voice touched with a note of irrevocability. Marcus delayed the slightest bit, his hand drifting over the entryway handle. He needed to ask the driver more inquiries, to request replies to the secrets that encompassed him. However, where it counts, he realize that it was useless. Whatever lay ahead, he would need to confront it single-handedly. With a surrendered moan, Marcus opened the entryway and got out of the vehicle, the cool night air washing over him like a medicine. He went to thank the driver, however the vehicle was at that point vanishing into the murkiness, abandoning him with the lady in the street. She moved toward him gradually, her developments agile and liquid. Marcus could see now that she was not of this world, her ethereal excellence charming him in manners he was unable to make sense of. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice scarcely over a murmur. The lady grinned tragically, her eyes loaded up with an insight past her years. "I'm a watchman of this street, entrusted with directing lost spirits such as yourself." Marcus scowled. "However, why me? How have I merited this?" The lady connected and delicately grasped his hand, her touch creeping him out. "You are here since you look for replies, Marcus. Yet, once in a while, the responses we look for are not the ones we need to hear." With that mysterious message, the lady turned and started to disappear, her structure disseminating like smoke in the breeze. Marcus contacted snatch her, yet his hand went through her ethereal body, leaving him with only void air. Alone by and by, Marcus remained in the street, the heaviness of his reality pushing down on him like a stone. He didn't have the foggiest idea what lay ahead, however one thing was sure - he would continue to push ahead, regardless of what deterrents lay in his way. As Marcus remained solitary in the murkiness, the reverberations of the vehicle's flight blurring into the evening, he felt a feeling of overpowering isolation wash over him. The lady, his main friend in this weird domain, had evaporated before his eyes, leaving him with additional inquiries than addresses. With overwhelming sadness, Marcus went on in the distance, his strides reverberating in the quietness of the evening. The air was thick with an obvious strain, as though the actual texture of the truth was starting to unwind around him. As he strolled, Marcus couldn't shake the sensation of being watched. Shadows moved at the edges of his vision, murmuring mysteries he was unable to grasp. He enlivened his speed, frantic to get away from the severe load of the unexplored world. Yet, regardless of how quick he strolled, the street loosened up unendingly before him, a ceaseless maze of black-top and sadness. Marcus felt a rising feeling of frenzy ripping at his chest, taking steps to consume him entirety. Right when he figured he was unable to bear it any longer, Marcus saw a gleam of light somewhere out there. It was weak from the outset, scarcely noticeable against the inky obscurity of the evening, however as he moved nearer, he understood it was coming from a little side of the road coffee shop settled on the edge of the street. With a recharged feeling of trust, Marcus enlivened his speed, the expectation of warmth and friendship driving him forward. As he moved toward the burger joint, he could hear the weak kinds of music floating through the air, joined by the encouraging fragrance of espresso and seared food. He pushed open the entryway and ventured inside, the glow of the burger joint washing over him like a wave. The inside was comfortable and welcoming, with corners coating the walls and a long counter extending across the room. Marcus advanced toward the counter and sat down on one of the stools, his eyes checking the space for any indication of something going on under the surface. Incredibly, the burger joint was vacant, save for a solitary figure behind the counter - a moderately aged man with an endured face and a tired demeanor. The man turned upward as Marcus drew closer, a glint of shock crossing his elements. "Indeed, I'll be accursed," he said, his voice unpleasant with neglect. "I haven't seen a client in years." Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Years? In any case, how can that be? This cafe is right off the street." The man shrugged. "Beats me. Time works contrastingly around here. Some of the time, it seems like I've been stuck in this spot for eternity." Marcus gestured, the bits of the riddle starting to make sense. In the event that time was mutilated in this peculiar domain, the sky was the limit. Be that as it may, he was unable to stand to harp on such contemplations - he wanted replies, and he wanted them now. "Might you at any point help me?" Marcus asked, his voice shaking marginally. "I'm lost, and I don't have the foggiest idea how to return to where I came from." The man respected him with a combination of compassion and renunciation. "I want to, child. Be that as it may, this street has an approach to catching individuals like us. It resembles a labyrinth with no chance to get out." Marcus felt a flood of disappointment ascending inside him. He had made significant progress, persevered so a lot, but he was no nearer to finding the responses he looked for. In any case, where it counts, he realize that surrendering was impossible. "Then, at that point, what am I expected to do?" he asked, his voice touched with distress. The man inclined forward, his appearance grave. "You need to continue to push ahead, regardless of anything else. Trust in yourself, and confidence in the excursion. The street might be long and slippery, yet it will ultimately lead you to where you should be." With those words ringing in his ears, Marcus expressed gratitude toward the man and left the coffee shop, his purpose more grounded than at any other time. He might not have every one of the responses, but rather he realize that he needed to continue to push ahead, regardless of what snags lay in his way. As he ventured back out into the evening, Marcus felt a recharged feeling of direction flowing through his veins. The street ahead might be full of risk and vulnerability, however he would deal with it directly, equipped with only his assurance and his will to make due. With one last look back at the burger joint, Marcus set off into the obscurity, prepared to go up against whatever lay ahead on this odd and winding excursion. What's more, however the street might be long and desolate, he realize that he could never surrender - for he was a voyager looking for truth, and nothing would hinder him. As Marcus wandered further into the evening, the street appeared to extend on unendingly, wandering aimlessly like a snake in the murkiness. The air was weighty with expectation, each step carrying him nearer to his fate. Through the extended periods of time of the evening, Marcus went ahead, his assurance resolute notwithstanding the difficulties he confronted. He experienced unusual peculiarities - momentary looks at shadowy figures, baffling murmurs in the breeze - yet he would not be deflected. With each passing mile, Marcus felt himself developing further, his soul solid by the preliminaries of the street. He had made significant progress to turn around now, his journey for answers driving him at any point forward. And afterward, right when he figured he was unable to continue any more, Marcus saw it - a weak flash of light not too far off, similar to a reference point calling him home. With restored power, he revived his speed, his heart beating in expectation. As he moved nearer, Marcus could see that the light was radiating from a little cabin settled at the edge of the street. It was curious and enchanting, with a warm shine radiating from its windows like an inviting hug. With a liberating sensation flooding through him, Marcus moved toward the bungalow and thumped on the entryway. It opened up with a squeak, uncovering a comfortable inside enlightened by gleaming candlelight. What's more, there, sitting by the fire, was the lady Marcus had experienced out and about. She grinned as he entered, her eyes shimmering with acknowledgment. "You made it," she said, her voice delicate and melodic. "I realized you would." Marcus felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he passed the boundary into the bungalow. He had at long last found what he had been looking for - a position of harmony and understanding, where the secrets of the street could be let go. Together, Marcus and the lady sat by the fire, sharing stories and chuckling long into the evening. As time passes, Marcus felt a feeling of having a place he had never known, as though he had at long last tracked down his spot on the planet. As day break drew nearer, Marcus realize that his time in the house was reaching a conclusion. In any case, before he left, he had one final inquiry consuming to him. "What am I doing here?" he asked the lady, his voice touched with vulnerability. The lady respected him with a knowing grin. "You are here since you were intended to be. The street carried you to me so you could find the responses you look for." Marcus glared, attempting to get a handle on her words. "In any case, what replies? What is the motivation behind this street?" The lady connected and grasped his hand, her touch delicate yet firm. "The motivation behind the street is different for each and every individual who voyages it. As far as some might be concerned, it is a trial of solidarity and versatility. For other people, it is an excursion of self-revelation. In any case, as far as you might be concerned, Marcus, the street was an impetus for change - a method for driving you to reality that exists in your heart." Marcus gazed at her, his brain dashing with a recently discovered lucidity. "Also, what is that reality?" The lady grinned. "Truly you are more grounded than you understand, that you have the boldness and assurance to beat any snag in your way. The street might have tried you, however it additionally showed you the profundities of your own flexibility." With those words ringing in his ears, Marcus bid goodbye to the lady and ventured back out into the world, prepared to confront anything undertakings lay ahead. For however the street might have finished, his process was not even close to finished - and with each new step, he would convey the examples of his movements with him, directing him on the way to his actual fate.

637r3q

Whispers of the Wind

In the heart of the ancient city of Meridell, where cobblestone streets whispered tales of yore and towering spires pierced the sky, a crumpled piece of paper danced in the wind. It twirled and spun, a silent ballet orchestrated by the unseen hands of fate, until it came to rest at the feet of a young girl named Elara. Elara, with her curiosity as boundless as the sea, gently picked up the paper, her fingers unfolding its secrets with the delicacy of touching a butterfly's wings. The message, written in a hurried scrawl, read: "Meet me at the Dawn's Harbor. The future of Meridell depends on it." No signature, no seal, nothing but these words to guide her. Where had it come from, and more importantly, where was it meant to go? Elara's heart raced with the thrill of mystery and the weight of the words. Meridell's future, a phrase heavy with unspoken danger and hidden truths. She knew of Dawn's Harbor, a place where the first light kissed the sea, revealing paths to lost treasures and forgotten realms. Determined to uncover the message's origins and its intended recipient, Elara embarked on a journey through Meridell. Her first stop was the bustling marketplace, where whispers of the wind were traded like precious jewels. She questioned the merchants and travelers, but none had seen the paper's mysterious sender. The wind, it seemed, kept its secrets well. As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, Elara made her way to the ancient library, its walls home to both the memories and secrets of the world. There, amidst the musty scent of old books and the quiet murmur of turning pages, she found an old map of Meridell. Dawn's Harbor was marked with an X, as if beckoning her forth. The next morning, under the watchful gaze of the rising sun, Elara set out for Dawn's Harbor. The journey was long, the paths untrodden and shrouded in mist. Yet, with each step, the crumpled paper seemed to grow warmer in her pocket, as if alive with a purpose of its own. As she neared the harbor, the ground beneath her feet changed; from the hard cobblestones of Meridell to the soft sands of time. The air was filled with the scent of salt and adventure. There, at the edge of the world, stood a figure cloaked in shadows, gazing out at the sea. "You received my message," the figure spoke, their voice a melody woven with the strength of the waves and the calm of the morning light. Elara, her heart pounding with anticipation and fear, stepped forward. "I did. But why me? What is the future of Meridell that hangs in the balance?" The figure turned, and the rising sun cast their face in light. It was an old man, his eyes deep with the wisdom of ages, his face marked with the scars of battles long past. "Meridell is on the brink of a war, one that threatens to tear apart the very fabric of our world. But there is hope, a prophecy that speaks of a young heart, pure and brave, who can find the Lost Jewel of Meridell. This jewel has the power to unite or destroy, and it is your destiny to find it." Elara, taken aback by the revelation, felt the weight of her destiny settle upon her shoulders. "But why me? I am but a girl with no notable ability or even status of significance." The old man smiled, a smile that held the promise of dawn's first light. "Because, Elara, it is not the power we are born with that defines us, but the choices we make. You chose to follow the wind, to seek out the truth behind a crumpled piece of paper. That is why you are the one." With those words, the old man handed Elara a compass, its needle spinning wildly before pointing towards the heart of the sea. "Follow the compass, and it will lead you to the Lost Jewel. Remember, the future of Meridell rests in your hands." And so, with the compass as her guide and the wind at her back, Elara set sail into the unknown. The journey was fraught with peril, from tempests that raged like wild beasts to sirens that sang songs of despair. Yet, through it all, Elara's heart remained steadfast, her resolve unbroken to accomplish her mission. In the deepest depths of the Whispering Caves, guarded by creatures of shadow and light, Elara found the Lost Jewel of Meridell. Its glow was the essence of magic itself, a beacon of hope in the darkness. Upon retrieving the Jewel of Meridell, she began her journey back to the mainland. On the way back, many of these creatures she noticed earlier were now following, trying to convince her to trade the jewel. Elara stood firm and was determined to get this relic safely back home no matter who ventured her way in attempts to take the jewel. Upon her return, Meridell was indeed on the cusp of war. The air was thick with tension, swords drawn, and shields raised. But when Elara revealed the Lost Jewel, its light piercing the shadows of doubt, the hearts of the people were united. The war was averted, not by the might of arms, but by the courage of a single heart. Elara's journey had begun with a crumpled piece of paper, a message carried by the wind. It had taken her to the edges of the world and back, revealing her strength and the power of unity. Meridell's future, once shrouded in uncertainty, now shone bright, a testament to the whispers of the wind and the destiny of one young girl. And as for the old man at Dawn's Harbor, he watched from afar, a smile gracing his lips. For he knew that as long as there were hearts brave enough to follow the wind, Meridell would always find its way out of the darkness, guided by the light of hope and the whispers of destiny.

odfg9q

The Bridgemaker

“You’ve got mail again, Seymour,” Marv said to me as I walked into the post office. I sneered, wiping at my dripping nose. “Who from?” Marv’s bushy eyebrows lifted over dull eyes. “Who do you think?” He said, offering me a damp scrap of bark from the pile on his desk. I grimaced and took the note from him, shoving it into the pocket of my drip coat and making my way into the back room. Persha bleated angrily at my ankles. She hated it when her fur got wet. Which was ironic, since she always seemed to walk under the lamp posts that dripped the heaviest. In the back of the post island was a pile of linen wrapped parcels. In the doorway, I scanned the floor for a moment then cursed, bending over to pick up a small handful of limp packs. They made an unsatisfying thump as they hit the wall. “Hey! If anything breaks I’ll make you replace it!” Marv called from behind. “Where’s my package, Marv?” I shouted back. I knew my boss was sending me another job on that note and I didn’t have my new shipment of cable rope. At this point I’d be on my back up back up rope. I didn’t have any backups after that. Persha snacked on a wayward package as I stepped over her. Eyebrows pinched, I rounded the corner to confront the postmaster. Marv had his arms crossed over his bulging stomach defensively. “Ain’t my problem we’re backed up,” he grunted. I rolled my eyes. I didn’t have time for this. If any jobs come after this last one, I’ll just decline and figure something out. I clicked for Persha and shoved my way out of the door before Marv could follow up with his usual string of excuses. Over my shoulder, I couldn’t help saying, “This was one of my first islands, you know! I had a nasty habit of tying loose knots, so maybe watch your footing on your way back! This could be the day my knot finally slips.” The cool air of the night was closing in on us now, but the fog hid any moonlight that might have otherwise lit up the path. In the distance, I could make out the hazy pinprick of my dinghy's lamp, roped to the pier. 'This could be the day my knot finally slips,' the words came back to me as we reached the worn posts holding the wooden slats taut. Take your own advice, old man, I grunted to myself as I eyed the creaky bridge in front of me. I gritted my teeth and started down it, gripping the thick rope handles to steady myself. “After forty years? Not a chance, geezer,” Marv said after me, voice faint. “Ropes fray, Marv!” I threw over my shoulder. “And I haven’t been getting my shipments to keep up with the maintenance!” When there was no reply, I smirked. It fell when I tripped over Persha, who glared up at me and burped. Dumb old goat. One day she’ll be the death of me. My ire faded as I inched forward, glancing down at the ocean thousands of miles below. Most people considered doing it bad luck, but I had years and years of bad luck behind me without once glancing down. Not that there was much to see anyway. The view was dark and riotous, roiling from the heavy winds. The black water yawned up at me from thousands of feet below. A chill ran up my hunched spine. “I’m serious this time Persha, I’m quitting!” I grunted at my goat as I stared down into the water. She looked over her shoulder and sneezed, unamused. My scowl deepened. I tore my eyes away from my death with a wet sniff. Most of my bridgemaker friends eventually succumbed to the waves. Either by a malfunctioning skiff or self-inflicted tendencies. Hovering in the open air thousands of feet over an undeniable end does things to the human mind. It stiffens the body like rigor mortis, or makes you hallucinate about falling sensations and wobbling boats. Numbs the sensations in your hands and feet. They call it ‘the skiffs’. Most of the younger bridgemakers find the name funny. Old coots like me find it painfully ironic. We all come across coworkers frozen and wailing like babies at some point, feet inches from the edge, leaned over the railing of their ships. Those encounters tend to scare the untried more than any ghost story ever would. The skiffs end up turning all of us into salt-dried living corpses. The skiffs are also part of the reason why you never see men my age as bridgemakers. Most in the profession get worn by years of staring down at their death and give up. Whether that meant retiring or jumping. I never jumped because of my goats. Unfortunately, I also never retired. I can’t pay for my goats without an income. In all actuality, I don't consider myself a bridgemaker by trade anyway. My real profession is tending to my goats. Or goat, in this case. Persha’s job is to keep me on my toes and remind me that she’s meant to be eaten. Persha belched at me, making me smile. She was never good at her job. As we reached the docking island, the first of the lightning crackled through the air. Early again, eh? I cursed and dove into my boat, wrapping my arm around my goat’s neck and hoisting her into the dome cover. Electricity licked along the insulated railing of my ship as we huddled under my tarp dome. The hair on the back of my arms and neck stood straight up. Persha moaned in distress and spit up some of her canvas dinner. I wrapped my hands around her floppy black ears and hunkered down. Thunder boomed and cracked around us, rattling my teeth. Poor timing, but that tended to suit me. The wind picked up, sending a wave of moist air into our haphazard shelter. More electricity zapped at my unprotected hand. I grimaced, shaking out my fingers. Eventually, you get used to the small electrical burns, like an electrician. You have to, since you can’t avoid them. Not that it stings any less. It’s not supposed to be that way normally. Drip coats as a bridgemaker are supposed to be lined with insulation for safety. My coat was never as insulated as it should’ve been forty years ago, let alone now. The only new things my boss supplied his employees with were voyage goats. ‘Voyage goats’ are meant for eating on long trips, since any stored food spoils easily in the constant mist. ‘Death’s demned bad for business’ was my boss’s motto, and the only reason why he kept up with the goats at all. As both a vegetarian and a difficult bastard, I redubbed my goats as my travel companions. I made sure to update my boss on my goat farm’s status whenever I had the humor for it. It's still a farm of one, though, so it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it sounded. Not that Mr. Cormack ever cared enough to remember he had living, breathing employees. At the reminder of my difficult boss, the commission note poked me through the thin fabric of my drip coat. I pulled away one of my hands and pressed Persha’s head against my chest to keep her ears protected. With the other I rifled through my pocket until I found the note. Picking at a splinter with my teeth, I squinted down at the smudged words. Big one off Parshack Point. Been four hours. Southwest. – C “Helpful,” I said. With a scowl, I split the wood in half and offered it to Persha. As she lipped at the offering, I pulled my hands away and patted the ground around my hips. I had a few minutes before the next wave of cracks and I needed those moments to find mine and Persha’s earmuffs. Makeshift, of course, since I’m ‘not supposed to be out in thunderstorms’. Locating Persha’s under her furry rump, I secured the lumpy scarf around her head and tethered her ragged rope collar to the mast as the hair on my neck crackled with the next incoming round. Persha stared up at me with liquid eyes. With a pat on her head, I crawled out from under the shelter. Crouching to avoid being tall, I scuttled across the deck to my rudder where I had stowed my bag with my own earmuffs. I slapped them over my ears just in time for the lightning to strike a light pole on the post master’s island less than a hundred yards away. My hair stood on end and the ship rattled. Slipping my goggles from around my neck to situate them on my face, I stayed crouched and made my way back to the mast. Persha bleated loudly at me while I unraveled the ropes securing the power sail down. “Just my luck,” I muttered to myself as the next lightning strike hit the middle of the bridge. I couldn’t go back to my home island until this land sighting was investigated. I’d missed plenty of potential islands by making a decision like that. Growling under my breath, I forced the sail open just in time for the lightning to strike it. The wood beneath my feet hummed and warmed with the energy the sail channeled into the motor. I turned to Persha and patted her on the head again. “Looks like we’re in business, little miss,” I shouted over the thunder. Straightening now that the lightning was directed at the sails, I went to untie the anchor from the docking island. When we began to drift free, the boat wobbled. It wasn’t supposed to do that, but a new boat wasn’t any more feasible than a new dripcoat was. Logically, it was time for retirement. Retirement to a nice acre of goat farm. In my dreams, I would have at least fifty. What a joke. Tightening my hands around the rudder, I sniffed and pulled the boat around in the direction of the main island outcropping. What did the note say? Was the island southwest? Over my shoulder, I asked, “Hey, Persha! I don’t suppose you remember what direction the island was spotted in?” Persha didn’t say anything back, so I assumed that meant she didn’t. “Aw, whatever,” I said dismissively. “I’ve gotten this far already.” I tilted the ship toward some of the farther outcroppings. You never find new islands in the direction of the bigger populations, unless they’re broken off from the islands themselves. You get no profit from already discovered land. It was safe to bet I’d be heading to the outskirts of the Archipelago. The air around me darkened the farther away from land we sailed. The air grew colder, heavier. Dewier. When the first of the condensation started dripping down my glasses I knew we were in trouble. Cursing under my breath, I dropped to my knees and scrambled around under the deck for my extra rope. Grabbing it, I wound it tightly around the rudder and the railing to keep it on a steady course for the nearest island. There was supposed to be one a mile or two away in this direction. If I was wrong, we were as good as dead. How many times does that make this? Five? Ten? One hundred? I jumped to my feet and slid across the slick deck towards the mast, hoping I’d make it in time. A gust of wind whooshed overhead. The ship wobbled so hard I slipped and hit the ground just as the first raindrops landed on the deck. Pain shot up my side. Maybe one of these days my hip will just shatter. I cursed again and pulled myself onto my bruised knees, crawling under the shelter with Persha, who I untied from the mast and held tight. The rain hammered against the tarp, buckets and buckets of rain. I squeezed Persha. We didn’t often get low-hanging storms, but when we did they normally turned catastrophic. Flash flooding, broken roofs and windows, snapped ropes and stranded islands. A puddle of water creeped its way into our shelter, dampening my jeans and making Persha snort in disgust. I pet her head to calm her. I wasn’t afraid. I was ready to succumb to whatever death these skies deemed me worthy of. I just hated the idea of not knowing what would be coming. A shrill whistling noise filled the air and I felt my face drain of color. “No,” I whispered. That was the typhoon alarm. Behind us. We’d missed the island. And we were about to enter a damn typhoon. Scrambling for Persha’s leash, I reached behind me and wrapped it around the mast once, twice, three times. I had to think quickly. If we were lucky, we might be able to hit a small outcropping on the edge of the Archipelago. The boat could take most of the damage for us. Or drag us into the sea. But either way, being away from the ship would not be safe. I used the last few feet of rope to tie a knot around my torso. Then, with a yelp from my disgruntled companion, I wrapped both my arms and legs around my goat and squeezed for dear life. The first of the winds hit us like a howling beast. I could feel it stampeding, rampaging across the deck. It picked up anything I hadn’t tied down and threw it, crashing and booming, overboard. It yanked up the edge of our tarp and flipped it against the mast, baring us to the full force of the wind. The gale hit me in the face like an avalanche and pinned me to the wood. I gasped for breath as the wind stole it away, clinging tighter to my quivering animal. My vision went fuzzy from lack of oxygen, but I found I could breathe if I kept my nose and mouth inside my color. Persha’s head was turned away from the torrent. A current hit the broad side of the dinghy, swinging us wildly to the left. My head slammed against the wood. Just my luck. I thought to myself as my vision faded. Just my luck. We careened around for what felt like hours as I struggled between unconsciousness and wakefulness, desperately holding onto Persha’s warm body. The wind came and went; icy rain splattered nonstop over the deck. My drip coat was a pitiful barrier between it and my skin. When will this be over? I demanded, shivering. Just drop us in the sea already. As if some higher power was answering my thoughts, the deck dropped. We were going down fast. My stomach swooped and I bit on my tongue to hold back my cry. Persha’s scream pierced the air. The rain let up as we dropped closer and closer to the ocean. What a way to go. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the end. We tumbled, spinning. I could feel the end drawing near. I could picture the sea reaching for us, ready to collect his dues. If only I’d quit sooner. The boat careened across a hard surface and splintered. My teeth cut into my tongue with the shock, and this time I really did feel something crack in my hip as we careened to a stop. Persha squawked and writhed in my arms. My breath seesawed in my chest, pain making lights spark behind my eyelids. Was that dirt I was smelling? What the hell is going on? The sound of wood cracking cut through the air and I gasped as the deck beneath us shifted. We shifted to the side at an alarming angle. We weren’t out of the woods yet. My arm shot out from beneath us and I scrambled at the ground, gripping stones and grass to try and tip us away from danger. It was futile, I could feel it. We’re not going to make it. But damn if I wasn’t going to try. My roar was whipped away in the dying wind, and with one last gigantic heave of my body, I felt the boat lean toward land. The mast split completely and fell forward, dragging me and Persha with it. I could feel the rest of the boat falling away beneath us to the ocean. I had to brace my elbows against the ground to keep the mast from rolling onto us. It teetered but held firm on the grassy edge of the island. Persha moaned and fought my embrace, butting her head against my chin. I trembled with adrenaline. We were safe. For a moment I laid there, stunned. Persha relented and settled in, too. My heart gradually stopped racing. The rain stopped. After a lengthy rest, I pushed myself into a sitting position and numbly untied us from the mast. Persha trotted away the second I’d released her, sniffing at the ground with curiosity and complaining about the water. My old body ached as I stood to assess our surroundings, my hip shouting at me the loudest. I blinked once as sunlight broke through the mist of the clouds, making the dripping foliage glow. My jaw dropped. In front of me was the largest expanse of meadows and trees I’d ever seen, rain-flattened clover stretching for miles. In the far distance was the craggy outline of a mountain range, lightning licking its highest peaks. We were standing at the top of a grassy knoll. And below us were hundreds of goats, fat and grazing lazily on the rich clover. My knees gave out as Persha scrambled down the hill. “Well, damn,” I whispered, pulling off my earmuffs and goggles. “It’s about time.” A genuine smile broke my face in half. I shook my head, laughing in disbelief. “It’s about damn time.”

laagst

Ted's 'Robber Gull'

This story is about a teenager. Today it would be unheard of to let a boy of fifteen to take a boat out for an extended trip of four or five days in the open ocean. Ted sailed past a small Island about late morning. It seemed deserted with its cliffs plunging into the sea. He counted three kinds of birds all nesting in the cliffs. He lashed his ruder and went below to get some fried fish and potatoes. He came up on deck and saw a sea gull. He throws small pieces of fish up for the gull to catch. It soon turned into a flock of gulls. He had always been interested in the way birds fly. It was fun to get such a close-up view of them. As he was holding his last piece of fish intending to eat it, an enterprising bird swooped down, and snatched it out of his hand. It startled him and made him laugh. He realized he needed to pay attention, for the reef off the end of the Island was coming up. He altered his course and trimmed his sails to go around it. He studied his charts and decided on another course change. In the late afternoon he had to tack his way into a large harbor and tie up at the Harbor master’s dock. The Harbor Master looks like he had lived all his life at sea. What saved Ted was he had a soft spot for young men trying to prove themselves. The Harbor Master requested permission to board. Ted formally granted it with a salute. His ship was inspected top to bottom. The harbor Master was impressed with its ship shape condition. He opened every hatch and checked every cubby. He picked up a key on a shelf above the sink. He went out to a locked hatch and opened it. It was an empty water cistern for the kitchen. He asked Ted if he wanted water in it. Ted enthusiastically said, "yes". The harbor master went below and laid back all the floorboards that ran down the center. “Ted, do you know what this boat was built for?” “Pleasure sailing?” “No. It is a small deep-sea boat good for smuggling.” Ted wanted to know why he knew this. It was explained to him in detail. Ted was fascinated with the explanation and asked many questions. This put the Harbor Master at ease, and he did not question the condition of Ted’s fake papers. He did notice the boat had never been named or a harbor of origin. Ted decided on ‘Robber Gull.’ The harbor master found Missy’s picture. He learned more about her and Rooff than he needed to know. The information was useless to him. In the end he charged Ted for the water, a real mariner’s chart of the lower islands and wine to christen his boat with. Ted paid for this out of his loose change. He went back to his cabin to chop one of his smallest gold coins in quarters. He paid for the buoy hook up with this. His change wouldn’t all fit in his change belt. He tipped the Harbor Master well with what was left over. He pulled up the anchor at his bow and let the boat gently drift around the buoy. Ted knew he was taken after he got a look at the other side of the buoy. It had the owner’s boat name on it. The harbor master had helped him with a new map and some of the symbols and tips of how to get to his next overnight stay and how to best enter Uer Mouth Harbor. He was advised to get supplies in his galley for there were no facilities on the island he was heading for. He bought his supplies from a market launch. Among the miscellaneous items was a harmonica and towels. He found the prices were reasonable. He figured he had been over charged most of his journey. Except for the boat, it was a good deal. Oh well, Rooff had been generous. In two nights, he would be sleeping in Uer Mouth. The voices of the fishermen woke him, he manages to sail out with them, and a hot breakfast. As he passes the Harbor master’s house he plays ‘A Pirates Life is for me’ on his harmonica and gives him the bird. The man laughs and hopes he doesn’t get in too much trouble in school. As the harbor master had warned him, he could pass the little Island he was headed for without knowing it. He almost did. The currant and wind had carried him off course. It was just barely visible. He would have a lot of tacking to do, and it would not be the best way he was told to approach it. The clouds on the horizon flash, the sea develops white caps, and the wind blows steadily. He was exhausted by the time he anchored in the little bay. He double checked his anchors. He cooked the little fish he had caught earlier in the day and put in some vegetables and had a tasty soup. That night the storm hit and kept him awake with worry; the thunder did not help. He had never been in a boat when it stormed. The next morning it was still raining. He ate and went back to sleep. He woke midday to the gentle lap of water on the hull. He pulled the hatch back and the sun streamed in. The air was fresh. The little bay was beautiful. It was too late to leave for Uer Mouth. He hoped it would be like this in the morning. He had not lowered the little dingy yet. He had seen it done but not done it himself. It was harder than it looked. He throws the ladder over the side, climbs in, and rows the dingy to the sandy beach. He beached the little boat and walked down the deserted shore. It hit him he was alone in the world. No family, his friends were all new friends he did not really know. Rooff seemed to care. He had showered him with money then shoved him out into the big wide world. A depression settled around him and he started to cry. It was more like a large over whelming sob that he felt would last forever. He lay in the warm sand and drifted off to sleep. He felt the water lap at his toes and sat up with a start. The dingy was trying to break free. This got him to leap into action, push and jump into the little dingy and row it back to the boat. The tide had come in. That night he eats his meal in the cabin. He then watched the sun set on the horizon out to sea. He blessed the first star of the night he saw. He watched the purple dome of the sky like a lid open to a myriad of stars. He felt exceedingly small and the world exceptionally large. He felt the cabin close in on him and took his blankets up on deck. He slept well till the light of dawn woke him. The sky was as blue as he hoped this morning. He did not waste time to set sail. The sea was smooth and sparkly. This lasted till noon. The sea got increasingly choppy, and the wind became forceful as the afternoon got on. He did a lot of tacking against the currant. He would rather be above Uer Mouth harbor than below it. Ted was beginning to despair when in the twilight the two lighthouse beckons came into view. He had lashed the rudder and trimmed his sails to almost nothing. He had tied himself to the boat as he had been taught for rough weather. He did not want to go to Neptune’s Depths. The harbor master saw the “Robber Gull” come into the harbor full speed. Ted became scared he was going too fast and took the hatchet and cut the rudder free. The boom swung around threatening too ripe itself off. Ted had been thrown on the deck and passed out. The boat lurched and spun to a standstill in the calm waters of the harbor.

vpceyk

Whispers in the Breeze

In the quaint town of Willow Creek, a gentle breeze carried a crumpled piece of paper through the bustling streets. The townsfolk paused in curiosity as the paper danced in the wind, its mysterious message hidden from view. The paper had originated from the desk of a reclusive writer named Amelia Blackwood. Amelia, known for her enigmatic novels, had penned a secret message intended for a lost love, never to be sent. In a moment of reflection, the paper slipped from her grasp and was whisked away by the wind before she could retrieve it. As the paper journeyed through the town, it passed by the watchful eyes of Detective James Callahan. Intrigued by the sight of the crumpled note, he followed its erratic path, determined to uncover its secrets. The wind carried the paper through the cobbled streets, over rooftops, and past hidden alleyways, leading Detective Callahan on a chase that grew more mysterious with each turn. As the sun began to set, the paper finally came to rest at the foot of an ancient oak tree in the town square. With a sense of anticipation, Detective Callahan carefully unfolded the crumpled note, revealing the unexpected message within. It read, "Meet me at midnight by the old stone bridge - where our story began." Intrigued by the enigmatic message, Detective Callahan set out on a new mission to uncover the truth behind the note and the lost love it referenced. Little did he know that this simple piece of paper would lead him down a path filled with twists, turns, and long-buried secrets waiting to be unearthed in the moonlit night. And so, the crumpled piece of paper, now held in the detective's hands, whispered its secrets in the breeze, guiding him towards a mystery that would change the course of his investigation and the lives of those involved in ways they could never have imagined. As Detective Callahan read the mysterious message, a sense of intrigue and determination washed over him. The words on the crumpled paper sparked a fire within him to uncover the truth behind this lost love story. With midnight fast approaching, he set out towards the old stone bridge where it all began, ready to unravel the secrets whispered in the breeze. Little did he know that his journey would lead him down a path filled with unexpected twists and turns, revealing long-buried truths waiting to be discovered under the moonlit sky. And so, as he stood at the foot of that ancient oak tree in Willow Creek's town square, holding onto that piece of paper tightly in his hands - Detective James Callahan embarked on an adventure unlike any other before... As Detective James Callahan stood in the town square of Willow Creek, holding onto the crumpled piece of paper tightly in his hands, a sense of determination washed over him. The mysterious message on the note had sparked a fire within him to uncover the truth behind this lost love story. With midnight fast approaching, he set out towards the old stone bridge where it all began, ready to unravel the secrets whispered in the breeze. Little did he know that his journey would lead him down a path filled with unexpected twists and turns, revealing long-buried truths waiting to be discovered under the moonlit sky. And so as Detective Callahan embarked on an adventure unlike any other before he couldn't shake the feeling of excitement mixed with anticipation. The town of Willow Creek had always been quiet, its streets lined with quaint shops and cozy homes, but tonight, it seemed to hold secrets waiting to be uncovered. As Detective Callahan made his way through the town, the moonlight casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets, he couldn't help but wonder about the story behind the mysterious note. Who was the sender? And who was the intended recipient? And most importantly, what had happened to them? The old stone bridge loomed in the distance, its arches shrouded in darkness. Detective Callahan quickened his pace, his heart pounding with each step. As he reached the bridge, he paused, taking a moment to survey his surroundings. The air was thick with anticipation, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. And then, as if on cue, a figure emerged from the shadows—a woman, her silhouette illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. Detective Callahan's breath caught in his throat as he recognized her. It was Amelia Blackwood, the reclusive writer whose desk the crumpled note had originated from. She approached him with a cautious smile, her eyes shimmering with emotion. "Detective Callahan," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm glad you could make it." Detective Callahan felt a surge of curiosity mixed with apprehension. "Ms. Blackwood," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "What is all this about? What is the meaning of the note?" Amelia hesitated for a moment before speaking. "It's a long story," she began, her words tumbling out in a rush. "But suffice it to say, the note was meant for someone very dear to me—a lost love from my past." She paused, her gaze turning towards the bridge. "This is where it all began," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Where our story started, and where it ended." Detective Callahan listened intently as Amelia recounted the tale of her forbidden love—a love that had blossomed in the shadows of Willow Creek, only to be torn apart by circumstance and fate. As she spoke, Detective Callahan felt a pang of sympathy for the woman before him. He could see the pain etched in her features, the weight of her past bearing down on her shoulders. And then, in a sudden burst of clarity, it all made sense—the crumpled piece of paper, the whispered message, the hidden secrets waiting to be uncovered. Detective Callahan realized that this was more than just a mystery to be solved—it was a chance for redemption, for closure, for love lost and found. With a newfound sense of purpose, Detective Callahan reached out to Amelia, offering her his support and understanding. And as they stood together on the old stone bridge, beneath the moonlit sky, they knew that they had found something truly special—a connection that transcended time and space, carried on the whispers of the breeze.

f5b0fh

Rough Sailing

 Nan looked toward the west again, where the clouds seemed to be growing an even darker shade of grey. The waves had picked up too, hitting the side of the small sailboat and splashing over the coaming as it slid down into the waves.            “Don’t you think?” she asked.            “No, I don’t think, and I wish to hell you’d let me handle this. Unless you want to be the captain!” Harrison pushed the tiller towards her, hard into her knee, and let out the sheet. She bent down in time to keep the boom from beaning her.            “Stop it. No. Just get us back.”                 Harrison told her not to let the jib out, right as a strong gust took it, grabbing the line out of her hands.            “Damn it!” He pushed the tiller again, heading into the wind as she reached into the sea to get the loose sheet. She nearly fell in when a strong wave hit the opposite side, tipping the heeling boat further. “Hold onto the bloody thing, will you? For Christ’s sake.”            “The wind, it just took it. It’s really picking up.”            “Now you’re a weatherman, huh? Just do what I tell you.”            They were a good six miles out now. Farther than Harrison had intended, but it had been a fine breeze earlier, and he enjoyed Nan’s fear.             “We should be heading back. We must be ten miles out.”            He rolled his eyes saying, “We are heading back and would be there if you would listen.”            The problem was she had listened. It was going to be a brisk sail on his new boat, a fast one, and fun. Didn’t she want to learn to sail? Wasn’t that part of the attraction? He’d talked about his years on the Hotchkiss sailing team, then Tufts, then a chance at the Olympics. “Almost made it, too. Shortlisted.” Preppy charm had given way to investment banking attitude. He hadn’t sailed in years. Until, one day, late in the season, very late into the season, he decided to get this boat. So late that they were the only ones out there. She’d wanted to learn to sail., She’d taken the course over the summer. She was almost excited to go even after pointing out the red flag at the marina. And she needed to satisfy him, of course. That was more than half of it.            Nan was right. The wind had picked up. Earlier it was scary, too, but fun as the little boat skidded out from the shore, heeling over, the boom sometimes touching the water. He laughed when she leaned way out, holding on for dear life to the windward side, trying to urge the boat lower. But he just pulled the sail in, bringing the opposite gunwale right to the waterline. She squealed, and he laughed more. “Enough Harry, enough. Please.” He paid no attention to her obvious fear, loving every bit of it.            It was raining now, the wind stronger. Any pleasure of Harrison’s had given way to edge, that controlling fanaticism, as the waves foamed at their peaks. The swells must have been five, six, feet and the bow slipped under them as they fell into deeper troughs taking on cold seawater. “Bail! Nan. Use the bucket.”            “Maybe you should slow down a bit. We’d roll over the waves better,” she yelled over the wind.            “Just do it! I know what I’m doing!”            Waves were smashing on all sides as the boat got tossed about, Nan’s bailing accomplishing little. She was soaked. They were both soaked and shivering from the cold autumn water and falling air temperature.            Nan took a moment from bailing to look about, peering in the water, mistaking distant white caps for another boat. A wave hit the leeward side, tumbling her into the water in the bottom of the boat.            “Wake up!” he yelled, struggling to be heard over the wind, which was whistling through the shrouds straining to hold the mast in place. “What the hell were you doing?            “Looking for a boat that could help! Tow us or something.”            “I got this, goddamn it. Just bail.”            Harrison was pulling hard on the sheets, trying to bring control the mainsail and head into the wind. He wanted to reef it, taking down the sail area, and maybe gain better control.            “Take the tiller. Head up, damn it, up!!” he yelled, moving forward.            “Huh? What do you mean up?” she yelled, pleading now against his nautical terms.            “Push it away from you until we’re in the goddamn wind, you idiot!!” I want to take some sail down.            Nan grabbed the tiller from him when they switched position and pushed it away. As the bow swung toward the wind, a big wave hit the side, nearly turning the boat over. Nan had to let go of the jib’s sheet when Harrison fell onto the line. It flapped loudly now that it was loose in the storm—it was a storm, there was no other way to describe it—and Harrison swore at her stupidity. She held the tiller and realized that the boat would move without the sail from the sheer force of the wind on the hull. With it, the wind, behind them on the transom, they might be able to simply head back to shore with the sails down. She said as much and Harrison threw the pail at her telling her to shut up. The pail missed her as it went over the side. “Grab it!!” he yelled, but she had ducked, and it was already behind them and quickly falling away.            “Pull the tiller. We need that pail. Pull it towards you now!!”            Nan did as she was ordered, quickly bringing the tiller to her body and holding it against her stomach when the boat’s stern turned into the wind and pushed them on. As they jibed, the wind caught the sail hard, driving the boom across the boat. Nan ducked. Harrison had been moving back, looking the other way to find the pail when the wooden boom hit him on the side of the head and continued to move over towards the starboard side taking him into the water with it.            Nan screamed when he went in, but she dutifully held the tiller, like he told her to do, as he bobbed behind. He waved, she was sure of it, and tried to swim, as the waves broke over his head. She thought she heard him, telling her to push the tiller away, turn the boat into the wind. That might stop the boat, certainly slow it, she knew. She could do it. She looked back at him, now forty yards behind. Was he trying to swim to her? The waves kept on crashing over him as the wind on the stern and in the flopping sails pushed the little boat on.            Nan looked at the shore, directly downwind, fighting to hold the tiller straight. She turned around to see if there were other boats out, but she was alone. She looked back again, finally losing sight of Harrison, and surfed the waves until the boat smashed into the rocky shore.            It took some time for the police to get to their boat and search for Harrison, but they didn’t find anything that day. “We’re so sorry,” said the man in charge. “We’re still looking and alerted the other stations. It’s possible he might have come ashore, you know, what with this current. But without a life preserver, I don’t know what to say. In this storm. I’m so sorry.”             They told her later the boat was a total loss. She almost smiled but held back.

tfrfl4

The Voyage

A sharp wind was whipping the sail smartly against my face as I hung on to the spar for dear life, and life and death it was. I was shaking with fear, wondering what I, Thomas Anderson was doing 60 feet above the deck of the Phoebe and not clerking in a staid London bank but more importantly, I was wondering how I was going to get down from there. The captain, a brute of a man named Amos Dynever, had forbidden any of the crew to climb up and help me so all the men could do was watch and see if a green 17 year old boy would make it down on his own or plunge to a certain death. I had been sent up to reef a topsail that had come loose and the captain had it that I would do my job or else. Many minutes I hung up there, too scared to move until my arms began to grow numb. I knew I had to make a try now or never. I took a tentative step toward the mast but Captain Amos yelled out for me to do my duty first. Having little choice, I inched back out and managed to secure the sail to the cleat with fumbling fingers. The crew made noises of approval and angry now, I began working my way back. Once I slipped and my feet went out from under me but I managed to regain my footing, make it back to the mast and climb back down the rigging, hands sore and bleeding. That was but one incident among many for the crew of the Phoebe. The captain ruled with an iron fist and more than once I had seen a man smote with that fist to lie unconscious for hours, even when a bucket of seawater was poured over him. I didn't ask to be on this god-forsaken vessel but this is how it came about. I was raised on a farm in Berkshire, the youngest of four brothers. We all worked hard from an early age, tilling the soil and taking care of the various livestock. The rolling hills and verdant pastures of the countryside were always a source of pleasure and discovery for me. I knew I would never inherit the farm but was quite happy growing up there. At age 16, my father decided I should go to London and learn a trade so I was soon apprenticed as a clerk in one of London's large banking establishments. I found some squalid lodgings and reluctantly applied myself to my new duties, albeit in an airless room in the centre of a teeming city that rather frightened me. About a year later there was some money missing from one of the accounts and the blame was laid on me though I was entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. I was summarily discharged. My father insisted I stay in London and learn another trade but I was unable to find other employment without any references. That led to the fateful night. I had gone out for a pint or two with a companion. We became separated and I found myself lost and wandering down by the dockside. Stopping by a pub to ask directions, I was invited to have a drink by a couple of rough looking fellows and couldn't very well refuse. One led to another and soon I was singing sea shanties with them and having the time of my life. That is until the next morning. The dank hold of a seagoing ship is where I awoke feeling sick and groggy. The two men whose company I had been enjoying the previous night had been sent there to shanghai a few crew members since no decent sailor would sign on with captain Amos Dynever. I was put to work immediately and if I didn't learn fast enough, the toe of a boot would be used to spur me along. It was miserable work for weeks on end. The hardtack and mouldy biscuits were barely edible and I got very little sleep. The worst was whenever we ran into rough seas, as they made me violently ill yet the crew had to keep at their tasks even more assiduously lest we founder. We were bound for the Americas, I discovered; a place I had only heard about but had rapidly been colonized for the past century. I dreamed of escaping from this hellish vessel but was quite sure I would be closely watched, perhaps even locked up below decks whenever we finally made port. Then one morning, as we were a day or so out from land, the ocean was becalmed and the ship wallowed in the truculent waves with just a bare wisp of wind fluttering the sails. Since there was little to do, I stood at the rail gazing at the halcyon sea as it stretched out to meet the equally blue horizon of a clear sky. Fish could be seen cavorting nearby and the tang of the salty air smelled sweet. I asked the mate how long this would last but he replied sourly that this was only the calm before the storm. A big nor'easter would surely blow in soon and I'd better pray we made safe harbor before it hit. True to his word, that night a steady rain began to fall. Within the hour it was pelting down on us in raging torrents. The gently rolling waves were replaced by towering breakers that slammed into the Phoebe unmercifully. The command had been given to strike the sails and we had done so. Now all that was left was to hang on for dear life while wave after wave washed over the decks as the ship lurched out of control through the raging seas. The captain was forward at the wheel trying to keep the ship abreast of the huge rollers but it was a hard task as one could see only a few feet into the sharp driving rain. All of a sudden there came a mighty crash as if the ship had struck rocks. Many of the crew were flung overboard to surely drown in the tempest. It was only by desperately grabbing onto a hawser that I was able to spare myself a similar fate. It soon became clear that the ship was breaking up, the damage was irreversible. Captain Amos had ordered the longboat lowered and I pulled myself toward it by the railing. When I got there, he snarled that the lifeboat was not for the likes of me, whereupon he picked me up bodily and flung me over the rail into the cold ocean. I knew then that my life was over. Resisting the urge to cry or cry out, I floundered about for several minutes until I brushed up against a piece of planking. Grabbing onto it, I paddled toward what I thought must be the direction of land though my efforts were futile. The waves carried me where they would and it was all I could do to gulp down a deep breath before the next wave drove me underwater. The cold of the ocean was beginning to numb me and I was so tired I almost relinquished my grip on the wooden plank until I felt my feet hit bottom. A few more waves knocked me down as I tried to wade ashore but I kept doggedly going forward. Finally reaching the beach, I staggered a few more yards, half-dead, before I collapsed with exhaustion. The next morning, I awoke to the dawn of a soft orange sun creeping over a calm azure sea. I looked out about a quarter of a mile to where the Phoebe had struck land. She had been mostly demolished as only the prow was still sticking out of the fierce rocks. Gazing down the beach, I saw that a few bodies had been washed ashore. Picking my way among them, I saw that they were all dead. The last one was the captain. Apparently, the longboat had capsized and all hands had been lost. Looking down somewhat squeamishly at his bloated face, I said softly but with no little emotion, 'Amos Dynever, you'll never brutalize and torture me or anyone else ever again'. I couldn't resist giving his body a sharp kick. I jumped back in pain as my toe hit something hard. I checked all of his pockets and found that the greedy captain had not left the ship empty-handed. Stuffed everywhere were more than a hundred gold coins. Cramming them all into my pockets, I took one last look out to where the Phoebe saw its end. Never again would I have to work on that cursed ship. Turning inland, I figured I had more than enough money to begin a farm of my own in this place they called America.

u4g8bd

New Eyes

This story includes descriptions of war war. New Eyes Kando woke up shaking and crying. Julie, her mother, came running. Kando tried to curl up in her mother’s lap, wishing she could fit like she used to, back when she believed her mother could make everything ok. Julie wrapped her arms around her as she wept.  When she was finally able to speak, Kando told her mother the dream that had awakened her. “I was playing in the forest with a few squirrels. It was so beautiful. I could even see this lovely shinny light moving in and out and around weaving everything together in harmony. Suddenly, the rhythm changed, it got all discombobulated ( a big word that Kando had recently learned, it meant just what it sounded like; all jumbled and out of whack).  The squirrels fell off the tree, the birds all flew up startled and bumping into each other and there was panic in the eyes of the deer who were too afraid to move. That’s when I woke up. Oh Mom, what does it mean? Is the Earth getting discombobulated? Oh Mom, I am so scared.” Julie stroked her daughters hair and began to hum softly. She did not try to reassure her that everything was ok. Julie knew it wasn’t and so did Kando. It was almost time to get ready for school, but Julie realized she could not send Kando off to school after an experience like that. Kando looked at the clock, groaned and buried her head in her mother’s breast. Julie said, “Does Gran have plans for you today?” Kando looked up with a speck of hope in her eyes. “I think so,” said Kando, “Can I go?” When Kando’s grandmother died Julie had feared how hard it would be on her. But after two days of crying Kando rushed into her mother’s bedroom in the middle of the night. “Mom, you told me I would never see Gran again. She isn’t gone. I saw her. She told me she would always be there when I needed her. I think I am gonna need her a lot.” After that, Julie occasionally observed Kando walking alone engaged in earnest conversation. Often, Kando said Gran would come up with what she called her marching orders and off she would go on one adventure after another. At first, Julie thought it was probably just the girl’s imagination to help her ease into a life without her grandmother and that it would fade after a few weeks. But the relationship with Gran nourished Kando month after month, even past her recent 11th birthday. One day Kando came home talking about having learned about moving in harmony with the rhythm of the Earth. With tears in her eyes Julie was thrown back to her own days as a child. She too had received the same lesson from her mother. That is when Julie realized she could trust Kando’s mysterious relationship with Gran, including the adventures on which Gran sent Kando. Now, as Kando lay in her mother’s arms, still quite shaky, Julie suspected it was only Gran that could help her today. “I think you need to.” her mother cooed in a soothing voice. Kando dressed slowly. She didn’t feel the excitement of a new adventure. Instead, she felt the foreboding resolve of one who is about to do something hard but important. Kando flashed again on the moment in the dream when the Rhythm changed and her whole body shook. Her mother held her close till she calmed down, kissed her, and watched as Kando put her hand into her invisible grandmother’s hand and walked out the door. “Where are we going? What’s going to happen? I’m scared, Gran.” Kando rambled on in her anxious wondering as Gran listened in silence. Finally, Gran pointed ahead of them at a huge gorgeous golden eagle in the middle of the meadow. Kando rushed ahead, longing to wrap her arms around the most beautiful bird she had ever seen but caught herself realizing she might scare it away.  Instead of fleeing, Eagle reached into her mind and invited her onto its back. Before she could hesitate, she had climbed on the back and was taking off. She turned to see with some trepidation that Gran was still there in the meadow waving. The thrill of flying soon grabbed all her attention. The strength of the feathers she was holding onto for dear life, the soft fluttering of the feathers on her legs, the wind in her face, the amazing view of the land below.  Kando was surprised she didn’t feel scared, or cold for that matter. In fact, she was beginning to feel the excitement of a grand adventure after all. Eagle sped on towards the far away horizon. Kando got so relaxed, and the ride was so long, she even dozed a little. Again, she woke with a cry. A quick glance told her the land was completely unfamiliar. Everything looked and felt different. Before she could even think about why it felt so different, there it was again: what had woken her from her dream. A loud boom, a flash of eerie light and they were heading right towards it. Kando was beginning to understand what was discombobulating the harmony of the Earth. War. Eagle began to think to her. “Yes, Little One, this is war. I hate to bring you here to see what horrible things humans do to each other. But you can bring your new understanding of Harmony with The Mother of Us All. And You said you were willing.” “If I can help, I am willing!” Kando said with conviction. “But I don’t know how I can help.” “We will do this together,” Eagle reassured her. They flew across a winding river. Next to the river were many people all dressed in green. They all had guns and were pointing and shooting at another large group of people who were in grey uniforms. And those in grey were shooting right back at those in green. Every now and then someone on one side or the other would throw something at the other side and that same discombobulating boom would happen. This time instead of squirrels falling out of trees, it was people falling on the ground. And blood. Lots of blood. Tears were pouring out of Kando’s eyes, getting Eagles feathers wet. She had never seen anything so horrible. “Oh Eagle”, she thought, “why are they doing this?” “Very good question, Little One.” Eagle flew in a little closer though careful to stay above the bullets. “Look into the heart of that one over there, beside the tree; the one wearing the green uniform and shooting many people on the other side? Kando opened her heart and eyes to understand why he was doing what he was doing? “Ohhhh. He is so scared and being so brave. He is protecting his people, his family, his country from those terrible evil people on the other side. He is so brave and oh so scared.” “Yes, Little One, you see quite clearly.” Eagle then flew high up and then down again only this time it was above the other side of the battle. “Now look into the heart of that one standing on a little hill in the grey uniform.” Kando was hesitant. “But that soldier thinks those people are evil.” Eagle encouraged her so again she opened her eyes and heart. “Ohhhh NOOOOO. He is so scared. And he too is so very brave to still be there to protect his family and his country! He thinks he is protecting his people from those terrible evil people on the other side. Oh Eagle, this is soooo sad! They are just the same. Good brave people who love their families and want to help. And oh, they are both so scared.” Kando wailed. “How can I show them what I have seen? If only they had your eyes Eagle, or even mine.” As soon as she thought that thought, she realized she was seeing out of the green soldiers eyes. She almost collapsed into the fear he was feeling. But she couldn’t forget what she saw in the heart of the grey soldier. So, she looked straight at the grey soldier holding that clear feeling she had had of his heart. The green soldier lowered his gun. Kando prayed to Mother Earth to protect him and felt a shiny light flow all around him. In fact, Kando watched it weave around him and then ripple out from there, weaving in and out around other soldiers. Some even began to lower their guns, too, though they had no idea why. Eagle quickly flew to the other side and Kando felt herself drop in to look through the eyes of the soldier in grey. He now saw the fear and the bravery and the kindness in the green soldiers heart. Tears began to flow from his eyes. He too lowered his gun. The same lovely shiny light flowed around him and began to move out from there. Kando and Eagle flew high and watched the battlefield as the shiny, swirling air around those two soldiers expanded like ripples in a pond. The lovely shiny light began to weave in and out and around the whole field. Not all the fighting stopped. But many of the soldiers clearly felt this strange warmth in their hearts and just couldn’t make themselves pull the trigger. Eagle flew higher and higher. Together they watched as the shinny light rippled farther and farther and farther. Kando hoped it would go all the way around the world. Maybe it will she thought, the discombobulation went all the way around the world to my dream, maybe the harmony can too. Now Kando was crying again. Only this time it was with that special happy sad feeling that happens when your heart is touched way deep inside. “I wish war would never ever happen again,” thought Kando. “So do I” thought Eagle, “but you have made a pretty good start here. None of those soldiers will ever be the same after what happened here today. ” Some of the soldiers, though a bit dazed, started walking off the field. Eagle circled down closer. There was a man in a grey uniform lying on the ground all alone. A soldier in green, who had turned to walk off the field noticed him lying there and knelt beside him. It was clear the man was dying and nothing could be done. The man in green stayed beside him, holding his hand, and praying for him until he died. The air around those two men began to shine and pulse and spread out in rhythmic ripples. The pulse struck a chord inside Kando, and she put her hands to her heart thinking, “So this is living in harmony with the rhythm of the Earth.” 

12z14s

Swept Adrift

It’s happened before. At least I think it has happened before. I have a memory. I am a memory. There is no confusion. There isn’t enough of anything for there to be confusion. I am small. I am inconsequential. A mote of dust propelled hither and thither by forces beyond my understanding. The winds of change swept into my life. I was not ready. I am never ready. I will never be ready. The whirlwind of my emotions calms for a moment, allowing me a rare moment of clarity. This is necessary. I am free. Free from my ego. Free from the arrogance of my self-pitying introspection. There is more to this life than my worried thoughts. There is more to this world. To this universe. I am nothing, and yet I am everything. The wind came and it transformed me. As it took from me I panicked and I clung on to what it was so intent on removing. Locked in a struggle that would only ever end one way. Pain. I wept as I lost what I thought had value. I watched as it was stolen from me and faded into the insignificance from whence it came. I mistakenly thought that that was also my fate. I wailed and screamed in my nakedness. Afraid to be so exposed. I thought myself vulnerable. I was wrong. We are vulnerable in our desperation. A desperation evidenced by how we cling onto the material. We are possessed by our possessions. They poison us with a drug that gives us the illusion of happiness, but is anything but happiness. In the falsehood of realities, that are all about taking and never about giving, we seek to possess others. And in that ownership we hurt and twist those around us so that they better fit the distorted expectations we have of how everyone should be. Again and again, in our bold ignorance we attempt to emulate gods. Moulding people into our muddle-headed perception of perfection. The gods do not deign to do this. The gods are not so presumptuous and craven. They gave us free will so that they could delight in our unfurling into the beautiful forms that we were always meant to be. Instead they witness our depravity and corruption and they lament our foolhardy ignorance, fighting to stay hands that would readily end so much sacrilege and heresy. The wind came for me and I fought it. I thought it had come to take everything that I was, but it was only here to free me from the prison that I had built around myself in my state of fearful denial. A state I thought was living, but was only ever existing in exile. The winds came, and they came only for me. Alone and in misery, I felt them embrace me and I despaired. If the winds had been me, they would have given up there and then. They would have reacted mindlessly and withdrawn. Thankfully, the winds were not me. Not as I was. Now they are. Swept adrift in the endless oceans of the universe, I closed my eyes and waited for the storm to pass. In stubborn return, the storm waited for my ignorance to pass. The storm is ageless. Waiting is what it does. Patience is what it is about. In the end, I opened my eyes. I had to open my eyes. Cautiously, I brought my surroundings into view. Flinching reactively at the prospect of the suffering of my imagination being made real. The least that I deserved in my self-tortured state. I scanned the world through a jaundiced filter and yet I did not find what I was looking for. The source of my pain and anguish was not out there. It took me an age to accept that I was the source of my own pain. Even then I tarried. Even then I delayed the inevitable with an unsubstantiated reluctance. Fear born of ignorance and growing all the time. For all the things I held dear, it was my fear that I held most dearly. The realisation of this, my folly, shamed me. But then I understood that it always had. Shame was the lock on my chains. Yet what did I have to be ashamed of and what did I have to lose? This was not the question. Always I asked the wrong questions so that I never had to look at myself face to face. It was what I had to gain that mattered. Me, that was what I had to gain. Me and a life well lived. I thought that required courage, but that was another glib, self-generated lie. I was born to be me and I was made to live. Somehow, I had allowed my ego to blunder around corrupting my true nature, and now the winds had come to blow the veil of my deceit and denial to one side and expose the lie that I had become. As the last vestiges of the lies I had shrouded myself in during my living death fell away in the slipstream of my wind-born flight. I felt the dread weight of false sorrow lifting away from me and it was then that I soared. I soared upwards into the light, and for the first time since my childhood, I truly revelled in the joy of my life. I found happiness in my being. I re-joined the path and began the journey I was always meant to embark upon. I remembered my destiny as I looked upon my fate. The loss that had wrapped itself around me, squeezing the very life out of me was the loss of me. I had lost my way. The winds came and they freed me. They took everything from me, but that everything was nothing. After all, it meant nothing. I had been smothered under a blanket of darkness that held no meaning and no value for me. Now? Now I was lighter than a feather and cast adrift in the universe. The prospect of this was once terrifying to me, but now I knew. Now I had the necessary perspective and I could see at last. I am the universe, and the universe is me. My fear was illusory and it blinded me to myself and my true nature. Now I relaxed into the wind’s embrace and went where I was always meant to go and lived how I was always supposed to live. Somewhere, in a faraway place that I still owned, but that might not be me, I hoped that this time I would make it stick. That this time I would stay on the path and would not succumb to the seduction of the bright lights of a place that smells so badly wrong, but that whispers sweet falsehoods about it being so right. I hope I don’t give up. Not again. Not this time. A cycle of loss and redemption beckons once again, but I do not see it for what it is. I never see it for what it is. The wind sighs as my head is turned yet again.

rpb7hb

The Winds of Change

The deliciousness of life, a baby’s first breath drawn deeply into their lungs and an outward cry as they instinctively connect and draw in their next to announce their arrival into this world to all who have the grace and presence to be there.  That once was us. Unique in every aspect, yet all connected. The element of air and the gift of life. Sustenance for the body as it’s drawn inwards, circulating throughout the inner landscape and expressing outwards into the world of creation. So Hum. Breath, thoughts, and beliefs, lifted and carried upon the gentle breezes, picked up and tossed about by the winds of the earth, crossing boundaries, oceans and countries in continuous motion and movement of outward expression until it finds a place to land, sometimes softly and sometimes not. The wind, a magic carpet ride, of our thoughts, beliefs and ideas. Never knowing which ones will be picked up along our journey of life, transporting us to places we never thought we could ever have imagined, or things we’d be or do. The things we never imagined and ideas we never could have perceived in our youth, now setting our course of new adventure. No longer just the wind blowing through our hair, when we’d peddled fervently as a child on our bike feeling the freedom of speed and direction, travelling towards an unknown destination and fearless future. Somewhere life changed and took a different course, yet the element of air is still there, within us and all around us. Connected to everything that is life. The oceans, the atmosphere, the plants, trees, wildlife and the Earth herself, she breathes. As she breathes in, we breathe out and as she breathes out, we breathe in. We are not separate. We add our breath to the collective winds travelling the globe, caring and sharing as they pass through. What will we take from them? Wisdom, frustration, annoyance, joy? What will they take from us? It’s all humanity’s collective mix. The winds of change are upon us. Dismantling old paradigms and structures in their wake of those that no longer support our journey of love and enlightenment. We can flow with its grace or resist its temptation and promise of something more. More love and alignment with our soul and a higher destiny, purpose and unity. Are we awakening to its beauty or are we holding onto stagnation born of ego, doubt and fear? Are we open and inviting or are we shut down and asleep? Our hearts, not our minds, hold the key, lessons learnt and karma over, the winds carry our prayers for better days and happier outcomes to unknown destinations. Always heard but not always understood or received as our expectations burden and cloud the outcomes which we inadvertently choose not to see. Sometimes tainted with a lack of gratitude and painted with a glimmer of entitlement they simply disperse into opportunities missed, unrecognized, overlooked or simply ignored. We can always do better. Our wings of faith lift us by the winds of hope into the dimensions of truth, trust and discernment and a place of peace. Enveloped in unconditional love as we surrender into a deeper truth of self, guardian of our own mastery, mystery and awakening, always a choice but not always are we discerning and open enough to notice. The winds are not alone. Kissed by the sun in the day and blessed by the stars at night, touching the Earth as it sweeps through the trees and past our windows, playing with the water as it washes and plays with the surface of the oceans, rivers, lakes and waterways, we are all guided on our journey, we are never alone within the cosmic dance of unity and oneness. Lila’s devised for our soul growth, contracts, hidden in inner realms until it’s time to learn, unleash when unexpected and the winds of time unlock. Choice is our greatest asset and major achiever, all is perfect when we ride the winds, no matter the direction or destination. Nothing is failure, only learning and gaining insight into a greater truth when the time is right. Perfection a myth of our own creation and making, judgement being the destination of happiness and where we land within ourselves, have we met our own expectations? Have we met the expectations of others? or are we pandering and people pleasing for attention or self-promoting from ego? The myth continues until we find our own truth, easily seen in others, they are our mirror, our likes, loves and dislikes. The winds of joy sent around the earth, pure bliss in rhythm and song within the heart, but alas not all sing at once. We are more in unity with grief, righteousness and outrage. Where are our voices of love, acceptance, gratitude, kindness and solace? Let us sing more from our heart with gratitude, gratefulness, joy and love and let the winds sweep them around the world in unison, cleansing, clearing and purifying as they fly, raising hope and lifting souls to new heights, showering all with unconditional love and letting them feel its existence, knowing we all are here to herald in the change and bathe in its beauty, honesty and authenticity. Let the winds pick up our encouragement and carry it to those in need, may it land with the gentleness and hope that we needed and received once. May the winds carry our compassion and mercy to far off lands that are arid, dry and devoid of love. May the winds carry our humility, good natured-ness and charity and not blow cold with bitter judgement but rather allow them to flow with our generosity and reciprocation of abundance and wealth for all to share. May the winds blow infused with our prayers of peace, freedom and liberation for all beings to be happy and free. “Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu” and may the winds themselves and the air we breathe be in balance, harmony, peace and love for the upliftment of all into the unity and grace we all seek. May it set free our animosity of its presence and purpose. The Earth she lives, she breathes, she flows and so do we. And until we breath out for the last time and let go of our life, may we fly free on the wings of the wind and of love and may we be grateful for it all. Grateful for the element of air that flows through our hearts and unites us all, we thank you. Grateful for the sun shining down from above giving life, we thank you, Grateful for the Earth beneath our feet which feeds us all, we thank you and grateful for the water that flows and hydrates our bodies and the land, we thank you. May we remember our truth. May we remember that Earth and Heart have all the same letters and may we all be carried by the wind that flows to our highest destination with the ease and grace of unconditional love for ourselves and others and may there be peace for all. Om Shanti Shanti Shanti 

frj4fq

SHIFT OF FATE

The crisp autumn breeze caressed her cheeks. The hair that had fallen over her eyes swept back, along with the loose leaves of the tree in which she was residing. The lit torches on the stone wall flickered at the sudden gust. She felt her heart stop, her stomach drop to her aching feet. “No,” she whispered, horror crashing through her. The wind gusted again, harder, the scant clouds above beginning to move faster across the night sky. Panic crashing into her, she watched the guards on the wall. They did not seem to notice the shift in the wind. Did not seem to realize how it changed their fates. She clambered down the tree, skin scratching against the tough bark. Her bare feet hit the grass seconds later. In the next moment, she was sprinting through the forest, flying silently through the trees as she retraced the path she had traveled earlier in the evening. The camp came into view thanks to the ample starlight—there were no torches lit, despite the commotion that reached her ears. Fire would give away their position, a position they had worked for years to secure. She pushed her way through the first ring of tents, some alarmed comrades starting at her sudden appearance, and ran straight to the center of their base. “Commander!” she gasped, skidding to a halt beside him. He turned from the comrades before him, face stern, no emotions playing in the dark irises. “Why have you abandoned your post?” he hissed. “The wind,” she explained through her gasps. “The wind shifted, Commander. It is against us now. We must call off the attack.” The camp around them grew quiet at her words. “We cannot call off the attack,” the Commander said slowly, hand drifting to the hilt of the sword on his hip. “We have worked too long to get to this point.” “We are already at a disadvantage, being downhill of the wall,” she snapped back, anger replacing the panic. “With the wind against us now, we will not be able to breach it.” “The guard is reduced tonight, and reinforcements will return tomorrow. Our window will close then. It must be tonight.” He turned away from her. A dismissal. “Commander!” she yelled, grabbing his armored shoulder. The crowd around her murmured at the bold move. “We may still have a chance tomorrow. But if we attack with the wind against us, many will die. We will not be successful!” “You have forgotten your place!” he yelled, swiveling back to face her. “Return to your post. Wait for our signal. If you abandon it again, you abandon your right to live .” He stormed off, into the largest tent of the camp. Her comrades dissipated, not one of them daring to approach her. She stood, trembling slightly, as they all resumed their duties. The wind pulled at her hair again. She did not bother hurrying as she made her way back to her post. The rough bark did not bother her as much as she pulled herself up each branch, body as numb as her mind. She silently rested on the thin branch, tree swaying in the wind, and stared unseeingly at the fort before her. Rebelling against tyranny had seemed noble. Four years ago, the decision had been easy for her. The Commander and his party had arrived too late, the town already reduced to cinders, but they had waded through every corpse until they found her. Barely breathing, they had carried her to safety, while the wind had carried the ashes of her family in the opposite direction. Now, things were not so black and white. After years, with only small victories fueling them forward, she realized there would be no vengeance for her fallen family. There would be no dismantling the rulers that stole without reason, that killed without hesitation. If they found her alive after this failed siege...her fate would be worse than death. The sound of a bird call echoed from below. Her body went ridged at the signal, heart racing ahead. The soft sound of leaves crunching alerted her to the presence of the Commander and his company. Below her, shadows moved through the trees, weapons drawn. All that was left of their host stood below her. They stopped their forward motion, waiting for her. She reached for the bow strapped to her back. The weapon was a familiar weight in her hand. The quiver at her hip was full of arrows, but one was longer than the others. Heavier. She reached for that one. She only had one shot. One chance to make this count. The fort before them was still unaware of their presence in the trees. The late hour of the night had the small array of guards gazing at the stars above their heads, rather than the forest at the bottom of the hill. She didn’t blame them. No one in their right mind would dare dream of sacking this fort, not when its rulers had held it for a thousand years. But no one in this company was in their right mind. Misfits, held together underneath a banner of grief. A party that knew loss enough to not fear death. Free people with nothing left to lose. She took a deep, steadying breath. Her feet scrapped on the bark as she slid herself into a more balanced position. The arrow she nocked into place was one of a kind, specially crafted by her over the last week. The smell of gasoline made her nauseous. The Commander had given her reign over their scant supplies in order to do so. The last of their supplies. The last of their hope. She pulled back the nocked arrow, bringing it to her shoulder. Another steadying breath, and she leaned back, tilting the arrow towards the sky. The fort was uphill, upwind. The shot was impossible. She kept her eyes on the mounted torch. Her arrow would have to pass through the flame, would have to light, before it sailed into the interior and lit the arsenal of ammo that waited within the stone walls. Light guards, a heavy amount of explosive material horded within...the Commander had waited years for this opportunity. She would try for him. She would most likely die for him. Just then, the wind shifted.

zt1ht9

The Longest Promise

The Redemption had been transported to the beach where Victoria and her father, Marcus, had left many decades before. Over the years, this west English coastline had changed, though it still sported rugged cliffs and a rocky shoreline. Victoria and Marcus sailed away in their 35 ft. Sirius yacht, for their Island. Where they thought it to be, from their memories, may have been wrong. It had taken two months initially. Indeed, in a modern yacht, the trip should be shorter. They realized their initial idea of sailing away together needed a reality check. Aggravated by the cramped quarters, many facets of their plan seemed flawed. What should they do first once they find their Island of Greenhaven? What may change once they have done what they need to do, and when should they leave for home again? “Until we find it and land,” said Marcus, “we can’t decide on anything.” “I believe we’ll find it. It’s a gut feeling, but we’ve been waiting so long to do this task we cannot possibly fail. Especially as we are doing it together.” “We travel in comfort and have all the modern navigation tools. How can anything go wrong . . . except if it isn’t there?” He frowned and sighed. Talk was cheap. Plans on paper, easy to make. It may be his last trip, for reasons he didn’t know but felt in his bones. He had found a new manager, trained her, and farewelled everyone on the ranch, but this barely comforted him in their present circumstance. Who can mold the future? They hadn’t been able to control the past. This fated trip together could lead to their doom. They woke up on the morning of their fourth week and carefully checked their location. Victoria swore she spotted a speck of land on the horizon. “Whoopee,” said Marcus. “We are still heading in the right direction. We’re not returning home again by mistake.” “Oh, please. There’s been no storm. We’ve constantly checked our heading. When we’re closer, we will know.” The hours passed as they tacked closer. The land seemed to have the signature mountains of their Island. Marcus closed his eyes, smelt the sea air, and visualized himself on the craft's deck they had been on all those years before. He opened his eyes and gasped. “It’s the same. I believe you are right.” His excitement came back. Maybe they could redeem themselves. Feelings of anticipation took over like the current that carried them ever closer to the shore. Mountains loomed. “Look there,” said Victoria. “I see a pier. Maybe someone lives there.” They hadn’t expected this, even though the discovery of the Island in modern times seemed logical. “There is a boat moored there already.” “Great. We can moor there too. Don’t need to inflate our dinghy.” “Oh look, people are walking towards us.” “How nice. Coming to greet us . . .we hope.” They waved. Once they arrived, they secured their vessel. Some tidily dressed men carried guns. They marched over the wooden boards towards them. One directed his pistol at Marcus’ head. “Don’t tell me. You are lost?” said the owner of the gun sarcastically. Neither of them knew what to say. The truth was not an option. A young man stepped forward with a massive grin on his face. “Victoria! You’re here, at last, my lovely. Missed me, did you? How long has it been?” He grabbed her hand as if he knew her. "Meet my fellow scientists." Victoria stared. He looked a little like Tom, but not. The men studied the dark-haired beauty. “Thom Taylor. Rutger’s University. You took Arts and Media, and I studied the Sciences.” He winked at her. “Yes,” she faltered. “I remember you now.” Marcus looked from Victoria to Thom. He detected nonrecognition from his daughter. “This is my father, Marcus Trent. Dad, meet Thom.” The man with the pointed gun looked unconvinced. ‘You’ll follow us and be detained until we can establish exactly who you both are and why you are here.” Thom, not to be thwarted, still gripped Victoria’s hand. “You may have heard of her. We were at the same university. Everyone knew her. A brilliant student and a great artist. Passed with honors. I’m amazed she came here to see me.” Besides Thom’s cheerful greeting, Marcus didn’t feel welcome or safe as the dour men led them away. They were escorted into a building, searched for weapons, and locked in a barred cell. “We’ll bring you food, and you’ll be questioned in the morning.” Victoria looked around at the two narrow beds and bathroom facilities. “Where is my privacy?’ she demanded. “Unbelievable. It’s worse than being on the yacht.” The men left, slamming the outer door. “Dad, there may be cameras or microphones. We need to limit our conversation to the ‘truth.’ Basically, we are lost. It’s a complete fluke that Thom recognized me from Uni.” “I didn’t think you’d dragged me all this way to see a guy who hasn’t forgotten your face.” “I learned to defend myself not because of my unforgettable face. Mm, I don’t recall flooring Thom, though.” By lunchtime, their stomachs growled; Thom surprised them with a lunch tray. He had a huge smile. He became serious after unlocking their cell, popping the tray down, and relocking. “Cameras,” he whispered, jerking his head slightly to his right. “Tuck in.” “The Uni campus had so many students; how could you remember me?” said Victoria. Marcus munched into his salad roll. “How could I have forgotten the prettiest girl on campus. I had a huge crush. Followed you on Facebook for years. Know all about you. What I said earlier are the rehearsed lines if we ever met.” “I can’t say I’m flattered. You merely didn’t harass me like the other guys. You stalked me.” “N-no. I didn’t. It’s just I was too shy to tell you. We shared nerd–dom. We isolated ourselves and studied. Not seeing you has been my biggest regret. I’m so happy you’re here.” “As I said, you stalked me instead.” Victoria pursed her lips. Marcus took over. “Where is here? Clearly, we got lost.” Thom sighed. “Unfortunately, no one will believe you. You see, one of the reasons we are here is because this Island is of interest geographically, scientifically, and geodesically, and when we study oceanography and the cardinal and intercardinal points of this Island, we doubt its existence. Yet here it is.” “Woe!” said Victoria. “I believe our coming here is meant to be.” Thom’s eyes opened wide. “So, you believe we were supposed to meet? I’m a scientist, remember. Don’t believe in starry-eyed stuff.” “After the way you greeted my daughter, I’d believe anything.” Marcus bit into his roll again. “Anthropologically,” said Victoria. “What people lived here?” “The indigenous people are dead. Their deserted village is nearby.” “The only village?” asked Marcus. “Yes.” Marcus and Victoria didn’t dare say anything as they looked at each other with their eyes wide open. “So why do you feel free telling us all this if our arrival has alarmed everyone so much?” said Marcus. “Because neither of you will be leaving,” said Thom. “But I have to go back. I’ve got my life, career, family.” She pursed her lips while clenching her fists. Thom seemed to care about their circumstances and told them, on the quiet, to stick to getting lost. At separate interrogations, they stuck to this. A father-daughter trip gone horribly wrong through lack of experience. No questions were answered, and Thom was warned because of divulging what he had. Their accommodation had one small bedroom. Marcus rolled his eyes when told he could sleep on the couch. It had a separate bathroom and a small kitchen, but main meals were provided in the communal cafeteria. Thom came to visit them and asked to take Victoria for a walk. Marcus shrugged his shoulders. He knew Victoria could take care of herself. “I had to take you out to warn you the place is bugged. I want to help you, but we’ll have to be careful. If we act like close friends, we’ll be left alone.” “I’m sorry about getting you into trouble.” “It’s ok. I want to help. You can trust me.” “We have no other recourse but to trust someone. The truth will lead to so much trouble.” “So, there is a reason you came here!” “Yes. We’ve planned this for years, decades . . . what I’m about to tell you will sound like the hocus-pocus you detest.” “I’d prefer to believe our future is written in the stars.” He held her hand, his blue eyes intense. Victoria ignored him. “It’s not that, I’m sorry.” When Victoria told him that she and her father had lived many lives, his face clouded over with disbelief. When she explained that they were bound by a curse and their mission was to reverse this, his eyes bored into hers, and his mouth gaped in horror. “I know you believe this to be true,” he said, “but it’s impossible.” “We know things. You will have discovered that two distinct cultures lived in the nearby village.” “Correct, go on.” “The inhabitants all died suddenly. They were poisoned by the water supply.” ‘I didn’t know that, but they did all perish suddenly.” “There are the remains of two ocean-going canoe-type vessels.” “True. And a small unfinished one.” Victoria looked blank. “Unfinished?” she said.. “One family built a cottage in the woods away from the village,” she said. “True . . . you have been here before.” ‘That’s what I’m telling you. Hundreds of years ago, Dad and I both lived on this Island. We were cursed from birth but, like you, disbelieved it. The curse was unjust. Now, we have finally returned to reverse it.” “What else can you tell me about the island?” “There is a swing bridge over a river inland from here.” “Yes, the remains of it. Obviously, you’ve been here before. But hundreds of years ago?” “You have to believe us. We want to do the job we set out to do and then leave.” “I will help, but you must play it cool and fit in. Lull everyone into thinking all is good. Poor lost souls that you claim to be. We’ll talk another time. In the meantime, you’re my long-lost love, ok?” “Is this a bribe?” “No, of course not. I want to help because I believe in you – as best I can with my scientific mind. Let’s go back.” Victoria couldn’t tell Marcus about their discussion while inside. “Dad, come with me. It’s lovely here. I want to show you something. . .” She related what she and Thom had discussed once they were away from microphones and prying eyes. “He wants to help. We can trust him. In the meantime, we stay quiet. For now, he’s my boyfriend.” “Didn’t take him long!” Marcus scoffed. “It’ll be our excuse for being together. But we’ll make plans soon.” But it couldn’t be soon. The months passed. They were given chores and assignments around the complex. Mainly gardening and cleaning. Victoria did many sketches and drawings. The others saw her talent and asked her to draw for them. Victoria sketched her Tom from the past and showed it to Thom. “Hell. It isn’t me, but there are similarities.” “You are a lot like him in many ways.” “Enough to be your real boyfriend?” He took her into his arms. Victoria grinned. “Yes, I like you.” “Enough to take me back with you when you leave?” “. . . Yes . . . but I didn’t think we could. Won’t there be trouble?” “We’ll have to plan around that.” Many months into their stay, Thom got them together to prepare something. “So, what exactly is it you need to do?” Marcus related what he had been told before they had been ordered to leave the Island so long ago before being time-warped back to the village where they relived their last fateful days. Instead of returning to the shore to reverse the curse from the beginning, they had played unwittingly into the hands of the living death that awaited them. They needed to find the hut, find the letter, find the bone dice, and reverse the spell once and for all. “Spell?” said Thom. “This sounds more like magic-mumbo-jumbo every minute.” “Humor us, please. It can’t hurt to do this,” said Victoria. “You know that a barbed wire fence is placed around all of the village's dwellings, including the one in the woods.” Thom ran his hands through the hair of his bowed head. “Wire cutters,” said Marcus, “and the key to unlock the padlock to our yacht so we can leave.” “I believe you are sincere about this curse thing. But I’m not happy about you leaving. Victoria, is that what you want? To leave me?” Victoria looked at her father. “I know you stayed on the Island before when I left. You could only help me by staying behind. History proves it, even though we have lived in an alternate timeline and died. I believe you need to stay this time. Sorry, Dad.” Her eyes pleaded. Thom put his arm around her protectively. “I’ll get what you need. Stash what you want to take to grab afterward.” The wire cutters got them into the wood, and they searched for the hut. It was well camouflaged by ivy and shrubs. The door hung off its hinges, and it had disintegrated past the point of no return. It was no pristine gingerbread house. They pushed the door ajar and crept inside. Nature and spiders had taken over. “I believe you lived here hundreds of years ago,” said Thom, rolling his eyes. “Actually, we didn’t,” said Marcus “Are you so sure?” Victoria picked up an old slingshot and an ancient rag doll. “Do you think we lived here with the twins?” Marcus shook his head. “We never got here, remember.” He tried to prise out a loose hearthstone. It came out, and he reached inside the cavity and withdrew a pouch. He tipped out five bone dice with engravings and a letter with words written on it. “How did you know about this?” said Thom, his eyes wide. Victoria opened a chest and sneezed. “Atishoo! Oh, wow! These falling-apart clothes are mine. We did live here. I must have left them behind.” Marcus looked rattled. “Can you please focus? This is important. Who cares about that.” “But, don’t you see? If we lived here but didn’t, it means this Island is where two alternate timelines converge. What do you think, Thom?” “I don’t know.” Thom had watched as Marcus arranged the five dice in a line with the engraved skulls uppermost. Marcus read out the words on the sheet. Thom looked from him to Victoria. Marcus recited the poem of doom. In the end, he held the dice together in a line and turned them once, twice, and then a third time. The uppermost line of symbols was doves. “That should do it.” The bone dice crumbled to dust before their eyes. “What was that?” Thom’s mouth gaped. Silence descended. No insect or bird sounds. Then it started; the earth beneath them vibrated, then shook perceptibly. The three looked at each other. “I don’t like this,” said Victoria. “I think you should both make your way off the Island. Who knows what will happen. I’ll have to stay.” Marcus tried to remain calm. “What about the others?” she said. “They’ll fend for themselves,” said Thom. “There is the boat and a plane if they decide to go. This will distract them. What will you do, Marcus?” “There is a village in the hills. I know the bridge is broken, but I’ll swim if I have to.” Thom opened his eyes in surprise. “Were you ever going to tell me about it?” “Victoria will tell you the whole story. I think you should go now. I’ll be fine.” Victoria clung to him. “I’ll never forget this. I love you. I hope you find what you are looking for.” He kissed her on the cheek and hugged her. “I made a promise to get you back home. Off you go. Thom will get you there.” “Thanks, Marcus,” said Thom. “We’re off.” Marcus took the wire cutters and marched away in the opposite direction. The ground still rolled. He reached another wire fence and cut through it. On he went. Past the field of wildflowers that waved a welcome, to where the swing bridge had detached at the far end . . . except it stood intact, as sturdy as ever. He tore across it as fast as he could and ran on. “Cinders,” he muttered. “Please, God.” The ground remained still beneath his feet, with the air alive with chirps, tweets, and buzzing insects. He followed a path . . . Strange, as no one could have walked here recently. He felt like he had drifted back in time. Up the zig-zag track, on through the woods. He sweated and puffed. Late afternoon arrived. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, making dappled patterns on the ground. A familiar sight. As he neared the village, he stopped in surprise. He saw someone he knew running towards him. Could it be? It reminded him of the ‘Yankee in King Authur’s Court’ story or the ‘Brigadoon’ story in which drama student Victoria had starred. Marcus’ beloved redhead threw herself into his arms. “You came back!” “I ran all the way, Cinders. You have always been the love of my lives. I missed you.” He gave her an enormous hug. “I can’t believe you’re here. I waited for you.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t ever leave me.” “Never again, my love. I promise.” THE END

x3apuu

A Mighty Wind Showed Me the Way

The day of the launch was April 25, a symbolic day for those who go sailing on their own, who read books with a deep history, and who took at least one English literature course in university. Even though high winds were predicted as a possibility, I still had to leave on that particular day. At first that seemed quite alright. I hadn’t sailed in a number of years, but I wasn’t worried, at least not at first. Caution hasn’t come with age for me. I am just as impulsive and foolhardy as an old man as I always was as a young man.  Coming here was not just an idle purpose of mine. George, a friend of mine from my university years, he took the same literature course that I did, was the one that encouraged me to take this specific trip. He said that it could reward me like no other sailing trip had ever done before. He did not tell me why, but he was certainly sure that with what I might discover, I would be ‘living a long held dream’. I believed him. We had been friends for a long time. The farther I got from the shore, the more I felt the wind pushing us (the boat and I) forward. This could become an adventure, I said to myself to calm myself down. I had never sailed in Chilean waters before, so I wasn’t familiar from experience with what I would encounter here. I rented a sailboat that was very much like the one that I had back at home. It was neither intelligent nor possible to sail this far south and back again. The wind began to blow harder, the waves were growing higher and stronger, going from an imperfect to what may become The Perfect Storm, a movie I wished I had never seen. What had I been thinking?  It gave me a concept I did not wish to picture in my mind, or imagine that I would face in the near future. The wind and the waves were driving me onward to what destination I did not know. I did not dare try to turn the boat around, or it would definitely turn over when the two forces would face it broadside. I hoped that both wind and waves would diminish significantly over time. I had no evidence that such would or even could happen within a reasonable time. My cell phone did not pick up signals from the Chilean Weather Network, and my knowledge of the Spanish language was not great, although I could get by in a restaurant with only a few problems. My first night in the storm was kind of scary. I hated to think that I would sleep and then wake up briefly alive, being tossed around in the ocean. I did not fall asleep that night, but I did the next few nights, knowing that I shouldn’t be drowsy all of the time. I wish that there were birds in the sky, to see that some other living beings were surviving too, that there might be hope for me too. I did see some sea creature in the raging sea, not exactly sure whether it was a whale (probably in my mind a ‘killer whale’) or a big shark. I didn’t want to think of it as dining on me any time soon, but I still did.  I had foolishly watched the whole Jaws series of movies, even including the horrible and generally mocked “Jaws: The Revenge – This Time It’s Personal”, something no one who goes sailing on the sea or who only wants to watch movies with a plausible plot should ever do. Fortunately my would be predator disappeared after a short period of time. I felt that there might not be any toothy revenge striking me on this day or even the night. The strong wind kept me going in a more or less straight line for the next several days and nights. I had run out of food on the third day, and there was no way that I could use the fishing gear that I brought with me to catch fish in the wild water that surrounded the boat. There is an Island Up Ahead On the fourth day I saw an island up ahead. My imagining it as some kind of ‘saviour’ for me makes me understand all the more the long term popularity of Johann David Wyss’ novel of 1812 “Swiss Family Robinson,” and the two movies that it spawned. Then, of course, there was my favourite book of all time, that I practically memorized as a child, “The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe of York, mariner,” published by Daniel Defoe in 1719. I think that only those who studied it at university would ever remember the full title of the book, not just calling it “Robinson Crusoe” (the last name shortened and anglicized from the original barely pronounceable for English speakers German name Kreutzner, something I learned at university, as well as debating whether Dafoe’s book was based on an actual such occurrence four years earlier. As I approached a long dock stretching from a sandy beach and what appeared to be a souvenir shop, a man burst out of the door of the shop, and strode boldly up the dock towards me and my rented sailboat. He caught the mooring line that I tossed to him and tied it to the dock. I thanked him with a poorly pronounced ‘gracias’, so it was no surprise that he greeted me in English. “Welcome to Robinson Crusoe Island. We used to call it “Más a Tierre”, which translated into English means ‘More Earth,’ but we changed the name in 1966 to give it its present name – good for tourism. You can call me Friday.”            Wait until I tell George about this. He would understand why I embarked on this journey on April 25, as that was when Defoe had Crusoe leave on his epic journey.            I decided that I would definitely stay on this island until the wild winds finally settled down. I knew that I would not be likely to stay on the island for 28 years as Herr Kreutzner did, although, being in my seventies, it would be possible that I would stay on Robinson Crusoe Island for the rest of my life.

y8d5p9

The Best Dinghy In the World

It started with buying a boat that was sunk. I had saved up the money to buy a boat and was wandering around a boat sales place when I saw the upturned stern of a small sloop. I could tell is was a sloop by the mast partially angled out of the water. The cabin was completely submerged but the rounded stern was beautiful with the rudder giving little jerks with the falling tide movements. I ran back to the office and told them about the sloop. They hadn’t been out on the dock that morning and hadn’t seen that the boat had sunk. That’s how it started. I bought her with an agreement to haul her out included in the deal. A friend helped me caulk her. Now, she was a her. I had her back in the water within a week of buying her and down the coast within a few days of that. But, she still took on a lot of water and I turned back to San Francisco to tie her up and check out where the leak was. She was a spitsgatter, one of the small double-ended boat designs used for fishing off the deep waters of the German or North Sea. She was Norwegian and sailed like a dream without me really having to steer on most directions of sailing. I didn’t find the leak but the water stopped entering so I figured she just needed swelling up after sitting at the boat sales place for over three months without sailing. On a sunny day’s walk I spotted the dinghy half submerged under a pier with a green slime inside her and moss hanging from her sides like she had been abandoned for a long time. I needed a dinghy but this one was a little too long for my spitsgatter but I still needed a dinghy so I pulled her out from under the dock and getting wet got into her. With a paddle that was conveniently under one of her two thwarts I paddled it to a launch area and pulled it out, noting that she did not leak through the plywood planking. I also noted that the dinghy had moved easily even half full of water. I turned her over and poured out the water. I cleaned it up right there with the thought in mind to sell it and buy a small cheap inflatable with the money. The more I cleaned it the more I liked what I saw. The dinghy was a pirogue, a sharply pointed canoa and was built with strength in mind. So, now I had a dinghy. I started paddling around San Francisco’s waterfront amazed at the speed my dinghy made and ease of effort in gaining that speed. I named her Cloud , which went with my spitsgatter named, Gull . I tried out different ways of getting her aboard. Cloud was now a her. She was heavy and about the 12-foot long. Gull was 23-foot long. At the marina I used the main halyard to lift her with a rope stropped to her mid section and with quick movements was able to get the bow over the lifelines and then the stern to set her upside down atop the cabin with a little overhang past the mast. On the way out the Golden Gateway I met the first swells and needed to retie Cloud a couple of times by the time I was past Mile Rock. It was a beat out to the 10-fathom line but a nicely sailing beam reach turning to go South toward Mexico six hundred miles away. Gull held her course and I was a happy sailor munching on pre-cooked fried chicken and boiled potatoes in the cabin telling Cloud about the good foods of Mexico. That first night was perfect with plenty of stars to sparkle and a very late moon. The next morning I noticed the breeze beginning turning Northerly and I let out sail and increased my speed measurably. Then, the seas began to build with the old current going one way and the wind another. I started surfing down small swells increasing my speed and wondering if I should continue on since I now had to pay attention to the steering and might get tired. I passed Monterey Bay and knew there wasn’t anything to go into until Morro Bay a full day away. The breeze turned into a wind. When sailing with the wind from behind off the quarter section of the boat it is hard to tell an increase in wind since you are going with it. When I had to push the tiller over with force not to have Gull beam on to the mounding and taller waves I understood the wind had increased to more force than my sail area needed so I turned and came up into the wind so that I could reduce the amount of sail. When I timed it to get forward alongside the boom I let go of the tiller and jumped onto the little space along the cabin top to tie in reef points, lines through the sail that you tied under the sail after letting some sail come down the mast. On the cabin top I saw that it wasn’t safe with the dinghy sliding slightly in both directions. I also saw that Cloud obstructed any thought of getting to the mast to lower the sail. I also saw that the waves were getting higher with Gull’s bow now slamming down on the other side of the oncoming white topped swells. White tops means wind not breeze and serious thinking about what to do. I had to get the dinghy off the top of the cabin and tow her behind. The mainsail was starting to tell me that I was not guiding the boat, so I jumped back into the cockpit and pushed the tiller to leeward away from the wind and gull settled nicely pointing a little off the wind but leaned too much toward the water taking some on the deck in a steady stream. The dinghy had moved over and was hanging a little off the cabin top and weighing the boat down. I moved forward along the deck and untied the line on the water side of the boat, holding onto the middle of the dinghy with my thigh. Her weight pushed me onto the lifeline and I grabbed a cabin top toe rail not to fall overboard. Cloud’s bow turned and hooked itself under the lifeline. I moved slowly forward and pushed the dinghy up and over the wire line, then crouching to seize the opportunity to lift the boat over my head and onto the line and one stanchion that held the lifeline up. I slipped under the dinghy holding onto her with my left hand while grabbing the bow line that was still neatly coiled and tucked into the toe rail. I tied the bitter end of the line to the toe rail and lifted Cloud up and over into the sea trying to tilt her to land with her bottom down. It worked but she immediately submerged her pointed stern under and scalloped a bunch of water into the bilge. The paddle upended and fell over the side into the sea. I couldn’t think of that now as Cloud was banging into the side of Gull’s grey hull. I sat for a moment to work out what to do next. Gull felt relieved to have that weight dragging her side down gone but started to skip off course again. I ran back along the deck to the cockpit and jumped in, correcting the course, still going back toward Monterey Bay now. I sat there with Cloud thudding harder as she turned her bow into the hull with the wind increasing and the waves beginning to tower more. We sailed up and through and slammed down the other side of the mountains of wet. I went forward and released the dinghy painter that almost slipped out of my hand from the pull of the weight of a half full dinghy. I wrapped the line around my hand and regained the cockpit to tie the line off to my port bollard. I adjusted the line so that when we turned Cloud would have her distance about her length astern of Gull hopefully pulling her bow up to ride the waves without going under. I climbed over the cabin top again and holding onto the boom made the mast, fumbled with the halyard and pulled the sail down to the second set of reef points. I pulled in the rear clew reefing line and tied them both off. I clambered back to the cockpit and with my hand on the tiller I rested for a few moments. I turned the tiller to windward and Gull responded immediately with a couple of waves pushing her around. We started moving downwind again and surfing. I did not want to look behind me to see how high the waves were getting but had to when Cloud began banging into the round stern of Gull . It took me a few thuds to pull up the guts to look back and saw the sharp bow of Cloud above my head and rushing down a comber toward Gull. I pushed the helm over to move aside but her line pulled her toward us anyway. I had to keep steady on the descent of the wave curl to keep Gull in control and couldn’t keep trying to get away from the heart rending thuds that Cloud was giving her. The wind was increasing to gale force and I still had too much sail up for the wind and my bow would soon be pushed down into the passing swells and pulling the boat down into the sea. Thud. I pulled out my knife and looked at Cloud with tears forming with the salt water in my eyes. I cut her loose and she rose on a swell with her bow pointing upward and down like a wave of goodbye to me. I turned back to the course and too much sail and with a very heavy sigh I turned Gull around again to round up into the oncoming seas. When she settled pointing off a bit from the wind I jumped onto the cabin top and crawled to the mast and let loose the halyard to drag and claw down the mainsail. On my knees I moved along the cabin top tying off the mainsail to the boom using the elastic cord I had running hooked along the boom. When I finished I was already with a foot in the cockpit. Now, the dinghy was gone out of sight with no chance of ever recovering her but the motion aboard was almost calm. I turned the bow around to surf again under just the jib and the surfing was easily managed now. We smoothly climbed up the backs of the running away thick water and flew down the other sides at an angle that kept the bow up. I was tired and saddened by the loss of Cloud but knew I had done the wrong thing in getting her in the first place and the right thing in cutting her loose for somebody else to find. I said over and over even to this day that she was found by a kid on the beach and brought home to his or her delight. I was now heading South toward Mexico without the best dinghy in the world.

bs47qs

"My name is Ozma”

"Hey, guess what?" I texted my buddy as I lounged on my couch, scrolling through my phone. "What?" he quickly responded. "This week's Reedy writing prompts are about fabulism," I said, excitement bubbling up within me. "Okay, so?" he said. "So? So it means I can finally write an Oz story I've been wanting to," I said. "No, you can't. They won't take a story based on copyrighted work," he said. "It's in the public domain, though. As long as I steer clear of specifics from other people's recent stories, I'm good. Trust me, people write Oz stories all the time," I assured him. "Uh, yeah, I suppose that's true. So, what's your take on the Oz tale?" He said. I was about to text my response when a sudden thwack against my window interrupted me. Startled, I peered outside to find a concerned-looking kid eyeing the window. After I confirmed that no damage had occurred, I reassured him with a thumbs-up. He returned the gesture before darting back into the snowy chaos of the neighborhood. It was not a big surprise. I live alone in an otherwise lively neighborhood. It had been snowing for days. As usual when the weather was right, all the neighborhood children were out playing in the snow. Snowball fights, sledding, snow fort building. If it was a winter activity, someone was doing it. With the storm approaching, the school canceled classes. The winter fun would continue throughout the day tomorrow. I left my friend staring at the three dots of a pending text message. I had forgotten about our conversation. I anticipated diving into my writing and bringing the world of Oz to life. I spent most of the night writing, too excited to sleep as I poured my ideas onto the page. When my body gave in, exhaustion claimed me. I managed to snatch only a couple of hours of sleep before waking up. As I stretched and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, a strange realization hit me. The house was empty, as usual, but something felt different. The familiar sound of children playing outside was absent. Shrugging off the feeling, I made my way to the kitchen. I brewed a strong cup of coffee to fuel another day of writing. With coffee in hand I walked over to the book shelf and admired my collection of first edition Oz books. Each volume held a piece of history. It was a connection to my grandmother and a legacy of storytelling that I cherished. The spines of the books gleamed in the soft morning light. Including "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz," "The Marvelous Land of Oz," "Ozma of Oz," and the rest of Baum’s works. The complete series stood as a testament to the enduring magic of L. Frank Baum's world. Some were gifts from my grandmother. While others I had hunted down at auctions determined to complete my collection. A complete collection worth a small fortune. Both monetarily and sentimentally. My friends had often urged me to sell the books citing their value on the collector's market. But to me, these books were more than objects—they were a part of who I was. A link to my past and a source of inspiration for my writing. No amount of money would ever convince me to part with my treasured collection of Oz books. They were, and always would be, priceless to me. I was eager to see how bad the storm got that it halted excited children from playing outside. As I stepped onto the veranda, my breath caught in my throat at the sight before me. Instead of the expected blanket of snow, there was a scene straight out of springtime. The sun shone overhead, casting warm rays of light onto the vibrant green grass below. Leaves rustled in the breeze, and chirping of birds filled the air. If the storm didn’t arrive, the ground was still covered in snow last night and it was impossible for it to have all melted. Wasn't it? I know the weather can change fast, but not like this. There was no snow at all. Not even a small pile you would find at the end of the season trying not to melt. I blinked in disbelief, rubbing my eyes as if to dispel the illusion before me. But no matter how hard I tried, the scene remained unchanged. It was as if l winter had never happened, or time itself had skipped ahead to a different season. I went outside, my winter coat left hanging on its hooks. I soaked in the unexpected warmth and beauty of the day. I expected to see more people outside doing the same. But there was no one. It was quiet. Almost like I was the only person that lived in the neighborhood. After returning indoors, I switched on the local weather channel. I was hoping for some explanation for the bizarre turn of events. Despite being a fiction writer, I relied on my rationality. There had to be a logical explanation for the sudden weather change. To my surprise, the TV refused to turn on. I was growing frustrated when a curious thought distracted me. Realizing something I had failed to notice outside, I abandoned the TV and headed back to the door. Stepping outside once more, I confirmed my suspicions: there was no sign that snow had ever been on there. Not even puddles. If the snow had melted, there should have been water on the ground. I stumbled back into my house, my mind reeling with disbelief and a creeping sense of dread. I wondered if I had stepped into a surreal reality. The sudden change in weather, the absence of any sound in the neighborhood was too much to comprehend. As I sank back onto my couch, the weight of isolation pressed down on me like a suffocating blanket, each breath heavier than the last. Fear clawed at the edges of my mind, whispering unsettling thoughts of what could be happening beyond these walls. Was I caught in some bizarre experiment? The only logical explanation was that I was drugged, but that theory collapsed as I scanned the room. I found no clear sign of forced entry, and I hadn't indulged in any substances that induced such hallucinations. The most potent item in my house was a bottle of aspirin, reserved for those late-night writing sessions that often left me with pounding headaches the next day. With a sudden surge of determination, I sprang from the couch and made my way to my computer. I logged in and waited for the browser to load and I attempted to navigate the internet. But it wasn't available. It wasn't just a matter of my internet service being out – it was as if the entire online world had vanished into thin air, leaving behind nothing but an empty void. Once more, I found myself engulfed in silence, the only sound my own ragged breaths echoing in the stillness. Then, after an eternity, a sharp rap reverberated through the air. It was a knock at my door. Though it was likely of normal volume, the knock shattered the quiet like the first thunderclap before a storm. I made my way to the door. I would have swung it open without a second thought, but in the wake of the inexplicable events that had unfolded throughout the day, I found myself hesitating, a sense of unease gnawing at the edges of my mind. "Who's there?" I called out, my voice betraying a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. "I need help," the person responded. The voice was that of a female. The sincerity in the woman's voice tempted me to swing the door open. But again, I hesitated. "Who are you?" I pressed, my tone cautious yet tinged with empathy. "Please, I need help. Will you open the door?" she implored. "Tell me your name first," I insisted, my grip tightening on the doorknob as I braced myself for her response. "My name is Ozma," she said, the words sending a ripple of disbelief coursing through me. For a moment, I hesitated, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of my resolve. But then, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. It was all too clear now – this was a clever yet elaborate prank, designed to unsettle and amuse in equal measure. With trepidation and anticipation, I turned the doorknob, half-expecting to be greeted by the blinding glare of camera lights and the sound of laughter from a hidden crew. A prank of this magnitude would require the expertise and resources of a professional television network. But there was no camera crew. Indeed there was just a girl standing outside my door. As I write this, I struggle to find the words to describe her. I realized the futility of my efforts. No matter how carefully crafted my prose, no amount of creative expression could capture the breathtaking sight before me. In her twenties, perhaps, though age seemed irrelevant in the presence of such timeless grace. The woman who stood before me was the most beautiful person I have ever laid my eyes upon. Her presence commanded attention, drawing my gaze like a magnet with an aura that radiated grace and elegance. Her features were a delicate symphony of perfection, each line and curve meticulously sculpted to create a portrait of timeless allure. High cheekbones caught the light in a dance of shadows and highlights, casting a captivating glow upon her flawless complexion. Her eyes, a mesmerizing shade of green reminiscent of glowing emeralds, appear to hold the secrets of the universe within their depths. They sparkled with a luminous intensity, reflecting the light like precious gemstones, drawing me in with their magical allure. Her lips, curved into a gentle smile, illuminated her face with a warmth that was both intoxicating and inviting. Each movement, each gesture, exuded a grace that defied the very laws of nature, leaving me spellbound in her presence. But it was not just her physical beauty that captivated me; it was the way she carried herself, with a quiet confidence and an air of mystery that left me longing to unravel the secrets hidden beneath the surface. She was not just beautiful – she was a vision, a living work of art, a muse whose mere presence left me breathless with wonder and awe. As I have seen it written before, it proved to be true that her heart and mind were as lovely as her person. Looking into her eyes, there was a depth of wisdom and ancient knowledge that seemed to transcend the bounds of reality. I have no explanation. Despite the impossibility of it all, I knew the person standing in my doorway was Ozma of Oz. "You're... Ozma?" I said. The woman nodded. "Yes," she said. "I have come seeking your help, for the fate of Oz hangs in the balance." I blinked in astonishment, struggling to process the magnitude of her words. This was beyond anything I have imagined, beyond the realm of possibility. And yet, here she stood, a living embodiment of a world I had only ever known through books and stories. "What do you need from me?" I asked. I had no apprehension. I knew I would help her with whatever she needed Ozma's gaze met mine with a piercing intensity, her eyes alight with determination. She embodied the ruler I had read about in the books—kind yet strong and fearless. "You possess a storytelling talent that surpasses the bounds of reality," she stated. "Only you can aid me in rescuing Oz from the encroaching darkness." I swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling upon my shoulders. This was no ordinary request; this was a call to action, a chance to embark on an adventure beyond my wildest dreams. As we stepped out onto the street, I couldn't help but feel a sense of exhilaration. "I don't see any yellow bricks anywhere," I remarked, my attempt at levity falling flat in the face of the surreal situation. But Ozma smiled at me, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. With a single tap of her foot, the ground erupted in a burst of dazzling light. Before my eyes, the once ordinary street began to transform. The dull asphalt shimmered and morphed. It gave way to a winding path of vibrant yellow bricks stretching out as far as the eye could see. The bright yellow road looked to have no end. With a sense of wonderment coursing through me, I took a tentative step onto the yellow brick road. Beside me, Ozma beckoned me forward with a reassuring smile, her hand outstretched., Without a second thought, I stepped forward and took her hand. It wasn't a romantic gesture, nor was it reminiscent of the comforting grip of a mother's hand. Instead, it was something altogether different yet profound. But it felt safe, and not only would I follow that yellow brick road, I would follow Ozma wherever she led me. My loyal readers, fellow writers, and judges, I must take a risk and break the fourth wall. You see, I am aware that the rules state that entries in the Reedys prompts contest cannot be part of a larger body of work. The open-endedness of this story would indicate that it is a part of a larger narrative. But it is not. I don't know what will happen. As I sit here, almost blinded by the glowing emeralds of the Royal Palace of Oz, there are no words I could write that could continue this story in a way that the land standing before me deserves. 

g5gg9i

home...

Home… The high-pitched droning whistle of the sprinkles indicated the home irrigation system had turned on at its preconfigured time. It only required a few moments for the ground to become wet enough for its aroma to escape and waft across the yard; carried by the cool air of dawn. The eighteen-year-old boy sitting on the porch, sighed as he felt his muscles relax. He did not know they were taut in the first place, but now it seemed like they could relax and relax indefinitely. He took a sip of the hot tea beside him and felt it go down his dry throat. It was his new favorite, lemon ginger tea with honey. This morning had all the trappings of a good beginning to a good day and for a few minutes he was at peace. This hour belongs to the busy chirping of the birds, when the eastern horizon is only beginning to gain its color and the air is cool and invigorating. Then, way too soon, the droning whistle changed its pitch and quickly dropped and disappeared leaving in its stead a dreadful lull as the garden was watered and the day must begin. It all seemed to happen rapidly from then on, as if the wheezing of the watering system held the day at bay. The birds calmed down as the sun appeared above the horizon, the tea was consumed in a final sip of concentrated sweetness and the dreaded sounds of men began to stir. This boy was a stranger in a strange land. But the purring cat felt at home on his lap. “Platanos! Avocados! Zanahoria! Cevollas!” a truck full of vegetables announced its arrival on the street below. “They out early!” a heavily accented voice came from behind the boy. “Good morning, Señora Gomez,” he swerved around to face an older woman who was wearing a pleasant smile. “Will you see her today?” she asked in concern. “I will,” he sighed, “but first do you have anything in mind for me to do?”. “Ehhh you can weed near the onions and car… how do you say zanahoria?” “Carrots,” Ethan said as he prepared to get up. “No, it’s OK Etan, take your time. Porfavor” she put a reassuring hand on his arm, “have some coffee, have something to eat, platanos, some beans… please,” “You are too kind,” Ethan said sincerely. “It is OK, no boy should go through what you go through,” she said and turned around, not before giving him a warm smile. *** It was early evening when he finally took the walk to where his mother was being kept. He was walking from the outskirts deeper into the small Costa Rican town and looked at the now familiar homes on either side of the street as he passed them by. A man was sitting and having dinner at his table watching some news in one, while in the next, an older woman was playing cards with what looked like her daughter and grandson. Further down the road on the right-hand side an argument whirled its way out from within its domestic walls and into the open street. He remembered being struck by the paradox of how, on the one hand, houses were so close to the streets and people seemed to leave their doors open for the world to witness their private lives unfold, while on the other hand, they had these iron fences that encased them, and were occasionally, even topped with nasty looking barbed wire. “Seems like the polar opposite to the American suburban street,” he mused as he glimpsed a teenage girl sprawled comfortably on a coach in front of a telenovela. This residential street, however, finally ran its course and merged into the town’s touristy beach road. As he turned the corner, a few sparsely dressed girls in a bout of giggles followed by a few grinning men, got off a tourist van right in front of him. His eyes met one of the men momentarily and he felt intimidated by his smile. Lowering his gaze and quickening his pace, he swiftly skirted the van with its uncomfortable babble of cheerfulness and provocative smiles. Sounds of joyous Mariachi music came blaring from a restaurant straight ahead and seemed to coalise with the general multilingual chatter in the air as people walked to-and-fro from the beach to the various restaurants. Lowering his he pushed on in his brisk pace. The sun was just touching the water as the street on the right-hand side where he was walking ended abruptly and turned into a lonely narrow path at the edge of the ubiquitous Costa Rican jungle. The beach boardwalk on the left, however, continued on parallel to the road. Ethan looked across the road at the silhouettes of the people strolling along or sitting on the scattered benches; their faces hidden as their gaze was turned away watching the setting sun with tranquil expectation. His objective was nestled in the ubiquitous jungle. As he walked the narrow path on the right side of the road he saw the form of the shack, only its rooftop still gleaming in the yellow light of the fast-disappearing sun. He remembered being surprised at how close this ramshackle house was to the upscale tourist area. As he got to the little path leading to the entrance, he looked back just as the sun vanished. The shack ahead looked ominous, and he took a deep breath. *** “Puta Madre” he was greeted at the door by a mumble of a middle-aged man who was clearly not keen to see him. “Grace, tu hijo esta aqui!” the man shouted as he glared at Ethan and moved to take up the entire doorway. “Ethan?” a women’s voice called back in confusion. “What other sons you have?” the man answered without taking his unwelcoming eyes off the boy. “Ma! How are you?” Ethan looked into space the man did not manage to cover with his body. “OK Ethan,” she called out meekly, “Jorge, please let him in,” she pleaded. Jorge’s bloodshot eyes challenged him for a stare down, but Ethan didn’t take the bait and adamantly looked at the illuminated space behind him. The man finally moved aside just enough to let him squeeze through, cursing all the while under his breath. “Ethan…” She looked at him lovingly from the sofa. “Hello ma,” he sat down next to her. He looked her over and found it hard to believe she was the same woman that raised him. Her hair was rumpled. Her clothes had tears. Her face must have gotten twice as many wrinkles and her eyes had little of the old playful spark. It had all happened so quickly. Really, it happened in a moment. A moment of drunkenness, a moment of stupor. In one instant a stranger took everything away from them. “How can our happiness be so dependent upon the actions of others?” he remembered thinking after he heard the news. It had been almost a year since that awful day, almost a year since everything broke and then started to unravel with tremendous momentum- as if disaster is the knife which cuts the oh-so-tender cord holding sanity in a tight coil. Meeting her tormented eyes, he remembered the day when he and his mother were told that his father and sister were killed in a car accident. He tried to push that recollection away, but the feeling of terrible rage and sorrow rose up once again, filling his chest with intense emotion. The trial was a hideous affair, and he watched his mother’s rapid deterioration as they were faced with the accused every day. Ethan remembered being struck by how young the accused man was. The man had come back from a party after drinking, as he claimed, ‘only two beers’ and barely feeling ‘a buzz’. The evidence showed however, that he veered into the opposite lane at great speed just before the accident. The young man cried saying he was sorry, straightening his gaze at the mother and wife, who refused to look back. Ethan remembered feeling empathy for the boy, and angry he wasn’t more of a reprehensible character.  When the trial was finally over, she was gone; she couldn’t stay in her home, in her hometown or even in the country where she was constantly reminded of her loss. She wanted to escape far away to where memories would not haunt her, to where the sorrow may fade away. So, she got a one-way flight to Costa Rica, not knowing what to hope for, aside from wishing the unbearable pain would subside. It did do her good at first. The smell of the ocean and the sight of the sea; the different tone and rhythm of an incomprehensible language; the luscious surroundings of the bustling jungle. But there is no place where such sorrow does not follow. It would resurface suddenly and frequently, the sight of a little girl running into the waves under her father’s watchful gaze; a couple walking across the beach holding hands; a mother massaging sunscreen over her little girl’s body. These moments would strike her with such longing she felt it unbearable. And then there are those- the scourge of the earth; the real-life vampires- who feed on people’s sorrow and weaknesses. Those who are equipped with Satan’s radar for the already downtrodden, so they may prey on them and suck any remaining marrow of life- leaving them in a limp stupor. “Ethan,” she reached out, “where is Allie?” The first time she asked for her daughter, Ethan was terrified, but now he knew it was the drugs; and he despised Jorge for it. “She is not here right now Ma,” he answered as he felt his eyes water at his mother’s state of mind. “Why don’t you come with me Ma?” he braved the question that was brewing in his mind for the past few days. “This place is no good for you,” he whispered. “Señora Gomez is so nice and genuinely cares… We’ll get you better!” He thought of Señora Gomez with affection as he recalled the first time he wandered into her yard. He had been in Costa Rica for two weeks living in a hostel when he ran out of money. He thought he would be able to get his mother back more easily, but it proved to be a much more difficult task than he imagined. He remembered meandering around for many hours seeing the people enjoying drinks at the bar with only his small backpack as his companion. Reluctantly he had to come to terms that a grassy area at the outskirts of town was the best he could manage for the night. Oh, and what a restless night he had, for he felt exposed- having not even a tent- to the entire jungle which in turn seemed to take great interest in him. Every time he would slip off into a slumber, animals would venture closer, and he would wake up with a start, flailing his arms about. On occasions he would even jump up and shout to scare the curious nocturnal beasts away. Shadows were all around him, and even luminous eyes, which were far less endearing outside the realm of cartoons, shone in his direction and made him shiver in fear. The next day he walked through town in a state of exhaustion. His last fruit was consumed and with his few remaining pesos he bought a sandwich. Finding a bench overlooking the ocean he sat down and could not fight his drooping eyes; the shame of slumping over exposed to the scrutiny of the people walking by seemed so negligible now. At least he felt warm and safe... It was the torrential rain that provided him with a rude awakening. He was drenched before he could find cover. He noticed how dark it had become and the reality of spending another night outside, and what’s more, in such rain, was more than he could bare. He reached the awning of the shops and restaurants on the other side of the street and slumped down with his back against the glass window of a tourist agency. For the first time in a long time, he felt sorry for himself and wept. “Señor, I am sorry, but you must go,” came the callous voice of the man from the agency. Ethan looked at the man in bewilderment but saw only a resolute demeanor. He walked on blindly; time swallowed by the sound of the rain around him. He walked and walked in apathy. His only choice was to walk. “Maybe I should go to Jorge…” the thought entered his mind momentarily, but he pushed it away in disgust for it seemed so appalling to him that he should let himself be subjugated to that man’s mercy. “I rather die,” he cried out into the rain. It was then that he realized he was in someone’s yard and stopped in surprise realizing how far he walked. Smoke almost blended entirely with the gray surroundings, but there it was- coming out of a chimney; oh, how cozy it must be inside! He stared longingly at the external sign of the warmth within. Time had long been swallowed by the dreary surroundings and he just stood and stared. Time was lost on his way there; time was lost while he stood and stared. It is odd yet somehow contains within it a certain amount of grace- how built into the DNA of what makes things miserable there is a numbing mechanism that makes it bearable. In this case it was the bleak environs that also seemed to smear time itself into an undefined splotch and make it almost nonexistent. But at some point, along this undefined period of time the door swung open, and an elderly woman walked out onto the balcony. He watched her as she moved a plant away from underneath the gutter- her movements as though animated time back into a still world. Suddenly a dog leapt out from inside the house and came rushing towards Ethan stopping just short of him while barking enthusiastically at the stranger. “Zorro! Tranquillo!” she came rushing out into the torrential rain. “Oy pobre chico estas mojado!” she cried out as she came up to the sopping boy while holding Zorro by the collar. Ethan nodded distractedly as he looked at the Zorro’s wagging tail. “Come don’t be afraid.” She sensed, maybe by his countenance, maybe by his lack of reaction, that he was from a different part of the world. Ethan walked tentatively after the older woman. It has been a month since he arrived at Señora Gomez’s house in this manner, and her kindness enabled him to visit his mother every day since. *** His mother seemed to become sober at her son’s pleading request. “Oh, Ethan what is there to live for anymore?” her former self flashed momentarily in her painful eyes. “For you mom! For me! Life is not over! Don’t you want to hold your grandchildren still? Maybe one of them would remind us of Allie…” At the mention of her beloved, her countenance darkened, and a film seemed to cross over her eyes. “Nobody could ever come close to my Allie!” she cried out convulsively drawing the gaze of Jorge to the scene. “Please mother, I didn’t mean it in that way” he felt panic grip him at the sight of his crazed mother and scared of that man whose attention was now drawn to the sudden clamor. “Please mother,” he whispered urgently at the woman who was now rocking back and forth on the couch as he could hear the steps of the man approaching, “please leave this wretched place!” “What did you say little boy?” the man was right behind him and grabbed the collar of his shirt with his fist. “Nothing, Señor.” Ethan tried to wiggle his way out of the iron grip of the now enraged man who started raining down curses at Ethan and his mother. Ethan was terrified but as he was picked up, he managed to grab hold of his mother’s arm and bring her up to her feet as well. “Let go of her, Idiota!” Jorge shouted and tried to break Ethan’s desperate grip on his mother. “I will kill you!” It wasn’t an empty threat, but Ethan would not let go despite the blows he received and slowly managed to push the man while pulling his mother towards the door. It was a blur, the incessant cursing, the blows, the screaming woman. Nothing mattered except the arm in his hand unto which he latched with iron determination. He would not let go. Never. Not until he brought her out of this house of despair. Suddenly they were at the door and Ethan slammed the bewildered Jorge onto it breaking its hinges. The night air seemed to envelop them at once and bring them to their senses, the moon was new, but its soft light seemed to caress them. “Mother!” Ethan screamed at his mother as she grabbed onto the door post with her other hand. He jumped back and yanked her fingers off. “But Allie and Jack they…” she tumbled forward as he pulled her away. “They certainly are not there, mom! And wouldn’t want you to be there either!” Ethan shouted and gave her a final push. The shocked Jorge got up from atop his broken door and lunged at the man and his mother. Only this time, Ethan didn’t have to pull her, she was running alongside him. “Home… finally… I am…” he thought as tears of relief came to his eyes.

8atqyw

The Tree Palace

The tree house. Her tree house. There, she could go anywhere, say anything, be anyone. It was her sanctuary against the world outside. She thought of it more as a tree palace when she grasped the weathered wooden ladder to ascend into her private world. The floor gently bent under her weight and the rusted tin roof rattled with the breeze while the oak limbs rustled a polite discussion of the late summer season, accenting its message with the occasional acorn drop. The smell was delicious, like a mildly mildewed forest mixed with the warmth of sunshine and fresh grass. When her father mowed, it just meant extra grass seasoning. There was also a peppery metallic odor from the roof and nails, but only if you concentrated extra hard and didn’t let the birds distract you with their disgruntled chatter. She reviewed her collection of miscellaneous items found around the neighborhood proudly displayed on an unevenly installed, water-logged shelf. She had her chipped, beaded necklace discovered behind the Cottingham’s shed and an old, Zippo lighter decorated with a bald eagle clutching the American flag. She had found that near the shore of Lake Moody but had given up on trying to light it. Her prized possession was a frayed pink cat collar complete with a bell which made the most pleasant sound, like a polite chime announcing that an adorable kitty was coming to play. That one was more personal. More painful. She laid on her old Benji sleeping bag that was handed down to her from Grandma. Grandma was long gone, and she had never even seen “Benji,” but the dog on the bag smiled in a way that only dogs can do. The sunlight shown through the one window, perpetually open, and down into a large, clear, green jug that was filling up with coins, snail shells, and insect exoskeletons. She glanced annoyingly at the newspaper article shoved over a nail. The girl looked like her. Too much like her. She had blacked out the name because it was too similar to her own. She closed her eyes so she could leave and be anywhere else but here, but she did not leave. She was still in the tree house. She shut her eyes again and pictured that imaginary tree palace climbing up into the heavens. She had never been able to see all the rooms inside because they were infinite, always changing. The massive limbs held a bounty of leaves that merged into the clouds. Birds circled and called to her as an army of cats rubbed on her legs lovingly, encouraging her to explore. She reached up to touch the lowest rung of the golden ladder and found herself catapulted back into reality. She was engulfed in nothingness. Empty. A moment of panic gripped her chest before the walls were back in focus. Her jug, her shelf, the newspaper, her lighter. She squirmed into the sleeping bag and zipped it up until just her face was poking out. Her father’s voice was near, calling her name. She was not ready to leave. She shut her eyes tighter until the lids were pressing so hard they began to ache from the strain, but she was finally fully transported. The palace doors were thrown open and she was greeted by her best friend in this world, Penelope. Penelope was strong enough to push those heavy doors. Penelope was smart, and fast, and tall, and beautiful. Everything she would never be. “We’ll ride horses today,” said Penelope. “Which color do you want?” She briefly imagined that scene in “The Wizard of Oz” when the horse changes color and thought to herself, “All of them.” Teams of horses rose out of the floor and Penelope giggled. “Here you go. Have your pick. Today is your day.” Penelope looked up into the sun, but there was no sun here. The light was shining from everywhere and nowhere. She walked through the throngs of manes and tails with each muzzle innocently nuzzling her, inquiring if they would be the one, her choice, but it was the appaloosa standing alone and aloof that grabbed her attention; its spotted coat randomly dappled as if a rogue paint brush splattered its skin like a careless afterthought. She apprehensively approached the mare and the horse appeared disinterested and mildly irritated to be enduring the intense scrutiny of a human child. She knew that horses often have this attitude when they are not being overly affectionate, much like cats behave. It made her love them more. After allowing the mare to assess her, she ran her hand up its forehead and down its crest, delicately entwining her fingers through its mane and onto its withers. The mare shook her head impatiently and snorted as if to say, “Make up your mind, kid. Are we going to ride or not?” Penelope brought a step stool over and set it on the floor so she could safely mount. “You picked Freckles. She’s my favorite.” She threw her leg over the mare’s back and grabbed a handful of mane to steady herself as she pulled to the center. She felt Freckles shift on her feet, every muscle flexing, anxious to move. She squeezed with her knees and the mare ignited like a flame. The power she felt was beyond any tangible emotion she had ever encountered. She was free. Unburdened. Alive. Then her mother screamed. It was not a normal type of scream, the kind that calls you to the table for dinner. This one sounded urgent. Full of emotion. Despair. She was back in reality, but not the one she wanted. She knew where she was. She could smell the antiseptic afterthoughts of the room she refused to view. “PENELOPE!” That was her friend’s name, not hers. That was the name in the newspaper article on the nail in her sanctuary. “LOCAL KID….” Lucky for her, she wasn’t local. She was far away. In her tree palace. She had no name. No place. No time. Her eyes were still closed, but she couldn’t return. The appaloosa mare was gone. The palace was gone. She just wanted to keep riding the horse. Her horse. Her Freckles. In the background, the limbs were busy discussing the summer. They were loud. The tin roof was rattling with the intensity of the wind, and it was more insistent with each breath she took, but it was slowing. Less forceful. Less meaningful. Her mind clouded. She couldn’t think of anything except that girl in the photo on the cover of that paper. Penelope. Everyone felt sorry for Penelope. She had it bad, that girl. Never see her teen years, Penelope. Never graduate. Never get married. Never have kids. Never, never, never, never. At least she had her tree house. And her lighter. And her jug of littered memories. Her mother again. “Is she…..”

ibc1lz

Inside the Mind

She came from Ohio. She got off a steel clad bus in the center of town, and dragged her feet to the doors of "Silent Springs, -"the premier retreat for people of discerning tastes". "Hello I'm here for the retreat", she muttered at the front desk, The front desk lady had long, shiny black hair and slanted glasses. "Name?" "Shilo Smith". Front desk lady nodded to indicate she had found Shilo on the registration list. She got up from the mahogany barrier, and descended to lead Shiloh into her quarters. The bed was white and prim, clean and the blinds were bamboo wood, like the floor. Now that she thought of it the whole hallway was the same wood. Shiloh put her bags down and wandered out towards the front of the castle sized foyer. Other people were beginning to mill in. Shiny hair lady was busy showing them each their rooms. Her hair never looked a thread out of place. An announcement boomed over the intercom, in what had to have been shiny hair lady's voice, "The first meditation begins at 19:00. Please make your way to the meditation stadium promptly." Shiloh made her way towards the stadium, a large room very similar to a cafeteria at a public school. People were laid out and sitting down cross legged. They sat patiently, and some rather impatiently, waiting for the intercom voice to introduce herself. Finally a man in white robes introduced himself as guru Michael. "Hello all, I am guru Michael, we are so excited for you to join this retreat with us." "Please have a seat everyone." Shiloh scanned the room to look at the other participants,. Members? .. Who are these people? Her thoughts began to swirl, into a crescendo. That's what they did. She began to calculate the median income and child bearing status of each person. But then, they evened out. A little bit of peace crept in... Shiloh scanned the room to look at the other participants,. Members? .. Who are these people? Her thoughts began to swirl, into a crescendo. That's what they did. She began to calculate the median income and child bearing status of each person. But then, they evened out. A little bit of peace crept in... Shiloh wandered back to her “room”. It was more like a bedroom chamber. Chambers… Shiloh had some time to read. She could hear voices of laughter outside in the hall. She peeked around the corner. Men were drinking the Sanga wine and clasping each others shoulders in a brotherly sort of way. Shiloh took one of her books and began to read, the words blurred together and before she knew it..she had drifted off, the smell of incense lightly dancing under her nose. And into her dreams. In the morning she awoke to the smells of granola and eggs. She made her way to the dining area, where a buffet of healthy foods were being served. Grains, millet, fruit and eggs. Smoothies and other health food items were served. Shiny hair came on the intercom again, "The first meditation of the day will begin at 0:00. " Once again Shiloh made her way down to the corridor to the purple and gold meditation stadium. She put her headphones in and played a swing dancing tune that she liked from back home. Shiny hair came around and tapped her on the shoulder. "No earbuds my darling." She said. There was not really very much affection in the "my darling" Shiloh acquiesced and she removed the ear buds. The sound of silence surrounded her and was stilted and slow. She looked around at the other participants, trying to calculate their personalities and median incomes again. One man was a handsome but modern Indian doctor. He was dressed in an ill fitting white tunic and red velvet pants. He had obviously dressed the part. She looked down at her matted sweat pants. She had chosen a plaid shirt with bleached out stains. Oof. No, back to her "mind". Let me try to focus for a few minutes. Shilohs thoughts swirled again. They leapt and danced like little beads of gold light. Her body felt electrified, but then, like before, things when dull and dim. Cars flashed before her eyes. Blood. and glass. Shiloh closed her eyes and tried to keep out the light. Why had she come here again? She began to sweat. Sharp ponytail made her way over and put her hand on Shiloh's shoulder. Shiloh expected a kind word, maybe she would lead her to a medical chamber..There were so many chambers here. But the lady with black hair simply said, "You do not look well. Please come with me. " She escorted Shiloh away from the meditation stadium and back to her room. "Do you have a nurse here?" Shiloh asked resultantly, confused about why she had to ask...and why it wasn't the first choice of the lady with straight hair. "There is no medical here" Said the lady with straight hair. Shiloh now noticed that straight hair lady was also lady with gold bangles and lady with giant, ribbed gold necklace. "If you have a serious issue you may go to Swami Michael's chamber and he will do healing hands on you, if you consent" Shiloh looked at the ground, the bamboo floor, and then back at straight hair lady. What are healing hands? Shiloh asked, even though she already sort of knew. She saw the brochure with the glowing hands on the cover, and she assumed it was some kind of energy healing. A snake flashed in her mind. A gold snake. It was more gold than anything she had ever seen. Yes...I would like to see Michael. The words came out of her mouth, even though her brain told her to stay in her room and rest, maybe wash her face. But suddenly she found herself, walking towards a clay door with a gold handle. The door opened, or she opened it? Shiloh couldn't tell, either way-the door was open and she floated in, glancing around as the room made itself available to her. The walls were covered in white crystals, "Herkimer diamonds", said the lady with straight hair, in a curt smile, before closing the door behind Shiloh and going away. Michael was sitting in a purple velvet chair and looking warm and inviting. Come closer my child. He said with a warm, inviting smile. There was a gold yellow light emanating from his body through his robes. Shiloh nodded and almost leapt forward.

vyvq7b

The knotted tree

The car’s tires thrummed and sang as they pressed against the road and traced against the rough edge. The music, sparking into the air from an old, dusty speaker set, caused the hands gripping a steering ball and the wheel to tap and flex with the rhythm. The scenery flashed by as the speedometer on the dash reflected his confidence. The needle hung on the edge of the limit, the limit that the disappearing sign in the rear mirror had announced. Then the needle crested and broke into the red, the tires and car thrumming and vibrating louder. His tapping went off beat going away from the melody and pacing its own. Faster, more intense. The scenery inconsequential now, his eyes paying it no mind, focussing only on the stretch of aged, weathered road in front. His focus remained only on that stretch, the weathered cracked surface didn't seem to change. The LED on the radio player suggested he was about twenty minutes into the journey, though the creaking and rigidness of the seat that he kept twitching away from suggested that maybe the clock wasn’t to be trusted. The Corolla, a relic from a past that he didn’t want to revisit, still somehow held and remained steadfast. A comfort. The opened letter announcing expected news but strangely that hadn’t upset him lay in the back. His great aunt, dead at age seventy eight, alone in her cabin in the desolate woods. Family, those that had been too late or not privileged enough for the top pickings, had already descended upon the cabin, he was late. Days even, from the letters date, images flashed through his mind of what he might find. A scene, undisturbed, maybe even his aunt still undisturbed in her final position. Her cabinets and cupboards filled with trinkets, the odd craft item by him or another younger family member on the side worn on one side as if touched regularly. He shook his head, welled up with tears shaking free. That wasn’t what it was going to be. The house would be picked clean, shelves barren, the doors probably all left ajar, for who would care.  He’d be lucky if he even got a box, though what did he really want? A bag of stuff he could sell or use, would that really make up for what had happened? For the time that had slipped away, for the impenetrable barrier that came with death. A bump in the coarse road, shifted his focus back to the stretch in front of him. A knotted tree, its branches twisting in whirred past as his eyes swayed from side to side. He felt a shift in his arms, hair tensing, that tree was a landmark he’d remembered from years ago, from driving or being driven in the backseat, that it still looked the same as a miracle. But it should have been miles back. He reached for his phone in the holder and checked, no signal. He slumped back slightly. The LED clock suggested a new time, an hour into the journey. The scenery should be different, a river running wild on the left and more clearings on the right, maybe even some deer or other wildlife. Yet all he saw was thin tall trees with thin needles and the odd, standout one that was the knotted tree. He turned to look back at his blind spot looking for an exit sign. Had he missed something? The music was reaching the end of the album, an odd glitching, a skipping seemed to be more common. The music was like that, the album a bit surreal anyway, Frank Ocean liked to add segments, play with settings and what not. But this wasn’t that, this seemed to be, skipping, words, whole sentences. The melody seemed to stay consistent at first but then it got stranger and stranger. Whatever pattern, he thought he could hear, seemed to switch up, vanish or remain just long enough till he was nearly certain about what it was then disappear. The only constant was the stretch of road in front and the thin tall trees either side and god. What? He verbally swore, the knotted tree was appearing just on the left. Barely in view and his hand itched and the left wheel slid off the cracked surface and collided with a bang with the tree. “Damn”. The word escaped alongside a hiss of breath. The LED clock happily displayed that it was now two hours after he set off and he should be on the final approach. Rolling hills and a large lake should have been his companions. Yet that damn knotted tree was the only one leering at him as the tyre shuddered. The wheel arch was dented, but the wheel could still move. He felt a sigh of relief, he could keep going and put the whole experience behind him, he couldn’t miss his turning this time. He got back on the road, hands clenched and pressed forwards up against the glass, eyes flickering left to right, no exit in sight just more trees, and the sounds of wildlife. Then, a hut. His heart raced at the sight, an old brown shack, the roof chipped and a board hanging disjointedly off at the side. A light was on but a thin set of net curtains hid whoever was inside. Surely whoever lived here would know the way, how many roads could there be? As he reached the hut, he saw a bright flash overhead, a glistening orange streak that made him flinch, raising his arm as the light blinded him, lighting the darkening sky. Has it been this dark for a while? He rubbed his eyes and the stars twinkled in his vision as he did, remnants of the orange streak. He craned his head and rolled down his window and looked around, as quick as it had appeared the orange streak had vanished. Faint clouds rolled in the dull darkening sky. A rapping on glass got his attention. He turned, jumping slightly in his seat and the noise and a large brown bear wearing a large brimmed cap waved at him. He screamed and rolled up the window, yanking at the stuck old switch, the window jolted up, coming finally to rest at seventy five percent closed. “Damn”. His Breathing was quick, rapid. “Ok, ok”. “Brown bear, get down”. He slowly unclasped his seatbelt, twisting his waist round to lay back in the gap, reaching to try and pull himself more into the back. His ankle wouldn't turn the muscle too tight, the boot refusing to turn and follow his shaking body. He heard gentle scraping and a few taps. Also a gentle voice speaking, low and deep but happy and friendly. He twisted and grasped the edge of the back window. “Hey, hey be careful there’s a bear, help please”. The words trailed off as a large silhouette rounded the side of the car. He remembered the documentaries he’d seen as a kid, be calm, say slow and friendly. “H..Hey bear”. The silhouette paused then he heard the door gently open and he stared out at the large shaggy form. The fur looked soft and smooth and inviting and he felt an overwhelming urge to hug the bear, but a stronger sense forced him to recoil slowly tensing up on the far seat as the bear doubled over and poked its large head in the door. “Hey there”. And his eyes rolled back, and he slumped against the door. “What.. what’s happening?” The bear looked at him quizzically, turning its large head and its amber eyes widening. “Oh I kinda hoped you’d know, they weren’t really very clear with instructions, you know, just watch for fires, guard the portals, don’t look directly at the phoenixes kinda thing. Then you showed up!” The bear looked back in the shack. “You’re my only visitor in hmmm, sixty thousand years”. “I’m not really sure of the protocol at this point, so I’ll tell you the basics and then you can go on your way if you’d like. I was gonna suggest cards, I know a lot of games, kinda hard with paws but you know you figure it out”. The bear shrugged and a toothy approximation of a smile came across its face. “Ahh you’re one of those, lost in your thoughts, in the past, not sure on what happened kinda folk. That clarifies things, a bit, let’s get your car a bit patched up, I’ll get you some snacks and we’ll get you on your way”. He opened his mouth uselessly a few times. “Wait what? I.. I thought you were going to explain what’s happening, why I keep seeing that knotted tree or that I’m lost, I should have been there by now. Should have been there..” His voice trailed off as he thought back to how things had been left off with his great Aunt. The bear sighed, and awkwardly leant against the car, the car rocking as it did so. “They didn’t really teach me much about this, that’s Astri’s job but you’re not on this road to make up for the past. This road isn’t that, it’s a random cosmic occurrence and it’s completely random if it’ll ever finish and if you make it to your stop, there’s not a guide for this bit, I’m supposed to be that but not yet”. He sobbed, tears flowing now. The bear cursed under their breath. Gently and cautiously they reached a paw in and placed it gently on his shoulder. The touch made him shiver and recoil slightly but he also leant into it, feeling the smooth warm touch. “There, there, we’ll see each other again. That's a certainty but you have to keep moving. There’s much to see and I’d guess all the time in the world to do it but I don’t want to assume”. The bear grinned again. “It’s one of those things, here are your snacks, out of their fur they seem to pull oranges, crips, and other random snacks. Snacks he hadn’t seen since his childhood.  Liquorice and Turkish delight caught his eye, both sweets he’d hated and made him grimace. He gestured. “You can keep those, not my kinda bag”. The bear shook their head. “No can do, you gotta take everything, that's just how it works”. Sighing he reclaimed the front seat, the bear taping the front up, they patted the side. “All good”. And he was off. The sky was turning purple, darkening and orange streaks shot across together in groups, swooping, sweeping. At the last minute they arced down and swooped around his car, orange feathers falling through the vents. He coughed and went to cover his mouth and nose but instead the aroma of the lake and the cabin came through and the dust evaporated from the vents and the dash. The phoenixes sweep around, scraping the sides and together they skirted the road, the gauge never falling, the LED clock the only measure of time. The stretch of road was now pinned in by the crowd, the soft glow lighting his way. He couldn’t see anything outside of the amber glow, he peered through at the sides trying to see out. And he saw scenes, saw the amber glow shift and twist. His great aunt motioned, gesturing angrily, mouth contorted in a snarl, him looking small and feeling smaller. He saw himself rushing out in floods of tears, felt the rush of worry hit him and the golden shield around him reactively comforted him, shifting around him, holding the car straight. The scene rushed to the windscreen, playing out. His panic and past him holding in the car in case she came out, came to the window to show anything, any sign of emotion that wasn’t rage. How could she ask him to put aside his desire, his need to be more than his disability, his limitations, to not strive to achieve all he could but to sit in the background away from the attention she found uncomfortable. He held for what seemed like an age, but the silhouette never appeared by the window. The scene shifted and he saw her side. Her clutching a kitchen counter, chest heaving, the thin cardigan she was wearing, shaking. Her thin bone white hair obscured her eyes as she shook and gently touched the plate he’d crafted in school as a child. The abstract wonky sunflower in the centre of the plate would be faded now but back then it was so vibrant and vivid. He released the steering ball fixed to the wheel and drummed his fingers gently stretching them. The LED clock happily displayed a time that shouldn't be. Although that was probably the easiest thing to understand. The time slippage, the knotted tree and what appeared to be a crow staring blankly at him was not so easy. A crow. He slammed the breaks on, then pushed his palm into his forehead. He was losing it if he was going to a crow for company. The crow stared blankly at him, then hopped to the edge of the road so he had to wind down the window and peer out. “Thanks for stopping, you've no idea how rude people are around here. The name's Astri, and I'm ashamed to admit it.. I'm lost” “Hey Astri”. The words and situation felt natural now, the bemusement ebbing away to an acceptance. “I'm Tariq, I'm actually lost too, wanna travel together?” It turns out Astri was a great singer and Tariq couldn't help but smile and sing along as they vibed to a more upbeat cd he'd found in the back. The bird was larger than he expected and more vibrant too. His worries faded and he continued switching his hand on the ball as his arm grew tired. Astri watched with a sympathetic look but didn't stop singing, skipping a filler song to continue energetically singing. As they passed the thin trees again, Astri suddenly stopped singing and shouted. “Stop look there!” There in the trees was the bear, waving at them. Tariq pulled the car over slowly and stepped out cautiously. It was the first time he'd stepped out since the journey started, what would happen if he did? But something in the bear’s expression made him want to get out, to see what it was they kept looking over their shoulder at. Astri flew to the bird's shoulder and nattered away as Tariq retrieved his jacket from the back and joined them. “I see the road is showing you things already”. The bear said with a kind but almost teasing smile. It seemed easier than before to judge their expressions, eyes more alive and vivid. “Yeah you could say that, the phoenixes’”. He tilted his hands mimicking the dancing motion. “It's beautiful ain't it, never gets old”. The bear gestured into the woods. “We better go though there's a meeting you shouldn't miss”. Walking through the forest was harder than expected, the trees more closely knit and low roots tripped Tariq more than once, his balance adding an additional sway and challenge but one that he had to overcome. Eventually they made it to a clearing. A log circle in the middle, fireflies hanging lazily in the air, a calming sound of a campfire mixed with a gentle wind came to Tariq. Pushing through thin hanging branches he entered the clearing. “Tariq?” A voice nearly unfamiliar to him, cut through to him and he froze to the spot as he saw the familiar cardigan and white hair. It was neatly combed and the cardigan looked freshly pressed. “Auntie?” He turned but the bear and Astri were nowhere to be seen. “How is this possible?” He asked, rubbing his eyes. “Don't ask me, I'm just happy to see you boy, shouldn't that be enough, you know it's not often you get the chance to make up such wrongs”. Tariq felt his blood boil with a sudden spike, flashes back to slamming the door, of rushing down the stairs to his car, to be incapable of leaving. “ I won't apologise Auntie, it's..” She cut him off by rushing to him with surprising speed. Instantly embracing him. She was just like he remembered but there was a certain energy, an extra warmth. His adrenaline vanished and he clung to her. Afraid at first he'd hurt her, but she held him back with an iron but comforting grip. “It's not for you to apologise dear boy, I don't have enough time I fear or all the words we'd both like to say and hear”. She paused. Her hands tracing his face. “ But you were never undeserving of love and I'm sorry it took death and all this to see it.” She gestured at the sky above the clearing. The deep blue mixes with purple and green in twisting swelling patterns. “There, look!”. She pointed. A flock of orange streaks raced against a strong grey moon. She held him as they watched the streaks pass and disappear before she turned her pale big eyes towards him. “I don't know what this is or how this is possible or what happens next Tariq. But if you'd have me..” She paused, twisting a thread of the auburn cardigan in her fingers, eyes turning away from him. “I.. if you'd have me I'd like to travel the road with you, if only for a little while, there's so much I missed and I would like to hear about”.

bvldoi

The Lost Treasure of Cleocatra

A ragtag group of anthropomorphic cat treasure hunters finds themselves deep in the ancient pyramid that houses Cleocatra’s tomb, trying to figure out how to access the entrance of a hidden room filled with treasure. They’re led by George, who is accompanied by Dr. Bliffy the expert Purrgyptolgist, Amelia their Purrgyptian spelunking guide, and Father Joseph a priest from the Catacan. The group now walked down a long zig-zagging corridor upon steps of masterfully cut limestone. “Before we enter the chamber, I will douse each of you with this holy water to protect us from any evil spirits who may try to harm us.” said the Priest as he pulled out a flask with a cross on it. The cats stood still as Father Joseph flicked the holy water onto each of them as they approached the entrance of Cleocatra’s chamber. Each stepped into the room with their flashlights shining about like spotlights as they licked their fur and meandered about the chamber taking in the awe-inspiring hieroglyphics. Amelia examined the walls. “This is incredible.” “Sure is,” responded George in high spirits. “Hey Father this holy water is quite refreshing, tastes a bit like there are some holy spirits in it,” George said to the Priest with a wink. Father Joseph brought the flask to his nose and sniffed, “Hmm, yes it seems the dishwasher at the Catacan hasn't been doing the lord's work. No matter, these things are a pain to clean.” George walked up next to Amelia looking at the great hieroglyphs, “Well Dr. Bliffy now's your time to shine, what can you decipher?” “Ahhhh let me take a look at my notes,” said Dr. Bliffy, unassuredly scratching his head. “Hmmm I’m not too sure, these hieroglyphs seem to be from before antiquity, possibly the bronze age, when the Furrlistines first appeared in what's now present-day Pawlestine.” “We don't have time for a history lesson, we're about to make some, let me take a look at those notes,” said George. “Oh no, ah, they won't make much sense to someone untrained- '' George, not interested, ripped the notebook from Dr. Bliffy’s hands and then squinted. “Dr. Bliffy what the hairball is this?” George flipped around the notebook to reveal overtly sexual drawings of cat women in lingerie batting at feathers hanging from a stick. “Ah, I can explain, those are just some light doodles,” responded Dr. Bliffy pulling at his collar. George flipped through more pages as his jaw began to lower and eyes twitched, there wasn't a single Purrgyptian hieroglyphic to be found. Only sketches of cat women dressed promiscuously. “Dr. Bliffy where in the hell is your research!” shouted George, his chest rising and falling. “Alright, alright, I'm not really a Purrgyptoligist, I don't have a doctorate, I haven't been featured in the Purr York Times and I didn't go to Yale,” Bliffy responded, his ears and head dropping down in embarrassment. “But I saw your degree!” “Photoshop…” “So you lied about everything on your resume!” exclaimed George. Bliffy shrugged. “Yeah but so does everyone else, I went to Community College for marketing.” George silently unpacked this revelation in his head trying not to blow a fuse, “Could’ve paid the extra fifteen dollars for a background check. Just like my witch of a mother said, it takes a rich man to be cheap.” he muttered through his gritted teeth. “Well, now that the cat is out of the bag I do have a little bit of battery left on my phone. Maybe we could just look it up on Google?” asked Bliffy, attempting to make amends. “Bliffy I maxed out three credit cards getting us here, I got a subprime mortgage I can’t afford for a hunk a shit cookie cutter house on Long Island, alimony for two kittens.” Steam began to shoot out from George’s ears as a manic look rolled over his face. Bliffy trying to butt in, “Listen I-” “Your own mother was cleaning your litter box during the last financial crisis! Do you know anything about inflation?! Do you know how expensive milk is getting?! Or those cheap scratching posts from China! I’ve dumped half! Half my life savings into Catpto Currency and I’m losing thousands of dollars a day faster than I’m losing the love and respect of my children! Please tell me you're yanking my tail!” Bliffy looked at his feet. “I’m sorry George.” “You're sorry?!” “I don't know what to say. I watched a Ted Talk on faking it till you make it and right after I saw your ad online looking for a Purrgyptoligist and thought, hey I want to go on a free trip to Purrgypt.” George sported the look of a madman, “Bliffy you and Cleocatra are going to be sharing this tomb if we don't find her treasure.” he said with a hiss. “I’m sorry I know I'm an idiot, my horoscope said that it was time for new beginnings. I thought this would help launch my career as an influencer.” “A what?” said George, exacerbated. “An influencer, you know, making cat content for social media?” “Your generation is doomed.” said a deflated George. “You're telling me you know about Catpto Currency but not what an influencer is?” asked Bliffy in disbelief. George put his head in his paws. “I read the news, you dimwit.” There was an awkward silence among the four, “So you don't know a lick about ancient Purrgyptian hieroglyphics?” “Only what I read on Whiskerpedia,” murmured Bliffy. “Cat Whiskers Christ Bliffy!” shouted George. “Do not use the Lord's name in vain,” interjected Father Joseph scathingly. “Oh save me your judgment priest we all know you aren't all saints over there at the Catacan.” “You dare insult the Catacan!” exclaimed Father Joseph. “No, I’m just surprised the Catacan let you tag along even though no kittens were accompanying us!” responded George antagonisticly. “Oh so it's a catfight you want is it?!” shouted Father Joseph as he pulled back the sleeves of his vestment. “If you want one you got one alright!” shouted back George fashioning his claws. “Enough! We're here in the tomb of Cleocatra…illegally and if the authorities catch us we are going to Purrgyptian prison for life." The three fell silent as their eyes bulged out from their heads. "Now I don't know if the three of you know anything about Purrgyptian prison but the inmates won’t take kindly to grave robbing foreigners,” said Amelia. “What!?” exclaimed the rest of the group in unison. Amelia shrugged her shoulders matter-of-factly. “Well, I thought I’d fess up too.” “Alright Amelia, welcome to the club!” Bliffy raised out his paw enthusiastically for a high five but Amelia just glared back at the pudgy cat with disdain. “I thought you said the government sanctioned us coming down here?” asked George bewildered. “Yeah to waltz right down into Cleocatra’s tomb to steal her lost treasure?” George was now bouncing around flailing his arms. “We told them it was for an exposé on Cleocatra! That we’re part of CCNN, not that we were going to steal anything! They weren't supposed to figure that out till after the fact!” Amelia scoffed. “You think the government of Purrgypt was going to fall for that, after all that's been stolen from this country? You're more full of yourself than the British Museum, no wonder you invested half your life savings in Catpto currency.” George yelled, “Because of the security of the blockchain alright!” walking up to the old dusty walls of Cleocatra's chamber and scratching them furiously as the group watched on at his meltdown. “Think, think, think,” George said to himself looking over the hieroglyphics. “Just like Mother said, you want something done right do it yourself.” he scratched at his chin. “Ah, I hate it when she's right…maybe I shouldn't have put her in that nursing home.” “Well, we’re here and that's what's important. So any ideas?” asked Amelia. “Yeah, does anyone have catnip and something to smoke it out of?” asked George defeatedly. “Ugh,” said Father Joseph, shaking his head. The four stood around aimlessly. “Well, I'm standing in Cleocatra’s tomb, illegally, with a virgin, a Purrgyptian, and a priest. Huh, that sounds like the beginning of a joke. Well, we know there's a secret entrance here somewhere and it only opens when the correct phrase is said. Said phrase is supposed to be hidden in this room. The problem is our Purrgyptoligist isn't a Purrgyptoligist. So what could the password be?” George said to himself walking over to the tomb of Cleocatra, his brow furrowed. “Ahhh!” he slammed his paw down on the tomb, sending a puff of dust everywhere. “George look!” Amelia pointed to the tomb's lid and inscribed into the stone was a phrase. Amelia looked over it attentively. “Can you read it?” asked George. “Yes, it’s in Purrgyptian, it says, ‘From the dawn to the dusk of time, a word shared by all cats before the fall of mankind, a phrase floating around deep within all our minds…meo-'” Amelia halted putting her hands over her mouth as the hair on the groups backs stood up simultaneously. “It can't be…” murmured Father Joseph, promptly making the sign of the cross before kissing his crucifix and reciting a prayer. “It makes so much sense,” whispered George wide-eyed. Amelia lowered her paws from her mouth, “The one word that must never be said. Banned by every government across the earth. The perfect password to protect her riches from those who’d steal it.” “Well who’s going to say it?” asked Bliffy. “No one! Do you know how dangerous this could be?” snapped Father Joseph. “Not a soul has said that word since the last epoch.” “This could be part of Cleocatra’s curse. It may turn us back into animals or even worse, humans,” said Amelia. All four shivered at the idea. “If life's a dream then that’d make it a nightmare,” said Geroge staring intently at the carvings on the tomb. “But maybe the secret entrance will be revealed and we’ll all be rich.” chimed in Bliffy. George fiddled with his whiskers thinking deeply. “Well, I can't say it,” said Father Joseph. “I can't say it,” responded Amelia. Bliffy takes out his smartphone, “George if you're going to say it give me a heads up so I can get a video, this will definitely go viral but my phone is almost dead.” “I can't say it,” said George. “Why not? Think about it, we'll all be rich!” said Bliffy. “Bliffy the only thing you'll be getting rich from is settlement I’ll have to pay you after I claw apart your face.” Bliffy went silent. Then Father Joseph chimed in, “You know the church could do a lot of good with that money...and you owe me for that wine.” George turned his head with annoyance. "You said that was the altar wine and you drank half the bottle yourself, you didn't have to pay for that!" Father Joseph stuck his chin up in the air. "But the church did." “And you still owe me for bringing you down here,” said Amelia. “Right, all three of you shut it.” George scratched his head again. Thinking to himself, I can't believe my ex-wife is going to get half of this. That's almost a good enough reason to walk right on out of here but look on the bright side, I could pay off my debts, get a house on Nantucket, invest in something less volatile, get that sweet passive income, and retire. What's the worst that could happen, it's just a word. But what if I turn into a human? The thought made Geroge feel like a hairball was stuck in his throat. Ugh. I could be turned into a monster and all of these suckers would get the riches. He continued to ponder. “Unless…I got an idea,” said George. “I can't say it. But what if we all said a part of it at once? It's a four-letter word and there are four of us. We can each sound out a single letter altogether. That way none of us are actually saying it.” The other three looked around at each other and then back at George. “Well you don't make it as an influencer without taking a risk or two, I got nothing to lose, I’m in,” said Bliffy. “So am I,” said Amelia. The three looked at the priest as he turned his head upwards, “Please, have mercy on our souls.” George grinned. “I'll take the M, Amelia the E, Bliffy the O, and Father Joseph the W.'' They all nodded in nervous approval. “Right,” said Geroge, “On the count of three. One, two, three.” “M” “E” “O” “W” They all looked about the room anxiously. “Well, that was underwhelming,” Bliffy said, ending his phone's recording. “Maybe we should try again?” said George. “Do you hear that?” asked Amelia. There was a rumbling sound that grew, dirt began to fall from the ceiling and the ground shook violently. “Look!” George shouted pointing to the back wall behind the tomb which was slowly sliding into the corner of the chamber and as it opened a golden light illuminated the four. “Oh my Lord.” said the Priest who couldn't believe his eyes. “We did it,” Amelia said, mesmerized. “I did it,” said George transfixed on the golden light showering his face, a vision of him sipping on a pina colada, toes deep in the sand watching the sunset on Nantucket ran through his head. “No, no, no, no!” shouted Bliffy. The three snapped out of their respective trances and turned to look at him as he dropped to his knees, phone in hand. “I can't believe this! My phone died! This would have gone viral for sure!

njw9da

Cucina Magica a Firenze

In the heart of Florence, Italy, nestled among the ancient cobblestone streets and the Renaissance architecture, stood a centuries-old building exuding charm and history. Courtney and her family stumble upon a small, quaint cafe that seems straight out of a storybook. Its facade, adorned with creeping vines and colorful flower boxes overflowing with blossoms, exudes an irresistible charm that beckons them inside. As they push open the heavy wooden door, a tinkling bell announces their arrival, filling the cozy interior with a melody of warmth and welcome. The air is redolent with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries, drawing them further into the embrace of this hidden gem. “Ciao, Benvenuto!” the older Italian gentleman behind the counter said. The interior is a study in rustic elegance, with weathered wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling and terracotta tiles lining the floor. Soft, golden light spills from wrought-iron chandeliers, casting a warm glow over the mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout the space. Against one wall stands a weathered bookshelf, its shelves lined with well-loved volumes and dog-eared novels inviting patrons to lose themselves in tales of romance and adventure. A vintage record player nestled in the corner fills the air with the soft strains of Italian ballads, adding to the ambiance of old-world charm. Behind a worn marble counter, a barista works his magic, his hands deftly crafting frothy cappuccinos and delicate pastries with the skill of a seasoned artist. The display case overflows with an array of tempting treats – flaky croissants dusted with powdered sugar, buttery brioche filled with sweet jam, and golden sfogliatelle bursting with ricotta and orange zest. Courtney and her husband sink into a cozy corner booth, the worn leather cushions enveloping them like a warm embrace. As they sip their frothy cappuccinos and nibble on delicate pastries, they can't help but feel transported to another time and place, where moments are savored, and memories are made amidst the simple pleasures of good food and good company. In this quaint cafe, time seems to stand still, offering respite from the hustle and bustle of the outside world and inviting them to linger a little longer, basking in the timeless allure of Florence and the warmth of its welcoming embrace. As they finished their cappuccini, the family heads over to their pasta class. “Ciao, grazie, mille!” Courtney says to the barista, as they exit the café. A sense of wonder enveloped them, as they opened the doors to the building where their pasta class was being held. The interior was a symphony of elegance, with vaulted ceilings adorned with ornate chandeliers casting a warm glow over the polished marble floors. The walls were adorned with paintings depicting scenes from Florentine life, adding to the timeless ambiance of the place. Their host, a jovial, rotund chef with a twinkle in his eye, greeted them with a wide smile that seemed to light up the room. His apron, stained with the colors of countless ingredients, bore witness to his culinary expertise and passion for the craft. Despite his imposing presence, there was an air of warmth and kindness about him that immediately put Courtney and her family at ease. As the class began, the chef guided them through the art of pasta making with the patience of a saint. He demonstrated each step with precision, his hands moving with practiced ease as he kneaded dough and shaped it into delicate forms. Courtney's children, Lennon and Remy, were filled with boundless energy, their youthful exuberance bubbling over as they eagerly joined in the fun. Amidst the laughter and flour-covered countertops, the chef never once lost his composure. Instead, he embraced the chaos with a gentle smile, offering words of encouragement and guidance as Lennon and Remy's playful antics threatened to turn the kitchen into a battleground of flying dough. Together, they embarked on a culinary journey, creating ravioli filled with creamy ricotta, strands of linguine as thin as silk, and cappelletti bursting with savory goodness. With each twist of the pasta cutter and fold of the dough, Courtney's heart swelled with pride as she watched her family come together to create something truly magical. Making cappelletti is a delightful culinary art that requires precision, patience, and a love for tradition. The result is a delightful pasta dish bursting with the creamy richness of the ricotta filling, enveloped in tender pasta pockets that are as beautiful as they are delicious. As the family gathers around the chef, their eyes eagerly fixed on the bubbling pot of water where the pasta they've crafted awaits its transformation, a sense of anticipation fills the air. The chef, with a flourish of his spoon, gently stirs the water, coaxing the cappelletti and linguine to dance amidst the rolling boil. With a twinkle in his eye, the chef turns to Lennon, Courtney's oldest son, who watches with fascination as the steam rises from the pot. "Would you like to give it a try, young man?" he asks, his voice warm and inviting. Lennon's face lights up with excitement as he nods eagerly, stepping forward to take the chef's place at the stove. With careful guidance, he grasps the handle of the pan, his small hands trembling slightly under the weight. With a deft flick of the wrist, he begins to shimmy the pan back and forth, the pasta swirling and twirling in a mesmerizing dance. Meanwhile, Remy, the youngest member of the family, stands on tiptoe, his eyes shining with curiosity as he waits for his turn. The chef, ever patient and encouraging, gestures for Remy to dip a spoon into the boiling water, his expression a mix of awe and excitement as he scoops up a plump cappelletto and blows on it gently to cool. "Give it a taste, young man," the chef encourages, his smile as warm as the Tuscan sun. With a sense of wonder, Remy takes a tentative bite, his face breaking into a grin as the flavors explode on his palate. "It's perfect!" he exclaims, his voice ringing with joy. As the pasta reaches its peak of perfection, the chef carefully lifts it from the pot, the steam rising in delicate tendrils as he lays it out on a waiting platter. The family gathers around the table, their mouths watering in anticipation as they prepare to savor the fruits of their labor. With a sense of pride, Sam, the dad, watches as his family takes their seats, their faces glowing with excitement and anticipation. Together, they raise their forks in a silent toast to the culinary masterpiece they've created, their hearts overflowing with love and gratitude for the simple joys of togetherness and good food.  The chef beamed with pride as he watched Courtney and her family savor the fruits of their labor, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. In that moment, amidst the timeless beauty of Florence, Courtney realized that the true magic of Italy lay not only in its rich history and breathtaking scenery but in the simple joys of sharing a meal with the ones you love. And as they raised their glasses in a toast to new beginnings, she knew that this would be a memory they would cherish for years to come. Magical.

alptse

Escape the Room

Ian cracked open the cookie and pulled out the fortune trapped inside. He studied the slip with a grin as if he had uncovered a secret treasure, but his excitement was short-lived and his happy grin slowly faded as he read the words. “Well…what’s it say?” Danny asked in eager anticipation. He and Mya were standing next to Ian around the large, round table that sat in the center of the otherwise empty room. Darkness in the room gobbled up the light that beamed from their headlamps rendering them all but useless except to illuminate things nearby. Ian began, “ The key to unlocking the truth is hidden beneath the...” He stopped and looked up at Danny and Mya, his headlamp gleaming and dazzling with every head movement. “Beneath the what?” Mya asked, putting her hand to her eyes to shield out his light. “I dunno. It just stops there,” Ian shrugged, unsure of what to make of the riddle. “What? Let me see that,” Danny said. He snatched the paper from Ian’s hand and scrutinized it for himself. He analyzed the little slip thoroughly even putting it to his light to see if the message was concealed beneath some sort of invisible ink. Ian was right. “I don’t get it. Where’s the rest?” Danny said. “Ugh! I knew this escape room was gonna be wack from the jump,” Mya said as miserable as she was annoyed. “C’mon, we just got here,” Ian said. “Could you at least pretend  you want to be here?” “No. Because I never wanted  to come here.” “Look, we can go get manicures and facials after, ok?” Ian mocked, twiddling his fingers in front of Mya’s face. Mya grabbed Ian’s fingers and squeezed. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” he squealed as his knees buckled under the pain. “I’ll let go when you admit that this place is lame and I was right.” “What!?” “Say it!” She squeezed harder. “Ow, ow! Ok, fine. This place is wack!” “And…” “Ow! Ok. You were right!” Mya threw down his hand and smiled, “I know.” Danny crouched beneath the table fidgeting for what he could find beneath it and said, “If you guys are done flirting, can you come over here and help me look for this key?” Ian rubbed his fingers and gave Mya a sharp side-eye before turning his attention to Danny. “Why don’t you just ask She-hulk over here to break us out?” Mya rolled her eyes. “Danny, I’m pretty sure you weren’t the first person to look beneath the table. Why would the fortune be that  obvious?” “Well, where else could it be? There’s nothing else in this room?” Danny popped up from under the table, unable to find anything. He stood and scratched the back of his head. Mya made a good point—why would the fortune be that obvious? They had only an hour before the game was over. They spent the first forty looking in every imaginable place one could look in a room with nothing else but a table and a broken cookie. “This is so stupid. Remind me to never hang out with you two losers again,” Mya fussed, trying the table again. “Hey, you didn’t have  to come,” Danny said, across the room, “you only came because of Iaaann,” he teased. Ian was on the other end of the room and smiled to himself. It was a good thing the room was dark and Mya wasn’t close enough to either of their headlamps, otherwise, her blushing cheeks would have snitched on her. “I don’t like him!” Mya jumped up and slammed her fist on the table. Immediately the table radiated a brilliant white light and the entire room lit up. What they saw shocked them. Couches, lamps, a rug, wall decor, a bookshelf, and more—all strutting upside down from the ceiling above them. “Woooahh…” The three tilted their heads and the room slowly spun from their perspectives. “Um…guys, is it me, or is that a living room?” Ian asked with his head still cocked. “It is. So does that mean…” “…that wasn’t a table I just hit. It’s a chandelier, and we’re on the ceiling…” “Oh, man! Oh, man! I told you guys this place was legit! Are you guys seeing this!?” Ian exclaimed as he pointed above him. They each clicked off their headlamps in the now thoroughly lit room. Ian walked to the center of the room where Mya stood. “Still think this place is lame?” He nudged her and looked up at the cozy layout above. He folded his arms to appear like he was right all along but really, he was hiding his fingers away so she wouldn’t crush them again. Mya rolled her eyes. “Whatever. So how do we get up there?” “I think you mean down  there.“ Danny said. “I don’t know; maybe hit it again?” Ian encouraged Mya. Mya hit the chandelier and the light snuffed out like a blown candle. Again—and the room was lit. “Well, at least we know how to turn the lights on and off.“ Danny examined the chandelier’s round shape. His face scrunched with a puzzled expression while his mind hatched an idea. “Whatcha thinking there, buddy?” Ian asked. “I might be crazy, but what if…?” Danny walked to the chandelier, stretched his hands across, and clasped the sides. With a grunt, he began to turn it like a kid on the Mad Tea Party ride in Disneyland. “Guys, help me out!” Ian and Mya rushed to his aid, mustering the strength to spin the chandelier’s flat, LED top. It turned until it clicked and a loud metallic clank sounded around the room. “Did we just break it—” Ian could hardly get the words to slip through his lips before the room began rotating like the sides of a Rubik’s cube. “AHH!” They screamed as they tumbled down the ceiling and onto the side of the wall. Mya tried to rise to her feet saying, “What in the—“ and again another metallic clink reverberated throughout and pinwheeled the room. “AHH!” They yelled again, rolling down the wall until they crash-landed into the living room onto the couch. Ian fell on top of Mya and Danny onto Ian. “Get off of me!” Mya groaned, shoving the boys off onto the rug. Ian moaned on his stomach as he lay on the floor, “Yeah, this place is definitely getting five stars.” Danny checked his wristwatch and then jumped to his feet. “Guys, we have fifteen minutes left before the game is over. That key has to be around here somewhere. Mya, you check the bookshelf while Ian and I search around here,” he instructed. “I’m sorry…but are we not  gonna talk about how the room just whirled us like a dryer?” “No time!” Danny said, helping Mya to her feet. He began tossing pillows and cushions in the air, desperately searching for the key. Ian began searching behind the paintings on the wall. Nothing. He turned to the tall lamp and stuck his hand beneath the lampshade, fondling for something, anything. Time ticked along and the key was still nowhere to be found. “Wait, guys, I think I found something,” Mya said. She was standing with a book in her hand. It had a latch with a small lock on it and the title TRUTH was plastered on the face of the leather cover. “Oh!” Ian said as he remembered the fortune paper, “The key to unlocking THE TRUTH,” he empathized. “That must be the truth!” “Good job, Ian!” Mya said in a tone used for puppies who learn new tricks. “Don’t patronize me,” Ian sneered, squinting his eyes in disgust. “Ok, great! So we have ‘The Truth,’” Danny air quoted, “but we’re still missing the key.” “I couldn’t find it behind the paintings or lampshades.” “And I doubt they would put the key next to the thing it unlocks,” Mya said. Danny checked the time again. Ten minutes and counting down. “Maybe we’re not thinking creatively enough. I mean, I wouldn’t have guessed that ‘The Truth’ was a literal book or that the room was upside down when we started. Maybe we need to start thinking like the room.” Mya speculated. “The fortune said that the key was hidden BENEATH something.” “Yeah, somewhere BENEATH the ceiling we just fell from. I thought that was obvious,” Ian said. “Or maybe it’s more specific,” Danny replied. He put his hands in his pockets and paced the floor thinking aloud. “The key to the truth is hidden beneath the…what? What makes the most sense?” They each pondered for a moment. Danny checked his watch and saw they had seven minutes left. “…the lie,” Mya blurted. The epiphany was so blatant they could almost see the idea bulb shining over her head. “Huh?” “The key to the truth is hidden beneath the lie!” “Of course!” Danny said, snapping his finger. “The truth to anything is usually hidden behind lies.” “So all we need to do is find the lie. Maybe it’s another book,” Ian said running over the bookshelf. He pulled out a book then another and another. “Or maybe it’s not a thing we’re looking for, but an action,” Mya said. “Go on…” said Ian. “What’s something in this room that lies?” Mya asked. The three searched for a clue and, as if their brains synchronized together, their eyes fell on the rosette medallion fringed rug simultaneously. They glanced at each other and then dashed for the floor tapestry. They grunted and grumbled as they tried to pull up the rug. It was velcroed to the floor, but after a brief tussle, that sweet, satisfying crunch ripped as they peeled it back. They stumbled backward, noticing the small hole in the floor and the key inside. Ian’s heart fluttered with excitement. “I knew it!” “No, you didn’t,” Mya said, sucking her teeth. “Hurry guys, we don’t have much time,” cried Danny. Quickly, he reached into the hole and grabbed the key. Mya had the book ready and together they unlocked it. Inside was another fortune cookie and Ian broke it open like the last. His eyes skimmed across, “Oh, c’mon!” He yelled. “What!?” Danny asked. Ian began, “The key to your escape sits above your…” “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mya said. “Welp, I guess that’s it then,” Ian said as he balled up the little slip, “there’s no way we’re getting back up there, finding the key, and escaping in time.” Danny sighed. “You’re right, we have about three minutes left. There’s no way we’re beating this.” “Great. So we wasted an hour of our lives that we’ll never get back.” “Oh, don’t act like you didn’t have fun,” Ian said, plopping comfortably on the couch, “Even though we lost, you gotta admit you had a good time.” “I had fun,” Danny said. “Admit it, Mya, you had fun too.” “Fine. I’ll admit it wasn’t as lame as I thought. But we still lost.” Ian yawned and stretched his arms wide. “Yeah, well, you can’t win ‘em all,” he said. Ian looked to the side of the couch and saw a recliner lever. He pulled on the lever expecting his feet to fly up in comfort. Instead, a metallic clank sputtered loudly. “Uh, guys—?” The room turned on its side and then again, rolling them like dirty clothes on the spin cycle. They landed back on the ceiling. “Ok, first time was fun… second time… not so much,” Mya said, groaning, rubbing their head as she stood up. “Guys look!” Ian shouted. The lever on the couch broke off in his hand during the spin. It was the key—disguised as a lever. “Of course! The riddle! The key was sitting in the chair that’s now above our heads.” Ian said looking up at the now topsy-turvey living room. “That’s great.” Danny said with a hint of sarcasm, “But we’ve got ten seconds before we lose so let’s use it and get out of here!” Ian, Mya, and Danny ran to to door on the side of the room. Together, with four seconds left to spare, they jammed the long key into the hole and twisted. An unlocking click caused the door to fling open and they jumped out, just as the timer went off. The lady with the Escape the Room  uniform was waiting with a smile. “Congratulations on escaping the room!” She said. “Yes!” Mya screamed. She leaped and hugged Ian before quickly pushing him away. “Ahem,” she cleared her throat, “I mean…whatever…it was cool, I guess.” “Great job guys,” Danny said high-fiving Mya and Ian. “I didn’t think we’d pull it off but, Ian… my man… you really came in clutch back there.” “Ehh, what can I say? It’s what I do.” He shrugged. Their photo was pinned on the Wall of Winners and they each received a little gold key as a souvenir. As they left out of the building, Danny whipped out a list of escape rooms and scratched off the first. “So, which one are we going to next?” Mya asked eagerly, throwing her arms around Danny and Ian’s necks. They shook their heads and laughed. “I knew you wanted to come,” Ian said. “Whatever.” She rolled her eyes and smiled. When the room was reset, it was time for the next group to enter. A father and his teenage daughter strapped on their headlamps and entered the dark room. The door slammed shut and locked behind them. Finding a fortune cookie on the large, round table, the man broke it open and saw the words: The key to the truth lies hidden beneath the…. With his headlamp gleaming in the dark, he looked up at his daughter. “Well, Dad, what’s it say?”

6kgy9b

Fast Magic, And Other Services

As desperate as one can be, I guess, though Raúl, who would never think he would ever need the services of a Madame, but here he was in front of a big blue door surrounded by purple velvet walls and green somber lights. The air was chill and smelled of drunken roses spilled everywhere, and even though he was a supposedly atheist and anti-magic pro-naturalist to his core, there he was. This house of witches served fast magic; always truth at its core, never in its details, customers advised. And here I am. The door opened to an office? A forest? A waterfall? Raúl wasn’t sure, but he needed to be hidden and unseen fast. If his followers were to know- A red little bird crossed his eyesight, danced around his head, and poked his shoulder as his small scream and clumsy steps let him into the office. Finally here! I doubted the cards for a second, said Madame Leo with laughter. She was big, heavy, bright, deep-soil skinned, and loud, with a perfect smile. Her hiking boots, shorts, and sports bra made her seem like she was about to start walking past her office into the forest behind her desk. I mean, it couldn’t be Follow me! No, no. Yes, for my 8:45 appointment, I had written down that a hike is the only way to find the answers you are seeking. It will only be 5 minutes, come! Will anyone see us? Who knows? ༄ Raúl didn’t have a problem walking, and he wanted to make that clear with Madame Leo because he was very connected to the earth and the roots and hugged a tree daily. Even more, he knew if magic were to fade away again, plants would be the only source humans would have of life beyond the animal world and beyond our fears, operations, and hopes. More so, he knew that this magic thing would always be a danger, and he preferred the company of the reliable mosquito buzzing its way to neon lights and death. But after years in between cursed relationships, he knew only magic would be able to undo what magic had done. Tell me, what’s your favorite ice cream flavor? Asked Madame Leo What? Sorry, I paid for the fast-track version of this. I don’t think we have time for small talk. You are entirely correct; ice cream flavor? Your fav? Still struggling to take her seriously but wanting to move on, he admitted his obsession with Vanilla Ice Cream. Plain Vanilla Ice Cream? Yes. Is that because of a sickness, or are you just like that? What do you mean, am I just like that, lady? I’m- First, I am no lady, and second, I see now how that’s your favorite flavor; come here then, this is our spot. She signaled two mossy rocks and waited. What? You need to sit. Wh-Now, please hurry up; we only have a few minutes. And whether it was magic or not, whether he wanted to sit, he ended up with his ass on that rock after a wind knocked him gently. It was easier to ask as few questions as possible. Now, stand up and see what you left behind. He turned to see the dent he had left in the moss bed. He didn’t know what he was supposed to see until the wind pushed him again. Resting on the soil just in front of the rock laid the note that he knew cursed him to this day, but he crushed it a long time ago and left it in his early twenties apartment trash corner. While picking it up, he remembered his band members and the music that would play his life as if he would die any second in a scandalous adventure. Never to confuse it with the somber chimes from where he grew up. The note said, “You are a fucking liar. You are cursed. Your brain will only work in questions when trying to write music, and you’ll never be able to write notes even if you know it by heart.” ༄ He used to fuck around a lot those times. Going out, fender blenders, and blacking out were the norm. There was a space between getting better after a depressive episode and the music would come to him. He would get lost in his studio for months before coming out with a new EP, and his notebook would hold it all, music included. He would be obsessed with the notes he would come up with for weeks, opening and closing the notebook with all of its soul innit. But making art got hard as soon as drugs and benders and getting better stopped working. She remembered her. Red-haired freckled skin, but he couldn’t remember her name for his life. She was good. Better than him. But she was younger, and he knew what he had to do. Twiking, mixing, and magic, and his best EP was out. ༄ You’ll have to jump now, don’t think about it. Run down this trail until you find water and jump with your clothes on. Afterward, get out, find the nearest mint plant, and chew while walking back into my office. Please walk back; my office and their trails do not have an ending site yet. If you have any more questions, I’ll answer them as quickly as possible until your time runs out. ༄ Is this natural mint? Yes! I don’t understand… I thought you would enjoy a cold bath and fresh mint. But how does this help? Oh no, it doesn’t! What? Didn’t you read the note? An honest life is only difficult when you can’t stop lying to yourself; the rest is easy, love. Thank you so much for coming! Come back any day! I knew I shouldn’t have come. ༄ As soon as he closed the door behind him, he felt the warmth of magic near his right side and could catch a glimpse of light from his pants pocket. The note was there again in his life, and as he was about to get it out, a nearby door was slammed loudly. Raúl?

fhbkw4

THE HOMEBODY'S CURSE

I shifted the pack on my back, searching for some reprieve from the heavy load. The blisters on my toes throbbed within the worn leather of my boots. My long hair whipped in the strong wind. The village ahead bustled with activity—farmers leading their flocks back into their pens, wrinkled hands pulling laundry off the clothes line, mothers calling their children inside as the sun’s last rays filtered through the clouds. I aimed my cramping legs towards the saloon, smoothing down the bangs that covered my forehead. The men smoking on the porch took their time looking over me as I pulled myself up the stairs. “You don’t look familiar,” one of them commented, throwing his cigarette bud onto the floor and grinding it with the heel of his boot. “I never will,” I replied as I pushed the saloon’s door open. “I’ll be gone by tomorrow.” Long wooden tables crowded the dirty floor, benches strewed haphazardly between them. Lanterns hung from the rafters, casting light where the late evening rays could no longer reach. Dismayed, I searched the long benches for an opening. I ignored the stares of the regulars as I carefully navigated to the back corner of the space, ensuring my large backpack didn’t touch any of the patrons. My sore legs barked in protest. Thankfully, the man sitting on the opposite side of the table did not look up as I took the last vacant seat. A barmaid hurried over, eyeing my with disdain. “What will you have?” “Water. Mead. Whatever meal is cheapest,” I said around my grunt, sliding my backpack onto the floor beneath my feet. My backpack was so dirty I doubted the unwashed floor could worsen its state. “Is there a room available for me to rent?” “Depends,” the barmaid replied. “What are you here for?” “I’m not here for anything. I’ll be gone by morning, and I won’t be coming back.” She grunted, a sound I could only interpret as approval. “See the barkeep when you’re done. He’ll take you to the room.” I rolled my neck and shoulders, closing my eyes, as she walked away. She hadn’t mentioned if there was a bathing room, but I doubted I would have enough energy to wash. “The barkeep gets handsy,” the man across from me said suddenly. My eyes flew open. The stranger’s gaze remained on his glass, hood pulled over his head. His unkempt hair fell to his shoulders, despite a shaven face, with clothes as worn as mine. I did not respond as I considered him, barmaid returning with the items I ordered. He finally looked up as I drained the tall glass of water in three gulps. I met his gaze. It was not as wary as the other gazes still trained on me, but there was something curious about it. His eyes flickered to my forehead, to the untrimmed bangs that nearly hindered my view. “Thanks for the tip,” I finally said, bringing the mead to my lips. “Care for another?” he asked nonchalantly. “Not really.” He wasn’t deterred by my harsh tone. “Townsfolk say there is a storm coming through here. Apparently these winds are the first sign of a bad storm. You might want to rent that room for two nights.” My heart sunk at his words. I trained my gaze down to my glass, trying to keep the dismay off of my features. The excuse I needed to remain silent caught my eye, and I quickly shoveled the lukewarm food into my mouth. The stranger finished his mead as I finished my meal. The window behind him revealed a darkening sky, the flickering light of the lanterns now casting the saloon in an orange haze. I waited for him to leave, or call the barmaid for a refill, but he merely watched my movements in silence. As if he was still waiting for me to respond. “Do you live here?” I asked instead. “No,” he replied quickly. He leaned forward slightly. “Are you returning home, or just beginning your journey?” Home. The word clanged through me. I felt the familiar, lonely emotion it triggered, but time had trained me how to push it down, shove it aside. In similar fashion, I shoved my empty plate away. “Just beginning,” I lied easily. “And you?” “I think I’m a bit further in my journey than you are.” His gaze became more intense, but I did not shy away from it. I could here an undercurrent to his words—I wondered at the challenge they presented. I could not make sense of his curiosity, whether is was friendly or formidable. “Do you know when the storm will hit tomorrow?” I asked, keeping my tone light. Perhaps I could leave earlier, get ahead of it. He let out a long breath. “They say it will hit in the early morning. I think its coming from the east.” My fingers trembled around the glass I held. Bad news on both fronts. I could not go back west, from where I came. I had no choice but to travel forward tomorrow. To my shock, the stranger reached out a tentative finger, lightly placing it on the back of my trembling hand. I pulled my hands away, down underneath the table. “What’s your name?” he asked, hand still outstretched. “I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” I snapped. “Fine, bite my head off if you wish. From my perspective, I’ve done nothing but help you.” “Why are you helping me?” I asked. He leaned forward, farther than he had before, face mere inches from my own. I was too surprised to pull away. “I think I know what you are hiding underneath those bangs,” he whispered. I felt my heart stutter to a stop as the food in my belly threatened to return to the table. I swallowed it back as I made to swivel on the bench and leave, but he reached for my chin, forcing my gaze back towards his. “I’ve seen you on the road before. Twice now,” he murmured. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but you have clearly forgotten yourself,” I seethed, yanking my chin from his grasp. I reached for my heavy bag and pulled it to my back. He didn’t say anything as I quickly navigated through the saloon’s thickening crowd, towards the barkeep. The large man indeed sized me up as I paid my tab. He gestured for me to follow, and I kept a careful distance as I trudged behind him. I did not glance towards the hooded stranger as the barkeep led me up the creaky stairs to see my room. While the floor was just as dirty as the bar beneath me, I was pleasantly surprised by its state. I called out a thanks quickly before I shut the door on the barkeep, ignoring his grunt of annoyance as I clicked the lock into place. My own grunt echoed his as my backpack slid back to the ground. I counted myself lucky that the room had a small wash closet, even though there was no bath. I approached the sink slowly, eyes on the warped mirror, carefully taking in the face that starred back. My bangs were unruly, thick, covering my forehead well enough that I knew the stranger below could not have seen anything. I took a shaky breath as I brought my still-trembling fingers to my forehead, pushing the hair back to reveal what I could not let others see. To reveal what I could barely get myself to look at. Branded into my skin, burned so deeply that it would never fade, was a large C . The scar was still red after all these months. If I was lucky, in a year or two, the coloring would fade. But the scar never would, the mark always be present on my forehead. As much a warning for others as it was a reminder for me. A reminder that I was a criminal. That I was cursed. And like the scar itself, there was no escaping it. I washed myself as best I could in the pitiful sink, striping out of my worn clothes before collapsing on the bed with a moan. My muscles ached from the constant use, from the unending trek. The exhaustion pulled me under quickly. It felt like mere seconds later when I jolted awake at the sound of thunder clapping, eyes blinking at the gray light that streamed in from the dirty window. The wind howled fiercely, causing the old building to creak and moan. A quick glance told me the churning clouds in the sky were about to unleash something fierce. I needed to go, now. I made quick work of dressing, backpack a familiar weight again on my sore shoulders. I tidied my bangs before hurrying down the stairs. The saloon was empty, the space somehow smaller when it wasn’t filled with patrons. I pushed out the door. And skidded to a halt as I nearly ran into the hooded stranger on the porch. “Right on time,” he said, crooked smile pulling across his features. My hand flexed towards my waist, where I had a knife strapped to my hip. “Are you going to stab me?” he asked, amused. “Yes. Unless you get out of my way.” The wind howled as lightening flashed. The force of it sent my hair back, sent my bangs back. I brought a hand up to my forehead, clamping the unruly hair down as best I could. But I knew my efforts were useless. The stranger’s smile grew. “It seems I guessed correctly.” “What do you want?” I hissed over the sounds of the storm. Most people ignored me when they found out. Some people spat on my boots. But the stranger’s eyes twinkled in a manner I had not seen before. “What were you cursed with?” he asked, ignoring my question. I made to step around him, but he blocked my path, hands up as if he were surrendering. My fingers grazed the leather strap that held my blade secure, but I did not grab the hilt. “Why do you care?” I demanded. It was a crime to do so, to even talk to a cursed person. The wind gusted again, and I gasped. His hood fell down as the storm finally broke. Rain pelted the dusty cobblestone with a dull roar. My eyes shot to his forehead, where a C scared his tan skin. The C was white, skin bulked but healed, as if the mark had been there for years. He did not reach for his hood, or move to cover the mark. “I ask you again, what is your curse?” I gulped, unable to pry my eyes away from his mark to meet his gaze. “To never have a home. To never rest. I cannot stay in one place for more than a night. I must always travel on.” He took a step towards me, closing the small space. His fingers went to my forehead, prying my fingers away. He traced the red C with a light touch. “You and I are the same, it seems,” he mused. “What do you mean?” I breathed, heart in my throat. “What is your curse?” “I mean our crimes are the same, because our curses are the same. I suffer the same fate you do.” I blinked, finally tearing my eyes away from the mark and meeting his gaze. My ears hollowed out as another clap of thunder broke from the dark clouds. “Would you like some company?” he asked, smile still pulling at his features. He brought his hand away from my forehead and instead held it out. Company. The word clanged through me the same way home had. Things they were not supposed to have, or enjoy. Not with their fate. I swallowed back the lump in my throat as I found my fingers meeting his. For months, I had walked on, leaving my family behind. My body ached from the never-ending journey, but the pain was nothing compared to what happened when I stopped. But worse of all, for the rest of my life, I was destined to never establish roots, to never stop in one place long enough to form a connection, to never have somewhere—someone—to belong to. I stepped off of the porch with him and into the rain.

n0z3pu

Story Time

We cling for dear life to order. Everything in its place and a place for everything. But we are just one step away from chaos. We fear chaos because it so often wears a cloak of darkness and it reaches out to us with grim intent, to smother us and choke us in the filth of our own ignorance. Sometimes though, there is a light that dwells beyond our understanding and that light is so very special. That light is meant for us and we are meant for it. It speaks to us in an ancient and silent language. Sometimes we actually listen. Not often, not because we have forgotten that oldest of languages, but because we have become ignorant of what we are and where it was that we came from. Where we belong. If we do deign to listen, we become more than we once were. We fill a hole we did not know that we had, and we make a little more sense as we pass through this fleeting phase of our existence. In our obsessive desire for order, objects have to make sense to us. A knife is something we use to cut things with. A hat sits atop our head. Simple naming words that help us attribute glib meaning to the world around us. Labels that denote use allowing us to go about the business of manipulating our reality into something we feel more comfortable with. The world before us is of our creation. It is not often that we do a good job of its construction and so we tinker and fuss, never content with what we think we have. When my granddad died I was old enough to be an adult, but still unsure as to how to be one. And so I did a half decent job of faking it. It would take me a long while and many more steps along the path of life to understand that I could not let go of the child that I was. Once I did understand this, I relaxed my grip on what I thought was my past state and instead embraced it for what it really was; me . The death of my granddad hit me hard. What was unfair about his death was that it hit the little boy that I was, and still am, even harder. The inevitability of death was an impossibility to me, we stood at an impasse did death and I. I would not accept death for what it pretended to be. There was something wrong here and my pain was worsened by my inability to drag this problem out into the light and examine it under the lens of truth. Like all good boys do, I hid my sorrow and the pain it brought me. I pretended to be less numb than I really was. The days following his death were unreal and his funeral was a badly staged play. The worst of the actors was the one that played my granddad. There was nothing of my granddad there on that day. Silently, I vowed to search for him. I knew he was out there somewhere. I just had to look in the right place and see in the right way. A trick to living that most of us are yet to address, let alone perfect. A few days after my granddad was planted in the ground, I made my weekly phone call to my folks. The phone rang beside my father and he sat and waited for my mother to answer it; it’s never for me, he would say if any of us questioned this pull in the quilt of their lives. Occasionally, he would choose to answer that phone, and I would be reminded that he was not only capable of answering the phone, but also of lengthy and rewarding conversation. More so than when we were in that same room together. This however, was not one of the times that he answered. “Hello Jonnie!” said my mother. Even after all this time with a new phone that identified me, it still gave me the creeps that she knew it was me. I felt predictable, but it extended beyond that. My mother had a knowing that was not natural, and of course she did, because she’d known me all my life and she knew me in ways that I would never know myself. We talked and asked after each other’s lives. I never wanted to talk about a great deal of mine because it caused me further stress to do so. Work needed to stop seeping into the rest of my life and infecting it. It was bad enough that it had entered my dreams and was affecting my time away from the stresses of the physical world. It would take me a further decade to step to the right and see things a little differently and sweat the smaller things a little less. A life lesson I was regularly in receipt of, but didn’t do anything with for far too long. “What was that?” I asked my mother. I felt bad because it was rude not to have attended to her words. My eyes were still open, but I’d been caught napping on the job. The sound of her voice has always been soporific for me. A comfort that preceded my time on this earth. She was the first thing I ever heard and I’d not even been born yet. I’d known this woman in another life and maybe that was why I refused to believe that her father had ended so abruptly. Instead he was still here, only differently. “We’re clearing your granddad’s house,” she told me, “do you want anything?” I paused. There was a lot to take in. Only now did I hear her calling her father your granddad. I had taken that for granted for so long that I ungratefully expected it. He was mine after all. Mine first and foremost. Well, if that was true, then my mother had demonstrated love in one of its highest forms. She had given her dad to me. Given without a word. Given without the expectation of anything in return, not even acknowledgement of this sacrifice. But then, that is what love is. To give. Only, in that truly selfless giving, a person is filled with even more love and is loving in a way that they were not before. That was my Mum right there, and I think she learned some of that from her father. I like to think she learned a thin slice of it in the way that granddad was with me, and I with him. We see things better when they play out in front of us. We are blinded to a large part of how we are in the world and we will never see ourselves other than in the reflections around us, via the people who are the very fabric of our existence. In my pause was a refusal to accept that granddad’s house was being cleared. On the heels of that were thoughts of my siblings and cousins. We were a large family and my granddad’s possessions would be spread thinly. Did I want anything? I wanted him, and that was all there was to it. The thought of his home being deconstructed disgusted me. It was heresy. His own family betraying him and burgling his house while he was out. I swallowed down my sensibilities in respect for my mother. She did not want or need the conscious stream of bilious thought that was hissing inside my mind and bidding me to burp it out. I thought about all the items in my granddad’s house. I was there and I could see it all. So many items with meaning and symbolism that was dear to me. There was something wrong about me coveting his goods. There was a selfishness there, but it went far beyond that. However much I loved and missed that man, I was not about to build a shrine to him. He deserved better than that. As I pondered the most important thing in my granddad’s room, I saw it in my mind’s eye. I saw him where I saw him for the majority of our time together, in his chair. He would sit there for hours on end and regale me with stories, some real and some unreal. I was never sure which was which. Most of the time, we just sat and enjoyed a quiet that was not silence. It was a calm, pregnant with meaning, but mostly it was comfortable in a way that I had never been comfortable anywhere else. “His chair,” I said to my mother. Now it was her turn to pause and in that moment I panicked. I suffered in my imagination, the punchline to my suffering was that the chair had been disposed of. Thrown out with the rubbish in just the way he’d said he wanted to be discarded when death came a calling; just throw me out with all the other bad rubbish.  He’d say this with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, utilising a humour that is the preserve of people of a certain age. “Are you sure?” my mother eventually asked, “it’s seen better days.” “I’m sure,” I told her. The truth of it was I wanted that chair exactly because it had seen better days. I collected that chair the very next day. It didn’t quite fit in my car. I had to tie the tailgate down with a piece of hairy string. This was somehow fitting, and partially allayed my worry that the chair would not fit in my small house or the life I had pieced together within my home. The chair shouldn’t have fitted anywhere other than in granddad’s home. It was out of place in every conceivable way. The too small dimensions of my living room should have been unwelcome to that chair and once it was sat in the corner, it should have been apparent that it had been a mistake to bring it here. That it had only ever worked in my granddad’s living room and it was never meant to have a life beyond that. I think, for a while, all of that and more was the case. It must have been, because I saw it sitting there in my domain and it reflected my loss back at me. It looked sorry for itself. Sad and forlorn, and I entertained the notion of buying a throw to cover it over. I had this overwhelming urge to hide it away, so that I did not have to see it. Another ill thought out act of manipulation. An attempt to make something fit when it never would. A chair though, is not for staring at, and in using it for what it was meant for, it no longer stares at you. In a way, I was compelled to submit to the chair’s purpose and when I submitted to its truth everything changed, and only then did I know why it was that I had chosen the chair. The truth was the chair had chosen me. This was not just a chair. This was my granddad’s chair, and it always would be. It would be mine insofar as it was now in my living room and in my care, but it would never be my chair. This chair would always be my granddad’s chair. He had sat in it until it moulded itself around him and became an extension of who he was. Now, as I sat there in his chair, I could feel him in the world again. I had found what I had been looking for since his death and a great calm spread through me as I reached this understanding. Time slowed and I allowed myself to dwell in a moment that stretched out into other times and places. So many times. So many places. I wondered whether I had ever sat in this chair before. I had a legend of who I’d been and I knew I was a cheeky one. Never quite naughty, but pushing the boundaries all the same. Try as I might though, I could not come up with a single occasion where I had snuck from the sofa to his chair while he was out of the room. There was no recollection of his return to the room to discover my chair related treachery. And yet I knew this was the one item I should have of my granddad’s and I’d listened to it calling and gone along with what on the face of it was the appropriation of a piece of junk. By rights, I should have felt springs threatening to pierce my  back and behind. The chair was lumpy and bumpy and even if it had continued to fit my granddad, I was completely the wrong shape for it. The experience of sitting in his throne should have been like walking in shoes that were two sizes too small. It should have been painful and I should have bled, but I did not. Instead, I sat there and I felt the presence of my granddad for the first time since his death. Then I closed my eyes. I closed my eyes to focus on the familiar feeling I was experiencing and I heard his voice. He spoke to me. He spoke to me just the same as he always had. You’d think that the sudden sound of his voice would have sent a shocking jolt of electricity through me and my eyes would have slammed wide open, but nothing of the sort occurred. There was no surprise in this, only familiarity and comfort. If I cried, then my unnoticed tears trickled down into a smile I’d not experienced for an age. I was that little boy again, and I was back where I belonged, only there was no going back. I was right here and this was now. I relaxed into my granddad’s chair and it relaxed into me. My granddad was never a hugger, but somehow being with him was an endless hug. Now I felt that all over again. A feeling that went beyond feeling into being. The connection I had with a wonderful and special human being. I always knew that my granddad was there for me in a way that no one else could be. His presence in this world was the rock upon which I built my life. He just was. Constantly thoughtful, when he spoke I knew those words were both considered and considerate and that they were made and ordered with me in mind. He cared for me in a way that complimented and transcended the love and care my parents bestowed upon me. He helped me to look up beyond the here and now and dare to strike out and live a life well lived. The first time I sat in my granddad’s chair I was transported to the place where he had moved on to and neither of us were surprised by this. We couldn’t be. This was always meant to happen. Besides, there was no time to waste. Time is the most precious thing that we are gifted in this life. And so he began to tell me a new story and I sat and listened. I sat until it went dark outside and I stayed in that chair until the sun rose again. I should have been tired, but I was as far from tired as could be. I unfurled from that chair and I went out into the world and I lived. I lived more than I had ever lived. I lived the life we’re all supposed to live and maybe I lived it a little more for my granddad. But then, that’s something we’re all supposed to do. We owe those who went before us a debt. On the face of it, it is a debt we can never repay. Granted, we cannot repay it to those who gifted us what we are and so how we will live this life, but that’s the point. We are supposed to pay it forward. Not just to our children, but to everyone around us, and we do that by living a good life and living it well. Loving a good life and loving well. Now I’d found the chair, everything was different. And it was how it was always supposed to be. The chair had sat there in front of me through my formative years and it had waited. My granddad never once told me a thing about his chair and how special it really was. That was not a story for him to tell. But once I found it, I recognised hints and suggestions in his stories. He’d nudged me in the right direction any number of times, but in the end, it was only for me to take those final steps, and I took them towards him. This chair will always be my granddad’s chair, but increasingly, it is mine. And when a certain grandchild of mine spends time in its presence, it will call to them and if they answer that call, it will claim them, and they will see the chair as mine, just as my granddad still thinks of it as his grandma’s chair. Funny really, I see it now and it belongs here. It’s as though it was always here in this living room of mine. And now I can’t quite remember how it looked in my granddad’s house. I can still close my eyes and wander his home and I see everything as it once was. But the chair is a mystery to me. A wonderful, special and ageless mystery that will make a little more sense when my time here has passed and I move on to my next adventure.

n5cgvd

Would you like to see your future?

“Would you like to see your future? I warn you; it is never what one expects!” I had never put much faith in the sideshow attractions at the county fair. This was new to me. Our Podunk town never ever would have allowed a fortune teller to have any access to us good ol people. Us good God-fearing folk. Never. I was amused. Never believed that any of this could ever be what it is cracked up to be. However, here I am, and I’ve just been given the warning of all warnings. Is she for real? Part of me laughed, another was scared shitless. In a tent right out of every movie that leaned on the old clichés of Gypsie! Crystal ball welding, scarf wearing rotund! Mysterious, women in bad lighting. It was right here. No way that this could possibly be what the movies foretold. No way. This was a production, with props. This was a caricature of a movie fortune teller. This was laughable! My skeptical side won out. I chuckled and responded. “I’ll play along!” I expected a crystal ball, on a table, uncovered theatrically by a quick snatching away of some cloth over it. Instead, she looked deeply into my eyes, and asked” are you sure? “Her, hand was held out, open palm, as she asked this. She managed to pierce my recently found bravado, and I wavered. I wasn’t so sure after all. Pride is the bastard son of Satan. I would never admit to being afraid of anything, but I was. The battle was now my admitting my fear, and changing course, or pride, standing up, and inviting whatever dreadful thing that my fear could imagine. I of course chose pride. Backed with false bravado. “My future, is what I asked for, my future is what I shall have!” I hoped to sound brave, nonchalant. A little boastful British air about my words. It all was betrayed by my knees knocking under the table, and a slight quiver of voice. Very slight. I quelled it so fast, I believed that it was impossible to register to anyone. Her look told me elsewise. “I will paint, and you will watch.” she said, menacingly, and of fact. Shook me to my very being. What? No crystal balls. No séance? No rigged shaking of table and chair? A painting? My confidence rose again at this juncture. How could I be afraid of someone painting?  Visions of the Afro guy, and happy trees and birds filled my head. They clouded my rightfully placed foreboding. “So, to be clear, you are going to paint, I am going to watch, and by this, you’ll tell my future?” “Not at all.” She spoke. “I will paint, and fate will speak your future, I am but a vessel.” I often find myself wishing that I had just gotten up and walked out. My hackles were raised, my dander was up, my intuition was at red alert. My most quiet inner voice, was shouting. Leave! Did I not mention that pride is Satan’s spawn? “Come with me!” she said, as she got up from the table. She deftly threw aside a curtain and revealed another room. “Sit here she said, gesturing to a wooden chair that looked ancient, knotty wood. Rough. Right out of Hansel and Gretel, or the album cover for Tea for the tillerman. I sat. I looked up, and before me was a canvas stretched, ready for paint.  A stool and a painter’s pallet, sat between me and the canvas. The gypsy women took up a brush and peered at me as she sat on the stool. “Last chance.” I couldn’t speak but nodded, as proudly and defiantly as I could muster. “I am the painter to the canvas, a vessel channeling, the canvas is your medium, it will speak to you and only you!” She spoke grandly, without theatrics. I wish that she had been theatrical. Perhaps I’d feel less foreboding. “What you see is for you to see, I will see swirls of colors, without form or face. You will see things.” “Among them, your future your future, not all, but enough.” My palms were so very sweaty, my forehead, cold and clammy. Fear lies just below the surface of everything. My bravado, a poor, and very thin veil. A nervous chuckle escaped my lips, its sound surprising me. “Tell her no” By the zombies, wafted through my mind. Too late. The gypsy women didn’t speak another word, she applied paint to canvas. My eyes widened, as I began to see snippets of my childhood, whirling up from the brush, in technicolor. Swirls, I am at the Philadelphia Zoo, holding my mother’s hand, as we examined the elephants. Swirls, my 10 th birthday party, beaming at the military action figure, popular at the time. Swirls 13 sneaking behind the shed with my neighbor Princess, sharing my first French kiss, as our hands fumbled with each other’s clothing, previously unseen body parts and unknown erogenous zones, being found. Swirl, 17, losing my virginity in the backseat of my brother’s mustang. It continued this way. Memory after memory swirling up from the brush, as the gypsy continued to dab and apply paint to canvas. I hadn’t noticed, but my fear had been replaced by wonder, with intermittent pangs of guilt, regret and sadness. It was at once thrilling, and mystical. I was quickly catching up to my current life, and I felt fear making its reentrance into my consciousness. “That’s my wife.” Not sure if I said this aloud, or that I spoke so very loud in my consciousness that I couldn’t tell the difference. Its what I thought, when I first saw her, at a party, 3 rd year Virgina state university. Id transferred there after 2 years at Stevens university. She was first year. That day was on canvas, soon after our meeting, later making out and later still, marriage. Our first-born David, our second Joy. Fear gripped me, as the events of yesterday were up now. Dropping David off at Virginia state as a first-year student. I’m not so sure I want to see anymore. I tried to scream out, STOP, nothing came out. I sensed that she knew that I wanted her to stop, doubt was completely removed, when she spoke without stopping her work, or turning around. “I warned you! it is too late, I cannot stop, once started, it must paint to the end!” There I am at the outside of the tent, looking smug with a skeptic’s sneer. There I am entering the tent. I tried to get up, to run. The knotty, and knurled chair suddenly became animate. It wrapped me with newly formed branches sprouted from the knots and strapped me down. I tried to close my eyes when the next swirl showed me seated as I was. Fresh horror filled me when I could not perform this simple act. My choices were narrowed to one, to watch my future unfurl, good, bad, and not indifferent. I’m, indeed, very vested. “Why were you so afraid to see the ending of this future painting?” Wait! Where am I? How did I get here? These and many other questions raced through my mind. I looked around. Hey, I recognize this place! It’s my therapist office! It all must have been a horrible dream!  The relief was palpable. I felt the underpinnings, of my old pride welling to the surface. I knew that stuff was a bunch of crap! I almost chuckled, it was stifled by the nagging question, how did I get here? “What is the last thing that you can remember?” “I was in the Gypsy’s tent at the carnival.” “What was the last thing that you remember seeing in your painting of your past?” I was about to enter the tent, no, I was seated in a rough chair, strapped in by the chair itself.”  “Let’s have more details. What were you wearing?” “Jeans, a white tee, and sneakers.” Do you remember when you dressed in this attire?” “Yes, I do, Saturday morning before breakfast.”  “What else can you tell me about that day?’  My son and I were preparing to take the Drive to Virginia, for his freshmen year at Virginia state.” “Recount the day for me please. As much as you recall.” “Like I said, I got up, took the dog out, made breakfast for me and my son. We packed up the last of his things and left the house at about 11am. We unpacked. I took him out to dinner and headed home.” “What else do you recall?” “I got in the car and started driving…Doc, how did I get here?” “We have been trying to help you. You haven’t accepted our help.” Hey, what’s going on! Give me a straight answer to my question!” We tried that the last several times.” “What do you mean the last several? How did I get here?” “Tell me again, what were you wearing that day?”  “I’ve already told you! jeans, a white tee, and sneakers, why are you asking again?” “I’m asking again, so that you may see what you are wearing now!” I looked down at myself, my tee shirt was hanging wide open, as if cut by scissors, my jeans in shreds. There was blood on them and my sneakers, I reached up to feel my face, and felt a mangled mess, my fingers gaining entrance, where my right eye should have been. How is this possible? “Is this some kind of trick? “Are you playing some type of sick game?” “I assure you that this is no game.” “Tell me about the gypsy lady in the tent, how did she look? What did you see when she held out her hand for payment?” I suddenly remembered, her palm and fingers were skeletal, they had no skin. “What about her eyes?” I recalled her eyes, I thought that they were reflecting the candles light, but in fact each iris was flames of themselves. “What about me, you called me Doc, you know me yet, when was the last time you saw this office?” “I don’t know I don’t remember.”  “You do remember!” You remember reading the newspaper that morning!” It hit me, Id read in the paper, some 20 years ago, that my therapist, had committed suicide, with a shotgun, his daughter found him in the front yard, laying over a tree stump. “Look at me!” “NO”! I tried to get up, this chair held me as the last, with long metal loops this time, that stretched from its arms and legs. “You will see this time, and you will know” “I DON’T WANT TO KNOW! IT CAN’T BE!” My therapist turned toward me; the entire left side of his face was gone from the chin up. I screamed! “No! I can’t be!” “Yes, you are quite dead.” As dead as I am, as dead as the gypsy women, as dead as everyone who has tried to get you to see. You will live in an endless loop, each more graphic, each more terrifying, because you know the outcome. You just will not see. Until you accept your fate, and by it, accept your afterlife, you are damned to an outer innocence, with an inner knowing from the start, that you are dead!” This time a gypsy, and a doctor, next time …. “Nonoooo!”   BOOM! Suddenly! A loud crash, tires screeching the dashboard is in my face in seconds, glass is flying, lights turning, over, and over, and over. It is so very dark, and I so very cold… Hurry son! let’s get moving! I am proud of you! Move in day at my alma mater! Let’s get a move on! I’d like to be back home before dark......

ts1beu

The Fountain in the Woods

Three weary hikers traveled an overgrown dirt path until the birch trees fell away to an open field. A doe and fawn jumped away due to the noisy disturbance. In the midst of the clearing, stood an ancient stone fountain covered in dew, branches and moss. The still blackish water in the circular basin reeked of bacteria and algae. Early spring daffodils and tulips surrounded the structure, but thorns and thistles imprisoned them. Tall ragweed towers overshadowed three mushroom shaped benches, each equidistant from the stone design. “What is this place?” Emmy asked. “It reminds me of the fountain in town.” She removed her phone and snapped a picture. “It’s so sad.” Mario explained, “Originally, this was a laundry cistern. My family brought the structure over from Italy. My ancestors placed it here as a symbol of their struggle and created a peaceful garden around it. My Pop-pop told me it once was inside our mansion in the foyer. I forgot it was even here.” He held his nose. “It stinks.” Todd ignored their conversation and trudged to the far side of the glade. He reached down and removed a camouflage tarp. Underneath were a gas-powered lawn mower, weed wacker, leaf blower, gloves, two shovels, two rakes, shears of various sizes, pitchforks, pick-axes, a hatchet, and a wood ax. He picked up a rake and shovel and came back to the young couple. “Mario, you’re right, it did come from the old country. But it was a gift from the Castillos, my family, to yours. It was a gift of friendship and to remind us of our connection to each other. No more wars. It was called the White Fountain.”  He handed Mario the shovel and Emmy the rake.  “It’s time to clean it up, together. Have fun.” Todd strolled past them and continued down the path. “Hey! Where are you going?” Mario barked. “I am going to find the water source or natural spring which is currently blocked.” “Wait! Todd! Dad!” It strangely rolled off her tongue, “I’ve never done yard work.” Emmy said. He stopped and looked back. “Daughter, I know you can do it. Ask Mario, I believe he has experience being a tool.”  She said, “You mean with tools.” Tood hiked down the path whistling a happy song. “I told you that he didn’t like me.” “He just doesn’t know you yet.” Emmy smiled. “He doesn’t trust me. I can see it in his eyes.” “Then prove him wrong, Tasanari. He did just leave me, his beautiful daughter, all alone with you in the woods.” She kissed his cheek. “I guess.” He examined the twisted wasteland, smelly water, and decrepit garden. “I don’t know where to start.” Emmy yelled, “Dibs on the lawn!” “Fine. Start on the outside in a circular pattern and make your way to the center. You better put gloves on or your hands will blister. I will tackle the gross fountain.” “Yay!” She put her hands behind her back and swayed back and forth. “Just one thing.” Mario smiled at her. “You are adorable when you do that. What is it, EC?” “Could you show me how to operate the lawn thingy and the other tools?” “Sure.” They held hands as they strolled to the lawn instruments. Mario removed his jacket, while Emmy placed gloves over her manicured hands. She stepped over to the lawnmower. She gripped the long metal handle with a red lever.  “So how do I turn it on?” “With one hand, you hold that lever. “This red one?” “Yes. Good. On top of the engine is a pull cord. With your other hand, you pull that out and it starts.” Emmy reached down and lightly grasped the handle. She pulled it. As soon as she felt resistance, she dropped it and released the lever. “Did it start?” Mario rolled his eyes and walked over to the red machine.   “You have to keep holding the lever and pull the cord harder.” “Oh I see.” She gripped the lever and then pulled the handle. The cord barely moved. “Ouch! Mother flipper! I think I broke a nail.” Emmy whipped off her glove and sucked her ring finger. No damage to the nail. “Let me show you, sweetie.” Mario squeezed the handle and ripped the cord in one motion. The lawnmower roared to life and bellowed white smoke for a few seconds. Emmy cheered. “Yeah! It’s so loud.” She covered her ears and yelled. “Great job!” “Thanks.” He smiled and released the handle. The motor cutoff. “Hey, why did you turn it off?” “Cause I want you to do it? Give it another try.” He moved out of the way. Emmy put her glove back on. She moved into the right position. She quickly pulled the cord. The Briggs & Stratton awakened again. Mario cheered. She almost released the lever but remembered just before the engine stalled. “Awesome. We will be done in no time.” “Thanks. I hope so. What do I do now?” “Push.” “I have to push this thing over all that tall grass. Isn’t there an automatic switch?” “Yes, but not on this model. Be strong. Have fun.” Mario slapped her on the butt. She jumped in the air. He stomped through the underbrush to the fountain and then winked at her. Emmy muttered to the machine as she carved a path through the weeds to the outskirts of the clearing. She made it two complete circles and noticed large green and brown clumps behind her. Bang! She hit something hard and the motor cut off. “Mario! The thing died. I hit a rock or log. Could you help me?”   He tossed down the branches and raced over to her. “Are you alright? I only heard you say ‘help me’.” “Yes. You are sweet. The lawn mower shut off after I ran over a boulder.” “Boulder.” He laughed. “That happens on occasion. Let’s see what you found.” He pulled the machine back. They found a large broken engraved stone in the shape of a shield. He lifted it up and black ant swarms scurried for cover. Their colony had been disturbed. “Eww! What are those?” “Ants, harmless.” He examined the engravings. “It’s Latin. It’s part of my family crest.” “Can we move away from the ants? They seem angry!” “It’s broken off from a large piece.” He looked around the field. “Mario, they are crawling on you!” He moved a step away and shook his leg. “I bet there are more of these around.” “Ants?” Emmy screamed. “No. These stones. Let’s find them.” He walked back to the fountain and gently placed it down in a clearing. Emmy followed directly behind him.  “You really didn’t spend any time outside as a kid?” “No. Bugs are so creepy." She shivered. "They are still crawling on you!” Mario brushed off two ants. “I thought Tood was just blowing smoke when he claimed this fountain was a gift from his family. You know, to help us work together better. According to the lore, the White Fountain can grant wishes, for a price.” “It’s just a fairy tale. You mean my family. Tood, rarely lies and is not spiteful.” “Emmy, he called me a tool.” “Okay. Nevertheless, he knows the family history and wants this union to work. I want this union to work.” She kissed him firmly on the mouth. “Can we move away from the creepers, please.” She hid behind him. “I do too." He flicked a final insect from his sleeve. "Let’s find the stones.” Within five minutes, they found the second one next to the fountain. The third and fourth were under a fallen walnut tree. Mario chopped through the dead tree to retrieve them. Emmy assembled the pieces and determined there was either one large fifth remnant or two smaller ones remaining.   Mario went back to clearing up the fountain. Emmy began to master the lawnmower. He showed her how to fill it up with gas and how to cut the grass meticulously. Her circles were crooked but less clumps. Mario fired up the weed wacker and cleared off the marble benches. He discovered red bricks around the fountain and three brick paths buried under mounds of dead leaves and soil. Mario carved the debris away along the edges. The couple shoveled the layers away from the bricks.  They soon piled dead branches and sticks away from their work. When a cold wind blew, Mario found matches and started a small fire. Emmy struggled to cut the small branches with a tomahawk. They weeded around the flower beds and discovered four small rose bushes, two red and two white. Emmy found a pail with the tools and began removing the black water from the fountain base. Emmy barfed when she scooped up a dead robin and it touched her skin. Mario continued as she recovered. As the water lowered, Mario discovered the last piece of the engraving. He drained the pool as Emmy finished the stone puzzle. She read it to herself, shrugged, and she snapped a pic. She stepped back from the fountain and digitally captured all their hard work. They added wood to the fire and finally sat down to rest. Emmy sat on his jacket. She leaned her head on his shoulder. He placed his left arm around her. His right hand stoke the flames. "This place looks better. We did lots of work." Emmy said. “I am so hungry and thirsty.” Mario said, “I should have brought a water bottle or a snack.” “Me, too. What time is it?” He put his fire stick down. “It’s almost noon.” “Mario, do you hear that? It’s a gurgling, bubbling sound.” He listened. “I hear the fire crackling and some birds tweeting.” She scratched her head. “It’s the fountain. It’s filling up!" They sprinted to the dirty structure. Clear water slowly filled the basin. Mario touched it and waved his hand in pain. “Is it hot?” Emmy asked. “No, iceberg cold.” He grabbed the pail and filled it up. “What are you doing?” He dumped the freezing liquid over the stones. The dirt, debris, and ants washed away into the ground. “I want to read it. Whoever reads the whole inscription gets his wish fulfilled. One more should do it.” Emmy remained silent. He dunked the bucket again into the now rushing water. He splashed the engraving again. As he turned back to get more, the fountain erupted into a geyser of pure spring water. He and Emmy were instantly drenched and freezing.  “Mmarrriooo, lloookkk.” Emmy shivered. The saturated stones weld into a cohesive white marble and the massive cracks vanished. Mario and Emmy touched the polished stone. They stepped back from the beautiful fountain and realized the continuous fresh water had not only cleaned the base, but the bricks as well. The trees rustled. A familiar shadow emerged from the path carrying a large metallic pole.  Todd strode directly to the fountain and slammed the pole into the middle of the gushing water. The white engraved stone rose six feet into the air and magically attached to the silver staff. A bright blue wave of energy exploded and then rippled from the fountain into the surrounding woods. The dripping man faced them. An ethereal light emitted from the white marble. Todd scrambled to the young couple. A godlike voice echoed through the waters. “Who has restored the White Fountain, the Fountain in the Woods, and cleansed the Eternal Waters.” “We have O’ Greatest of Oasis. We seek your blessing and guidance.” “The father, the daughter, and the enemy are allies and friends. For your acts of kindness; all you ask of me will be granted. What blessings do you seek?” “Wisdom to rule and defeat our true enemy.” Tood said. Emmy spoke, “Resurrection of my father’s kingdom.” Mario said, “Peace and prosperity for our people” The Eternal Waters spoke to Todd first, “Your enemy lurks near and stands ready to pounce at any weakness. The attack will come soon from the north, but your eyes will not see it.”  It’s attention focused on Emmy and Mario. “From your loins the kingdom will rise to greater glory. Beware, others seek to steal your love away. Peace is close at hand for you. Your offspring will not see you prosper.” Tood asked, “What guidance can you give me?” “Dodge to the left.” Water splashed and blocked his vision, “Wha…” A metal pitchfork pierced through his stomach. Emmy screamed. Blood gurgled from his mouth and gushed from his torso. He kneeled in the dirt and crashed to the wet bricks. He died facing south. Mario scurried away from the fountain, bloody tool in hand, and sprinted toward the woods. A hatchet zipped in the air and flew at the assassin. It embedded into the base of his skull. Blood splattered as he tumbled to the ground, twitching. Emmy ran to her lover and ripped the hatchet from his head. A final blow finished him off. Dots of crimson stained her face and clothes. She dropped the weapon. “Rest in peace, sweet Mario.” She affectionately cupped the outer parts of her jacket. “Your son shall rule both kingdoms.” She returned to the waters. “Thank you great fountain for your warning about his treachery. I understood your puzzle. I am forever in your debt.” She bowed and spotted her father’s body. “Your empathy and bravery shall mark your long reign. You are more than you appear. Child, why have your eyes become fountains?” “My father did not deserve to die in this manner.” She wept. “I shall grant you this mercy. After I diminish, make him drink from my waters. He shall not remember what occurred. Keep the waters clean, my Queen, and I shall serve you, forever.” The glow faded. The metal pole lowered and white marble sank into the bubbling geyser. The simple fountainhead covered the engraving and it resumed its renewed and lovely appearance. A soft gurgle reverberated from the clean quiet pool. She snatched the pail, filled it, and rushed to Todd’s side. Tender hands lifted his head to her lap. Crisp water cascaded into his throat and rolled down his face. The puncture wounds disappeared and his clothes weaved back together. Her father coughed up the water, but remained unconscious. Emmy whispered, “Thank you, Fountain in the Woods. Until we meet again.” 

nofzxa

Passing Signs

 She couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t in this truck. The humming of the tires on the asphalt droned on forever, a constant note which was both comforting and ominous. Landscapes changed, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. Grassy hills gave way to dark, misty forests, then desert sands stretched out as far as could be seen on every horizon except for one. Before her, across the flat sands as the road disappeared from view there was a beautiful mountain range.    Even from the highway it could be seen that the peaks were full of life. The mountains were dark green all the way to the top. Behind the mountains there was a radiant light which outlined them with bright beaming rays pouring out into the sky.   Sometimes the mountains seemed very close and Kyra believed she could see tiny dots on the closest peak. She imagined these to be trees or possibly houses. But other times the mountain seemed very far away, with clouds covering them and the light beyond the mountains being barely visible.    Kyra longed to be in the mountains, but she was also excited about her present journey as well. Deep in the recesses of her mind she could remember awakening for the first time. She found herself lying on the soft, cushioned seats, blinking her eyes and peering out of the window, fascinated with the world that unfolded before her. She was surprised to find that the vehicle was moving all on its own. The speedometer always showed the same speed with only one exception. Each night, the truck would pull over beside the road and stop.    At this point she would get out, perform any maintenance that was needed and then stretch onto the bench seat and drift off to sleep. The next morning the truck was always moving forward again at the same speed. How or when it started in the night she did not know. This had been going on for so many days and nights that she was now quite used to the routine.    She had recently passed the 19th signpost. You see, after many days and nights of this routine a signpost would appear. It was always a large, green sign with a curved symbol on it that she could not understand. She always counted each signpost as they only appeared every once in a long while.    The 19th signpost came into view during a time when the landscapes were changing quickly. Kyra was enamored with the beautiful, flowing fields that came into view on the horizon ahead of the more recent desert sands. A small, white chapel could be seen in the distance with orchards and fruit trees and many other things which were interesting and unknown to her. Each turn in the road brought these rich and wonderful lands closer.   She had recently grown much more fond of her truck in the time that she had passed the last few signposts. The nightly maintenance routine had become longer and longer. While she used to only focus on the essentials such as cleaning the windshield and wiping down the headlights, now she had added in all types of new tasks such as waxing the entire exterior, adding shine to the tires and a whole list of other small things to keep the truck looking immaculate and new.    One evening as she had stopped on the side of the road she heard a voice call out to her from somewhere ahead.  “Hello Kyra!” She jumped and almost dropped the towel she was holding. It was a man with a long, brown beard and simple clothing. He seemed to be both old and young at the same time. His eyes were deepened by his travels on the road, yet his face was youthful and full. “Where did you come from?” Kyra said, looking around. She was searching for another vehicle but there were none to be seen. “I am Johan, a guide for journeyers such as yourself. I have traveled this road for much further than you have, past the sixtieth signpost.” “The sixtieth? Surely you have been up in the mountains then?” Her heart leapt as she pointed ahead to the glistening peaks which seemed so near. “No,” said Johan, “But I am getting closer. You see, not everyone reaches the mountains after passing the same signpost. It is possible that you may reach the mountains before I do.” She frowned and turned back towards the truck, running the towel across the hood. He continued, “Listen, there are a lot of things that you don’t fully comprehend, things you have heard but can’t possibly understand now, as your journey has only carried you to the nineteenth sign. I came to advise you.” She set her towel down on the hood of the truck and leaned back against the bumper with arms folded. Something within her said that she should listen to this man, but she had never spoken to someone with this level of intensity and directness. It was unnerving. Johan said, “It is best that you learn what is important now, while it is early in your journey. You have been neglecting yourself.” “That’s not true!” “It is true.” ”I have been working tirelessly to maintain the truck! As you have told me, there are many signposts ahead to be passed. I have worked hard to keep my vehicle in the absolute best shape it can be!” “I’m not talking about the vehicle, Kyra. It is good that you maintain it so well. And you may be right about the signs ahead. But I am talking about you, not the vehicle.” “Me?” “Yes. When was the last time you ate? Your face is thin. Your eyes are tired and red. Your hair is a mess. If you continue like this there will be much wasted time.” “I am doing fine. Honestly, it is insulting that you would talk to me this way!” said Kyra, hurriedly pulling her hair back and wiping her face with a quick brush. “Don’t you see the beautiful fields ahead? The chapel? There is so much to learn, so much to be seen that I have never experienced. I’m fine, really. Thank you for your concern, but it is getting dark, I need to get going.” Johan sighed. “Kyra, yes there are many enjoyable places ahead of you, But you must not forget to nurture yourself. The real you. Your truck is in excellent condition now, but one day it won’t be. You will live forever, but it will one day come to an end.”    Kyra barely heard the end of Johan’s pleaing words. She jumped back into the truck and slammed the door. Dark was creeping in quickly now and she curled up on the seat, falling asleep within minutes. The next morning she awoke to the familiar hum of the tires on the road. Beautiful skies and flowing fields streaked by her as each day seemed more exciting than the last.    She forgot all about Johan and his warnings. The truth was, she knew he was right. But there was so much to look forward to in the days ahead. So she shut his words out from her mind and only focused on the scenery around her.   As the days continued the signposts began to pass faster and faster. Soon they almost seemed like a blur as they streaked by the window. The road became rougher in places, asphalt turned to gravel and then back to asphalt again.    The truck was not running as smoothly as it once had. Recently she had noticed some squeaking sounds when the truck would slow down at the end of the day. Also, the handle in the glove compartment had broken off. The outside of the truck was also beginning to show signs of age as well. No matter how much she cleaned and waxed it, it didn’t shine as well as it used to.   She began spending more and more time with her maintenance routine, staying up late to perform it and sleeping less and less. She spent greater amounts of time thinking of new ways to keep it as clean and beautiful as those early days, sometimes it seemed that this was the only thought in her mind.   One evening she had spent more time than ever attempting to restore the truck to its former glory. Sweat dripped off of her frail body as she took a few paces back admiring her work. In the last rays of the sunlight the vehicle looked good, but not the same as it was long ago. The frame had begun to sag, there were also many chips in the paint from the gravel roads. Signs of wear had begun to show on many parts. She also could see that the tire treads were becoming more and more shallow.    She sighed and fell to her knees, panting from exhaustion. It had been a while since she had truly stepped back and looked at the vehicle from a distance. Tears formed in her eyes and she didn’t bother wiping them away. For a long time she sat there, motionless as the last sunlight faded and the vehicle became one with the blackness behind it. A quiet stillness surrounded everything.   Her tear-stained eyes turned from the dim outline of the truck to the road ahead. Even at night the light shone from behind the mountains, illuminating them against the sky. Far down the road she could see the silhouette of a man walking toward her. He wore light colored clothing and walked slowly and deliberately. It was Johan. As he approached, Kyra could see that his beard was longer, but even after all this time he did not appear to be any older. She watched him approach as clouds covering the moon moved away, brightening the grassy field around them. “Hello Kyra,” he said as he came close enough to speak. She looked down. He went on. “You don’t look well. What is troubling you?” He waited for a moment and when there was no reply he sat down in the grass next to her, both of them looking at the vehicle before them and the land which stretched on toward the mountains. “Kyra, have you thought of what we spoke about when we last met? Or have you forgotten? I have passed the eightieth marker now. I can smell the sweetness of the mountains before me. I’m getting close to the end of my journey. I came to see you, to know what you have learned as you have made your way through the lands beyond the 19th sign.” He shifted to where he was looking directly at her and continued, “Kyra, you know that your vehicle will not continue to carry you forever. You should take care of it, but you must focus on what is greater. Your vehicle is made of this earth, which is both beautiful and fallen. It won’t be able to ascend into the mountains. One day it will stop moving forward and then you will have to leave it behind. In some ways, this will be a day of sadness but also of new life. It will be a fulfillment of what you truly long for, a great change from the temporary to the eternal” “I know this,” Kyra said, “But I’ve never been without the vehicle. It seems like it is my whole life. I really can’t imagine leaving it behind. Last time we talked, I knew what you were saying was true, but… I guess… I just thought I had more time.” “You must not allow your life to be wrapped up in this vehicle, Kyra. It will break down and stop one day. Focus on the building up of what will last in the age to come, what will go on into the mountains when this vehicle turns to rust. You are a living soul, and the frame of this vehicle will one day crumble. You must feed yourself, Kyra. Seek to rid yourself of the cursedness of this earth to prepare for the world beyond. Leave this obsession with the temporal and move to thinking of the eternal. Do you remember the words of your Creator? This vehicle is a gift, and you should take care of it. But don’t hold onto anything in this world too tightly, or you will be greatly disappointed as your journey here draws to an end.” “I guess I’m just afraid.” Kyra said, “It’s hard to trust in what will be, when all I have known is this world. I do long for the mountains, but I am afraid of the change.” Johan stood up. “Kyra, you must trust in your Creator and believe his words. Did He not give you this truck and supply you with this world around us? Yes, it is broken and cursed from our sin but His goodness is still reflected in it. His mercy is shown in every sunset and flower. He placed you here, and He placed the longing inside you for the land beyond the mountains. For a greater land. And besides, if he supplied you with this vehicle for this world, do you not think he is capable of providing you with another, better one in the next? Trust Him and grow in your longing for what is to come, loosen your grip on your life as it is now.” With these words Johan stood up, turned and walked back towards the road . The light beyond the mountains outlined his body as he slowly disappeared from view. This was the last time that Kyra saw him.  Her life contained much more joy after this meeting she had with Johan. In the days to come her eyes were focused more than ever on the mountains ahead. They seemed closer now, and the light behind the mountains grew brighter. The signs continued to pass by as time went on, faster and faster. Her truck continued to show more signs of wear each evening as she performed her routine, but her heart no longer was intertwined to the metal frame of her vehicle. In a strange way she also had a different, deeper appreciation for it. She grew in her understanding that it was a gift which was meant to be used. It was given to be worn and spent as it carried her on towards the glistening mountains on the horizon.    The hum of the tires droned on. The road continued to wind to and fro with landscapes changing, sometimes slowly, sometimes rapidly. Her vehicle rattled and squeaked each night when it came to a stop. This didn’t cause her to be afraid. She was a soul, not a body of rust, and that is all that mattered. 

pmrgfk

Killian and the Runaways

 Killian frowned, because it was raining cats and dogs, and the dish had run away with the spoon. He wasn’t quite sure which one was more usual or unusual. On the one hand, it was unusual for water to be composed of domesticated animals, and on the other foot his cookware was usually more well-behaved. He surveyed the various appliances arranged in his workshop, neatly stacked and ordered, all sitting quite still but ready to leap into action. He then turned back to the window, through which, struggling through smatterings of canids and felines, his newest dish and oldest spoon were quite decidedly fleeing. He shook his head. This just wouldn’t do. Exiting, he commanded his works, “Now don’ ya be gettin’ ideas now. I’ll be back soon, and ya better all be sittin’ here, in yer places!” The crockery and appliances tooted and clattered and whistled their various acquiescences as the door swung shut behind him. Now in his hallway, the artisan considered his various umbrellas and jackets. What did one take for a deluge of domesticates? He eyed the inclement weather out his doorlight, then cast his gaze over his rainwear. “Not the light jacket, no,” he muttered, “why, I’ll be shredded by claws in’an instant! Then, the trench?” He picked out a long, thick trenchcoat. The coat in question sighed in pleasure just at his touch. “Hmm, I’s left ya too long, eh? No gettin’ frisky now!” He shrugged the coat on, and it settled a loving embrace across his bent shoulders. A hat, far more well-worn, jumped on his head without prompting, earning a chuckle from his grizzled throat. He picked out an umbrella, a heavy thing that was quite uncooperative when he tried to open it. “Come on, we’ve no time fer this!” Killian growled. The umbrella was stubborn, and old-fashioned, and would not open inside, simply not! “Fine then!” he snapped, and bustled out the door. He was met by a tide of fur and yowling. Not a step beyond the porch the adverse animals were tumbling and rolling all about. The cats, being liquid, were tolerating being rain quite well. The dogs were faring poorly by comparison, and most of the noise was coming from them. The artisan squinted, his heavy umbrella finally flowering to shield him from the downpaw. Through the wall of flesh and claw he espied his wayward works, skittering through flailing limbs and flashing teeth with troublesome ease. He scowled, and set off after them. His umbrella did its job with aplomb, bouncing both burly beast and fierce feline off course and into the gutter. It did nothing to part the sea of animals already landed, however. These Killian brushed through, earning both protestation and copious side-eye from creatures pushed aside. “Oh, shut it!” he grumbled after the seventeenth protest, “ya’ shouldn’t be fallin’ from clouds anyhow!” As if his observation had been heard by some distant god, the rain stopped. Killian cast looks of astonishment all about, seeing only dirt dry of both cat and dog. He considered the dark clouds still gathered above, a bushy brow raised in suspicion. These seemed to consider him back, huddled together like a chorus of wintering sparrows. He raised his free hand to close his umbrella, then stopped. The clouds roiled as he moved, freezing as he did. He lowered his hand, keeping a firm grip on the stodgy implement with the other, and forged on, pointedly ignoring the nimbus above him. The cupple of dish and spoon had made sterling progress in his moment of pause, and Killian was hard-pressed to make up the distance in his pursuit. He was not a young man, and his years of hunched work had not been kind to his bones. He could barely recall the last time he had walked this much. Must’ve been the marathon, he mused . He shook the faint memory from his craggy head. Best not to dwell on the past, or so was his motto. The crockery wouldn’t catch themselves, after all! As he trudged on, umbrella now a parasol before the sun that split the mischievous clouds, he pondered why the dish and spoon might have taken their flight. Had he mistreated them? Had the plate fallen to the floor, had the spoon been left too long to rust? He couldn’t recall such transgressions. That aside, his works had never before been rebels, even in the face of poor care and worse upkeep. He’d been sometimes disturbed as to the uses his clientele put them up to. “Maybe that’s why yer such a poor salesman,” he thought aloud, “too soft!” The trenchcoat shivered at that, and his hat laughed a clothly laugh. The umbrella sat, stiffly, focused on its work. He didn’t ask them what they meant by their reactions, as he knew they wouldn’t tell him. Killian’s walking and thinking was interrupted when he noticed the stranger that was suddenly walking beside him. He’d appeared out of thin air… no, he’d been there the whole time, but had gone unnoticed. He was holding a stopwatch in one hand, a spyglass in the other, and wearing a tophat with his head. The hat held instruments in little bandoliers all up and down its length; rulers and tape measures and little brass thermometers. Below the hat was a bespectacled face, below the face a short, smooth length of neck, and below that a three-piece suit missing a jacket. The individual thus described turned his head to Killian, nearly poking the latter’s eye out. His spectacles extended far beyond the confines of standard eyeglasses, the lenses sticking out like cones. “Hold this, would you?” he said, grabbing Killian’s hand and filling it with the stopwatch. “Be back in a minute.” He disappeared. Disconcerted, Killian found his eyes drawn inexorably to the watch, though he managed to keep some attention on the runaways. Exactly ten-point-five-two seconds later, the besuited man reappeared. “That wasn’t a minute,” Killian found himself saying, “that wasn’t even eleven seconds.” The man took the stopwatch back, his thin eyebrows vanishing under his hat. “Right you are, sir, though it should have been a minute. Likewise, you should have walked a mile, but-” he raised the spyglass to his eye, his cone-lens swallowed by its brass length “-it’s only been ten feet.” Killian turned around, and was quite annoyed to see that he was still in his front yard. “Bollocks,” he swore, “how’m’I supposed t’get my spoon and dish back?” “Your dish and spoon?” the strange man inquired, “why, they’ll be back soon. A year or two.” He looked at his watch. “Or ten minutes ago. Did you check your cupboard before you left?” Killian was quite irritated now. The man was unhelpful, perhaps even unhelp itself. He seemed more of the type to insert complications. “Look there,” he commanded, pointing at the fleeing cupple, still plain in view, “are they in the cupboard?” The man looked at the running dinnerware, then back at Killian’s run-down cottage, then back to the road again. “Perhaps a very long, theoretical cupboard,” he postulated, then smiled as if he’d said something clever. Killian, quite finished with this tomfoolery, left him in the dust. He marched, firmly and steadily, ignoring the urge to turn around and view his progress. He was tired, but took heart in the fact that his prey must be tired, too. Their legs were littler, and working much harder. He resolved, when finally he caught the cupricious pair, to first chastise, then spoil them. Whatever he’d done to make them flee he would correct. If only they’d let him catch up! He stopped, because he could no longer see the dish-spoon combo. Disbelieving, he gazed all around, but saw nothing but desert. Desert? Yes, it seemed that way. The sand and rocks and pale sky above said, ‘desert’ more loudly than a shout. He lowered his umbrella in bewilderment and was immediately hit by a cat. He cursed loudly and shook his fist at the clouds now fleeing and sniggering. The cat looked at him with distaste and then boiled off the tarmac road. “What?” he asked the empty dunes. “Need a ride, sir?” A car had driven up silently. The way it looked at him with one headlight as he stepped to the window marked it as the work of one of his fellow artisans. The woman driving was hard-faced and short-haired, and her eyes twinkled with a touch of feverishness. “No, thank you,” he declined, “but, say, have y’seen a dish’n’spoon runnin’ along lately?” The woman squinted at him. “You one o’ them crazies, old man?” The question took him aback. “No, just lookin’ for a cupple runaways, s’all.” The woman’s eyes opened wide, and she spat at his feet before rolling up the window and driving off. Killian watched her go with bewilderment. “What was that about?” he wondered. “Some don’t take too kindly to that kind of talk, I guess.” Killian whipped around to find the man from before, sitting on a bench that hadn’t been there a moment ago. He had a long, white beard now, and his skin was wrinkled and cobbled, much like Killian’s own face in the mirror in the morning. He smiled a gap-toothed grin. “Especially these days.” he finished. Killian glared at the man with unconcealed irritation. “I don’t have time for this,” he spat, then turned away and continued walking. “Where are you going?” the man called after him. “Anywhere but here!” he shouted. “Better stop walking in place, then!” Killian looked down at his feet and was apoplectic to discover that he was, indeed, lifting his legs and placing them back in exactly the same spot. “What is-” he whirled around, but found only empty forest “-going on?” He was definitely in a forest, though it was hard to see it for the trees. There were so many, so crowded together, that it might have actually been just two long walls of living wood along the dirt road. As he tried to comprehend the failure of reality to conform to its well-established rules, he felt a tugging at the hem of his trousers. He looked down, and there was his oldest spoon. He was shocked at its condition, tarnished and rusted and bent. It looked like it had been kicked to the curb, jumped on, then left for a few decades. “Spoon?” he choked, “what on earth…” He was stopped by the sight of what lay not far beyond. The dish was shattered, trying its best to reassemble itself. He dropped to his aching knees, laying the umbrella down and gathering the pieces of plate together as quickly as he could. “How did this happen? Oh, ya foolish crock!” he scolded, as he tenderly placed each morsel in its proper place, “oh, whatever I did t’ya, I’m sorry, but it can’t’ve been worse than this road!” The dish skipped out of his hands right before he finished putting it back together. It didn’t break again, but cracks spiderwebbed out from the middle of it. “Steady now, steady now! What’s gotten in’t’ya?” It backed away from his attempts to approach on his knees, wobbling precariously with every porcelain step. “Okay, okay,” he placated, fingers spread, “I’ll not hold ya. Just let me put this last piece back, eh?” The spoon walked over to the dish and propped it up, steadying it. They seemed to converse, then the dish took a hesitant step towards Killian. Carefully, without grabbing it, he slotted the last shard back into the dish’s reconstituted body. It trembled at his touch. Killian sat back, wiping the sweat from his brow. “The devil’s gotten into you two?” “I might be able to help there,” came a voice from Killian’s shoulder, causing him to fall over in shock. The man was there again, younger than the desert and older than the yard. Long, stringy hair dripped down his shoulders, and his clothes were patched and tatty. His smile had fewer holes in it here. “I’ve been on the lookout for you,” he said, then thumbed towards the cupple, “they have, too.” Killian scrambled back, and immediately was somewhere else. Buildings rose into the high heavens, taller than he’d ever seen, and people tided about in waves of business and pleasure. His breath was ragged and he coughed, the air feeling thick in his lungs. The clinking of coins drew his attention to his hat, which had fallen from his head. He grabbed it and stood, brushing off the filth and letting the money drop. He cast about for his umbrella, but couldn’t see it anywhere. “Looking for this?” The man was there again, looking as he had in their first encounter. He had Killian’s umbrella, which the craftsman snatched from him. He stroked the implement, which was trembling with indigence at having been left behind. “Who are you?” he demanded. “I’ll tell you,” the man said placatingly, “but don’t move, we’re a little unstable.” Killian had no intention of finding himself altogether somewhere else, so he agreed. “My parents called me Present, though I’m no gift,” the strange man joked, “and I’m a time inspector.” “What?” “A time inspector,” he repeated, “y’know, like a surveyor. I inspect time and space, make sure it’s all working.” Unwilling to move towards him and risk travelling to another place, Killian poked the man with the tip of his umbrella. “You’re doing a poor job of it, then!” he accused, “my time’s been wasted and my space is all out of wack! Why, it was raining cats and dogs earlier!” As if to punctuate his complaint, frogs began to fall, eliciting sighs and eye-rolls from passers-by. “Stop that!” Killian snapped at the clouds. They listened, and a few people shot him grateful looks. Present had observed this all with a little grin that made him look like a goblin. “It’ll all be sorted out soon, sir,” he assured, “just a little hiccup. You understand, being an artisan yourself.” “Artisan?” he exclaimed, “the management of time and space shouldn’t be left up to artisans!” Present, amused by the outburst, replied, “would you rather politicians handled it?” He had a point there. “Fine,” he acquiesced grumpily, “how long will this take?” “About ten seconds.” Exactly one minute and twenty-three seconds later, the universe bent and twisted. The buildings warped, the people burst into abstract patterns, and the sky went opaque. Only Killian, Present, and the road were untouched. “Just a little reset, sir!” Present shouted over the sound of overwhelming static, “you’ll be home in a jiffy!” “Why did the dish run away with the spoon?” he asked. “Excuse me?” Present yelled. “I said,” Killian began, louder this time, “why did the-” The world snapped like a rubber band, and suddenly they were standing on the little track outside Killian’s house, just beyond his gated garden. Before he could finish repeating his question, Present lay a hand on his shoulder. “Because they thought you wouldn’t let them leave if they asked.” He smiled one last time, and was gone. Killian stood there, staring at the empty space where the time inspector had been. He thought about the woman who’d spat at his feet when he called the dish and the spoon ‘runaways’. In all his years as a living craftsman, he’d never wondered if his works might want things for themselves. Clearly, they did. The coat liked to be worn, the hat was adventurous, the umbrella took its job seriously, and the cupple had fled. He looked down the road. The dish and the spoon were running, but they hadn’t gotten far. With reality all back to normal, he could catch up, even with his weak legs. It started to rain, water this time, though the clouds seemed a little disappointed at this. He watched them a moment longer, then turned and walked back into the house. The umbrella closed before the door did. Killian wiped it down with his hands before carefully replacing it in its holster. The hat jumped off his head back onto the rack. He promised it another adventure tomorrow. The coat hung listlessly off of his shoulders, weighty at the thought of being replaced on the hook. “S’a bit chilly in here,” Killian declared, not looking down, “I’d best keep me coat on.” It perked up, hugging him from sleeve to collar, and he let the tiniest smile play across his lips. He re-entered his workshop. Everything was in its place, from his tools to their children, his works. Utensil and cookware and furniture alike greeted him, and for the first time he could see the fear in them. “The dish and the spoon’ve made off,” he said, “they’ve decided to be a cupple, far’n’away from all this...” he hung his head “...from me.” He gathered all his willpower. What he was about to say wasn’t easy, but he knew it was the right thing. He looked back up. The gathered items were hanging on his words. “Any’n who wants to leave, may.” After much hustle and bustle, decisions were made. Most of his works left, along with some of his tools. His trusty hammer, his brand-new cooker, his coat-hangers and dinner-sets dispersed, slowly at first then quickly. When it was all done, only the clothes he wore, the hat on its rack, the stubborn umbrella, his table, one chair, and a few scattered tools remained. He looked about at the assembly and nodded. “I’m grateful for you all,” he said. As he set to work anew, he made a promise in his heart, that all he made would be free to choose their own paths for themselves, that he would never sell a piece again into enslavement. He had been a cruel creator. The path to redemption would be long, but he was committed to it. So Killian smiled, for he was content. The sun was shining, and the dish had run away with the spoon.  

mehtgj

forward

When I was cursed, Mama wasted no time. She had every right to crash to her knees, to wail with an agony so pure she could be put behind ropes in a museum as a monument to grief. She had barely aged out of her own childhood, my papa had left her without a word or any money, and now her own sister had used her dark magic against her child. But love was the language Mama was most fluent in, and so it was the one we used with each other. I was 4 when I was cursed. I barely moved, back then, stayed rod-straight, so afraid of what the slightest move could destroy. Mama tied a fat rope around my middle, tying the other end around her waist. She walked ahead of me, slept ahead of me. My mama, in my memory, is a bouncing head of chocolate-brown curls, her blouse billowing in the breeze, looking over her shoulder, keeping my gaze with the shock of her sage green eyes in her olive face. Cruelty of this magnitude at such a young age shocked me into silence. In the beginning, I would have to reassure Mama that my auntie had not taken words from me, too. “I just don’t know what to say anymore,” I’d tell her in a voice so small it could fit in a thimble. Mama filled the air with words, with stories told to me over and over, my little back pushed against the wall, my eyes wide as the Caspian Sea. She’d pull my day-clothes off, letting my nightgown spill from my shoulders to my knees as she told me, “I didn’t know what I would name you before you were born. When they placed you in my arms, it came in my head like you told it to me yourself. You were every beautiful thing that ever happened on accident, so perfect that it could only be coincidence. Zahrah, flower. Flowers in the wild are little poems from God.” I’m from where they make perfumes, and spices, which coil in the air in thick spiraling clouds. We weave baskets and walk along rivers, we do spells with sugar our grandmothers passed down to us, we dye fabrics in magenta inks and dance at firelight to drums. Mama made sure I never missed seeing the world. With my curse, and her worry, it would be easy to lock me in a cage, to clasp a trap around my neck which always guaranteed my eyes stayed forward. But a life lived in fear isn’t a life at all. Many of the stories Mama told me had heroes who defied the odds, who did it scared. “Just like you, Zahrah.” Really, just like her. So she gave up a stable life. No home where we made bread and led little busy lives, a garden we could tend and watch grow. We were nomads. The sound of walking feet on the soil became the metronome of my waking existence. I could never look behind me, only forward. Whatever I passed disappeared behind me, never to be seen by me again. I could only go forward. I could only follow Mama, through markets and mountainsides, cities and seascapes. I was thirteen. We had gone through busy markets like this one so often that Mama didn’t need to repeat her stern warning: “In crowds, your eyes stay on me. ” She knew I loved them the best: the colorfully decorated booths of fruit, or dresses, or crystals. The shouting of merchants and children and thieves interweaving over and under each other like a new basket. I couldn’t buy anything. We lived meagerly, being unable to stay in one place for long. Mama would dance on any stage that would have her, stomping defiantly and turning like a spinning top. Still, the coins to be made were few, and they had to sustain us for many months. We were going to pass through to a stable that a friend of Mama’s on the road had agreed to let us sleep in for the evening. I hoped they had a horse - I loved to feel the soft velvet of their noses. I collided with Mama’s back, my face planting in her wild curls. I felt a pickpocket’s slender fingers in the folds of my skirt before its empty, disappointed retreat. We hadn’t had a collision like this since I was very small. We typically moved in tandem, limbs to each other on the same body. I pulled back to look at Mama. Her mouth gaped open, her wide eyes frozen in fear. My mama feared nothing. I knew it was true danger. “What is it?” I asked, breathless. In horror, Mama shook her head. “I can’t say it.” It was only magic that could have done it. Never in my life had I turned my head around. It wasn’t even a habit I had to get myself out of. But when a voice curled itself like smoke over the shell of my ear, leaking into my brain, spilling out of my eyes, calling “Zaaaaahraaaaah” like Hell’s lullaby, I did what I had never done: I turned around. Auntie . Her violet eyes framed in dark lashes. Her curls, like Mama’s, hung well below her bottom. She dressed immodestly, her breasts bound in fabric and a floor length sheer skirt, but naked otherwise. Around her neck hung what must’ve been a hundred gold necklaces. She smiled at me, her canine tooth golden, winking. It felt like a bite. Her mouth didn't move when she spoke, the words echoing in my head as if we stood in a mausoleum. "Time for you to find out the truth on your own, Zahrah." As soon as I saw her, I knew it was too late. With a laugh that carried on the wind, she disappeared. Everyone did. Where there was the din of the crowded market were now acres of golden sand, pulsing from the heat of the sun in the clear sky. I had turned around, and now, here I was. No Auntie. No Mama. Just me, alone, in the desert. 

nj1hoo

Eduardo & The Movies

EDUARDO AND THE MOVIES A squat grey building of only 34 stories.  That’s where this one was going to be.    Walking up, it was exactly that: a non-descript office building downtown.  Saw the usual suspects.  The faces that make the job worthwhile.  Still possessed that joyful, excited sheen of doing it; seeing it live; experiencing it, but with not as much “new-puppy” excitement as the newbies all and always have. Still, couldn’t be denied: We were in the movies! We were: The Extras! The term “extras” was changed to a new-age, inclusive term of “background performer.”  “Extra” still feels just as good. To me. I love us. Extras are people in movies who stand in the background to make the scene seem realistically busy and populated. We’re given no lines; and we’re not instructed, or expected, to projectingly act on-screen like paid actors are. However unsung we’ve been until Ricky Gervais’s TV show “Extras”, it cannot be denied that we’re as integral to the movies like anyone else. We’re just not as grandstanding as the movie stars, directors, key grips, location scouts, and best boys and catering managers are.  Imagine if every party scene in movies had nobody else in them but the actual actors? It would look pretty weird, (And like one lame party! ), wouldn’t it?  We’re paid. We’re just unknown and fade into the background, literally, like passing fields along a highway. We are passing ships in the night. Integral; unnoticed. My beautiful, small city of Ottawa has a tiny, sturdy movie-making market. In a tiny niche market like this, extras usually comprise a small number of usual suspects. It’s always welcome to see familiar, friendly faces.  Just like the movies. Today was filming in this office building, where the job was to be an office worker.          Imagine that?  My friend Heather joked: “I go from my regular office job of going unnoticed to my hobby job of being unnoticed!” The thing about extra work, too, is the downtime. There’s a LOT of downtime.  It takes time for the crew and director to set up oodles of equipment and lighting.            What do the extras do while waiting to get to work? Like soldiers at war: we wait until the action. Shoot the breeze. Have some laughs. Play “Crazy Eights.” Make new friends. Read. Be quietly star-struck. Make forts. Take naps.                                                                                              Once someone had a laptop and, uninterrupted, we watched the whole movie “Freddy Got Fingered” before we were needed. I got paid to watch a movie while making a movie! Another one of us I always see apart from Heather, (who is no guy, I should clarify!) is Eduardo. An older Mexican man and we’re cool acquaintances, but strangely never had beers before.   We smiled. The old gang was put back together. We’d anonymously done many movies together. Myself, Heather, Eduardo were content; but the new recruits were so excited! We even overheard: “We’re in an office building! How cool is this??” Where Eduardo joked: “‘Acting’ like they care is pretty much what real office workers do every day!” Office buildings usually don’t warrant as much wide-eyed excitement in either the old or young….  Within the context of making movies, though: heck yes! An office building was exciting. This day, though, I was excited about something else!  I told Heather and Eduardo that I was going on vacation. THAT I was excited for!  Heading for Europe!  Paris; Bruges; Amsterdam; London and climaxing up in a huge, British back-packers music festival called: “Glastonbury.”  They jovially wished well, and Heather cheerfully added that the “extra-extra” from this particular well-timed movie certainly wouldn’t hurt the “beer-fund.” We wrapped up “acting” as office workers.  Afterward, I bid them all “Adieu!” and I was off for the big trip the very next week!                                                                        * * *  The big week came.  A beautiful Tuesday, June Morning in Ottawa. The sun was shining like it had its own cinematic, celestial lighting director.   I was flying from Ottawa; connecting in Montreal; and first destination: Paris. The thing about Ottawa is it’s a small city of one million beautiful people.  So, a market this size doesn’t need a huge airport, as many “smarter-than-me’s” have determined.  We’re not a terrifying international hub like Pearson or the despicable Dulles. Sifted through customs and the pat-down. Checked my bag. The bar awaited. Flight time: Milled through the check-in line excitedly with my passport (I have no other greater possession than my passport!) and brilliantly joked with the check-in girl. It was a small, connecter flight. Thought nothing of it. Had my ticket and my seat. Outside; walking along the tarmac; stood in line. To get on my plane. Right at the back. (No matter their size, planes blow my mind.) I was standing in a long line. Could see my plane. There it was. Unassuming; almost taking it for granted that I’d cleanly get on because I paid for it.  What could interfere?  A-B-C to board; or O-M-P: Ottawa-Montreal-Paris! (That was dumb, and proud of it!)  24 hours of every day there’s action on an airport tarmac. A constant pulse. A baggage cart driver/handler was driving three carts of luggage. His destination was nothing I was going to interfere with.  However.… He didn’t have the same mentality.  Was standing peacefully, until I heard: “HEY!! HEY YOU! IN THE GREEN SHIRT!! HEY!!!!”  Awakening from a daydream state: I realized this man was yelling at ME! I was wearing a green t-shirt. A clean one, even! The cart stopped. This guy got right out, and was storming right for me!   Maintained a strong, locked eye contact. Barreling straight for me.  “HEY!!!!” There were sixty other people around. What had I done?  Somehow, from 30 feet away, I tugged this guy’s skirt. I was scared; confused.  Thoughts went racing as this bull was raging:  “Did this man, this professional, pull over because he really didn’t like my green shirt? I mean really didn’t like it? He had to interrupt his work to tell me so? This angrily? Was I about to be intensely asked out? WAS it me he wanted to see pee himself?? Was I suddenly the ‘Chosen One,’ for something?? Am I a spy no longer to fly??? What’s going on?!” I glanced at him and back at the plane: “Wow, Fight or Flight?!”  He was in full uniform with a strong, dark hat, thick glasses, and the sun glared my vision: I could only see intensity from those tanned eyes and not the shape of them. Unexpectedly, then and when this guy was frighteningly closer:  Tone switched from heightened volume to pure joviality. “Hey Man! How are you? IT’S EDUARDO!” I could blink again. Took a recuperating, self-starting second to make out the face... but: YEAH! IT WAS! “OH…” -quivering and recovering- “Oh -HEY-HEY!!! EDUARDO!! What’s up??” “YEAH! HEY! WHAT’S UP, MAN???”    Eduardo The Extra.  From the Ottawa movie-making business: A glorious niche comprising of noticeably much fewer people working for it than those working for the AIRPORT!!!! (I mentioned this city of one million beautiful people is small ....) “Feeling good! You’re going on your trip now, aren’t you?” (Briefly forgetting I was even doing that) “Yeah! I’m… off to Paris. Yeah.” “Sorry I kind of scared the crap out of you!” I started to laugh. “Yes! I thought: ‘What the heck did I do?! Did that check-in girl not like that joke I made about how ‘I’ll fly in, and boy: won’t my arms be tired!’? To where she hired someone like you to come ‘get’ me for it?” Eduardo laughed. “I’m glad I only made ONE stupid joke like that with her!” Eduardo laughed. “You didn’t say it over the P.A.. That’s good.” “I’m sure airlines love it when people tell jokes over their departure announcements.” Eduardo laughed. “All good! Now. Listen: which bag is yours?” Eduardo pointed to the carts 30 feet away. I peered into the distance, through the glare of the sun; but within the piles, I spotted my bag. A big, purple and black, oversized, stained, grotesque back-packers beauty. “Oh, I see it, Eduardo. It’s in there.” I responded unconcernedly. Eduardo’s tone turned steely. “I said: Which one is yours?” (….here came that fright near-pee again….) Pinpointing tellingly:  “Mine is on the very bottom!! Third cart. Bottom left-hand corner. Underneath! The stained dark-purple back-packers hiking bag. The tattered, duct-taped one that no one would travel with, but I love!!” Eduardo nodded sternly. Wordlessly, he left.  Eduardo pointedly stormed up to the back-third cart; ripped my bag out from its buried, bottom truss; giving it a good, hard yank out. He determinedly bypassed the line of two other handlers and two other whole carts ahead in line and threw my bag right onto the plane. He threw it with a passion that clouded the line between destruction and decency. From 30 noisy feet away: I heard the loud “thud” my bag made upon physical contact within the plane.  Something probably broke; but I figured: Hey, It’s on there!  He maintained unbroken, stern eye contact the whole time; making blatant, undeniably sure I saw exactly what he was doing! Completing the mission: Eduardo returned. Wishing: “Have a great trip, Man!” “Not so fast!”  Now I was a bit mad!  “Thanks for doing that. That was nice. But: this is your job? I thought you worked in an office.” Eduardo smiled. “Nah, man. Used to work in an office. Sucked! Got out and do this now. This and the ‘extra’ stuff. I like it. Keeps me physical; outside. Winters are a bitch, though.” I laughed. “See you on-set, man! I’d love to see Paris!” I was kind of moved. “Whoa, you remembered that that’s where I’m going?!”  Smiling: “Nah. I know where the planes I am loading baggage onto are flying to , man!”   “That is good and useful info for you to have, I will say. I’d hate to hear ‘Wanna-play- “Guess-which-flight-your-bag-MAY-be-on?’” “Have a good trip, man! Got to load! We want planes to leave with luggage!”  Laughing: I was off to Paris! * * *        That was Tuesday morning. The next day, Wednesday, June 16 th , 2010 was one of the best days I ever lived. Stunningly: Spent the whole day with a beautiful Australian named Elle who was 26, like me, too!  One of my favourite movies since 1995 is the beautiful “Before Sunrise.”  My day with Elle in Paris was our very own, romantic “Life-ization” of “Before Sunrise!” * * *    Six months later:  Ottawa. Back on-set. There’d been no work since June. Location: a bar, as a patron. Something I was a natural at being… and “acting” as... Heather; and Eduardo, who was more recognizable out of natural light….  Eduardo…. Oh, that Eduardo. Straight to the point: “Heyyy Man! How was your trip??” A bit confused because it was December, and I hadn’t traveled recently…. Eduardo saw my puzzled look.  “To Europe, man. Last June? Paris? The Paris IN Europe. Man???” “OH!” I gathered. “Yeah! That was a while ago. Yeah! Fantastic! Loved it. Thanks.” “How was Paris specifically?” I was a little caught off-guard. “Paris was gorgeous. The highlight of the trip. One of the best days ever lived.” “Oh, did you have a romantic fling?” Heather intuited. I chuckled. “It was far more than just a ‘fling!’ But: yes.” Heather laughed. “That’s what they all say! Ah, Paris... dammit. So happy for you!” Eduardo was all business. “Which full day was that?”  Now I was a bit weirded out. I got along with Eduardo but didn't know him THAT well.   “Well, it was the very next day. Arrived on Wednesday and met Elle Thursday Morning.” “She even had a French name! Checked every box, eh?” Heather added. Eduardo smirked weirdly. “Good. Very good.”  Even Heather felt the look in his eye was strange. “Uh, Eduardo, I know you helped me out and I’m grateful, but I got to ask: why is that so ‘very good?’ For you? Something is up...”  Eduardo smiled at me, with a grandfather’s grin. “You said you loved it, no?” I remembered when I fell in love. “Yeah.”  “You were happy you MADE it TO that day, weren’t you?” “Yeah.”  (The movie business attracts some REAL characters!!)   Eduardo was cleared for take-off; and launched like an epic: “Well, travelers always safely assume their bags make it onto the planes. But: not always do they make it. The bags I mean, not the travelers. Though that is true, too. I’m a baggage handler. I do a job many others do. One thing we know collectively about what we do that the public never knows is what goes on inside. Not everything about it is great, like all jobs. I mean, here we are getting paid minimum wage to be in the MOVIES!” – “Could be worse! UI could be at my government job!” Heather defended. – “Well, one of the details of my job is the physics of putting the bags themselves onto a plane. Sometimes: we physically cannot FIT all of the bags! We just can’t. There isn’t enough space. It’s not that we don’t want to, we just can’t! We want to do a good job with integrity and get everything onboard. But physical space tells a different story. What do I mean? I mean that sometimes we just can’t fit every bag onto the airplane. This is where we lose baggage. Almost every traveler has had to deal with lost baggage or their baggage not arriving with them. That is always an inconvenience and a bitch. I understand. Happened to me, too. Hundreds of things that can go wrong with how and why a bag does not arrive; but what I know is that one reason is simply it got spatially-physically left behind.” Speechless silence. “That day when I scared and spotted YOU, though…”  My jaw was dropping slowly… Eduardo grinned even more grandfatherly… “….I spotted you, man, and I just wanted to make sure your bag was on your flight! I saw you. You saw me. That simple. You’re a good guy. You thought it was weird how I asked you which bag was yours, but when you told me, I quickly saw how far back it was. I assessed even more quickly, though, that your little connecter plane, WAS NOT GOING TO HAVE ROOM FOR IT!” “Holy Smokes!” Heather shouted. My lip quivered.            “So, your bag was on that back cart, I remember, the 3 rd one,” the baggage prodigy bragged. “So, I -” “EDUARDO!! HOLY FUCK!!!! I HAD NO FUCKING IDEA!!!!” I SCREAMED! (I got “shushed” from afar.)  Eduardo saw I connected the dots; like he “connected” my connecter as a connection I never knew I had connected with this connectively! “MY DAY IN PARIS WAS THE NEXT DAY!” “Shushed” more.  “What an assist, Eduardo!! NICE!” Heather added, impressed, a little turned on. (As was I.)  I WAS DUMBFOUNDED! “Eduardo, I.. if you,,,, not,,,, my bag lost,,,, I might’ve had…” “….to go back to the airport inconveniently to get your bag, and that would’ve cut into your rest of your trip or your Wednesday!”  Eduardo's face was gloating. Rightfully.  “Eduardo: I’m buying you a beer.” Heather interrupted. I was speechless. Floored. Overjoyed. Thought nothing of it.  THEN! Boy. “Eduardo: I… I say: ‘Thank You!!! ’” “No problem,” Eduardo humbled down. “How could you have known? I knew you didn’t think much of it at the time but, hey: thank YOU for making this work we do here pleasant by being a good guy yourself. It was 'Thanks' in my own way, I guess." “In your own way.” “ALL WAYS SHOULD BE ‘EDUARDO’ WAY!” I BELLOWED! Eduardo laughed. Heather jumped, but then rolled her eyes and shrugged agreeably. Thought nothing of it….   Heather joked: “I guess Ottawa has a cosmic way when its people go to Paris, eh?” “….and Mexico does, too!” Eduardo said, pointing at his own wonderful Mexican smile. I was flabbergasted.    “Eduardo: Heather: I going to buy you all dinner tomorrow!! I will bring ALL my SAME luggage I brought on my trip TO dinner. For good luck. I’ll get to dinner on the same plane, even! I’LL HANDLE IT and the CHEQUE this time! Tomorrow 7:00 o’clock. You decide where.” They laughed. “....For ‘Good luck’....”: I heard them repeat mutter.... As I laid down the law, Heather added; “Well, I didn’t do ANYTHING, but hell yeah: I am in!” She fired Eduardo a sexy glance. “Well, man. Okay. I do like food. You don’t got to do that, but thank you. Sure.”  “Oh, Okay” they both agreed at my insistence of buying them each a good dinner.  “What we do in Life; Echoes in Eternity! And Geography!” said Maximus Aurelius in “Gladiator,” even in the background of the making of movies!!   Eduardo certainly was a background performer, all right! His cinematic work was felt across the WORLD! Literally!   My relationships with Heather and Eduardo were no “passing ships in the night” at all!  Movies, and making movies, connect us all!!!! INTERNATIONALLY!!!! META!!!!   ….sigh…. That’s the thing about the far-reaching powers of the movies, and not just “Indiana Jones”: They’re magic! This movie story is one for the books! THE END

kq9mpx

Whisky Business

So no one can completely understand what it is like to live the life of a simple kitchen whisk! Let me try to fill you in the best that I can. Life for me started out in the whisk factory where I was formed and created along with millions of other whisks of all colors and sizes. We all looked the same but had our own personalities. I had to pass so many pressures and tests that it is a wonder I am where I am today. From the factory I was put into a huge box with my fellow whisks. We thought that was great. All together in a comfortable home. We entered the wonderful world of new and shiny objects that love to strut their stuff. It was like a competition sitting on a peg coaxing every chef and cook to pick me. Now I am a battered old whisk and have been around for quite some time. I currently live among the mismatched knives and rusty can openers and other dangerous fellas. I never complain about the living situation or fellow drawer mates. The drawer that we call home can become quite crowded as more and more crazy individuals get added to our abode. I sometimes get snagged by the garden vegetable peeler or the spinning pizza cutter as they are shoved into any open spaces. It is like a halfway house. Some characters are here for a long time and never get pulled from the drawer. Take for example the plastic straw with a pink flamingo attached. No one seems that interested in that contraption. That poor gal just sits there looking pretty and pink. Some of occupants are here for very short periods. I am taIking one day. The excitement in the main house is overwhelming when some of these folks arrive. Chatter about the new and exciting individual rings throughout the multiple drawers and dish filled cupboards. Then, without warning, they are pulled out and crazy noises occur. Something terrible happens and the ambiance in the main house is filled with loud silence. Then we hear the awful noise of the compactor. Those individuals never return to the drawer so we really never understand what happened and what became of them. We all just assume. Terrifying. Maybe we shouldn't assume, but kind of hard not to. I actually have been here the longest. So many individuals have come and gone, but I always return to the drawer. I feel as though my job is quite universal. I am trusted and respected by the supervisors and individuals that manage the kitchen who have approached me to help out in so many different scenarios. I love the smooth and fragrant baths that I can frolic in, but sometimes the temperature is a bit too steamy and hot! I get moving around in a rhythm that is comforting, when all of a sudden I spin out of control! The bath becomes thicker and harder to get through, but still the spinning endures. I often want to give up, but the bath becomes exactly what the manager wants and my job ends. That can be quite exhausting, yet fulfilling at the same time. Then there are the times I feel the soft and powdery substance which is luxurious. I love how it covers my wires and then falls delicately back into the mound in the vessel. I could do that all day. It never lasts long enough. Without warning the deluge of slow falling liquid enters and the powder becomes huge globs of sticky messes. That stuff sticks all over me and I get banged up against the side of the vessel time and time again. That really smarts! Sometimes the culprit is so tough that I get bent out of shape. Do I yell and scream? Do I fight back? No, I just keep on swishing and eventually the crap gets off and my wires are uncrossed. One of my all time favorite activities is with young toddlers.. They are so curious and full of life. When I hear the pitter patter of those stocking feet heading to the drawer, I wait with loving anticipation that I am the one they choose. What joy I feel when I am lifted up and out of the crumb filled section of the drawer. Their tiny hands hold on so tight to me that I feel loved. It's cream time! The toddlers love to help make whipped cream and I am the star! They need me!! Round and round I go in the milky sauce with added sugar and sweeteners. Of course they need a bit of help from their grandmother or Meemaw, who speeds things up. Voila!!! Creamy goodness that sticks to my wires. And then comes the tiny tongue! So soft and gentle and a bit ticklish, this toddler uses their tongue to help remove this creamy goodness! We have a win win!! Then I enter the bubbly soapy pool and boy do I love that! It feels so good. Once in a while I get placed in this huge contraption that feels weird. I get stuck in there for several hours never really knowing what to expect. Surrounded by many individuals of different shapes, colors and sizes we sit not saying anything to anyone else when all of a sudden it starts to rain! We have no where to go! Then we are splashed from the underside with smelly soap and hot water. The whole place becomes a sauna! Stuffy and uncomfortable! Then rain again! when we start asking each other "What in the world is going on?" it is over. Steamy and hot until the front end opens and a breath of fresh air envelopes us all. Then back to the drawer's darkness. It actually feels rewarding to return to the drawer. This is a safe haven even though there are many with sharp personalities, rough around the edges and not always the cleanest. Coming home! We have learned how to cohabitate in spite of our differences. This is where we converse quietly about the adventures we have just emerged from as the light is eliminated with the closing of the drawer. We learn from one another and look forward to another day of adventure in the kitchen.

eygn6g

Void Of Stars (Part 2) - [Collab with Annie Persson]

I closed my eyes, and jumped into the wormhole. Slowly, I lifted my eyelids and looked around to see where I was. A mountain, the four golden towers of the palace with its responsibilities and burdens nowhere in sight. Oak trees filled the mountain-base, dipping into flatlands and not rising again until the range of hills in the distance. My mind floated, aware that I was somewhere at last where I didn't have to hide myself. There was something odd about the setting, but I let it go, not wanting to ruin the moment. I twisted, and searched the mountain-top for Hope – she was the only person who would've created a wormhole in the palace. But I wondered why it hadn't disappeared, as her others always did the moment she walked through them. “The Source is gone!” Hope wailed beside me. Her hand jerked upwards, then stopped, but I knew her too well to miss it, even in the darkness. “What do you mean?” I sighed. Why did she have to hide things from me? “Nothing,” she said quickly. I could see her head working, trying to find a way to cover herself, and I was curious. “What's the Source?” Then she changed. Suddenly she was weak and pale. “Look up, Faith,” she whispered, taking her my hand uncertainly. I looked up, and realised what made the scene look odd. The stars were gone. I found myself on the floor before I realised I'd fallen. Hope struggled to pick me up, and instead pushed me to a sitting position and sat down beside me. “But – but – but – but,” I stuttered. My words mirrored my thoughts. “Just a few minutes ago. I watched the sun disappear, then the stars went, one by one.” I could see that Hope was trying to be confident, more like herself, for my sake. Despite the situation, I smiled. She was acting my older sister at last. I got myself together and spoke. “What do we – what's the Source?” I changed my question out of worry that the original one would be met with a blank stare or shrug. Anything but uncertainty. “Isn't it obvious?” Hope held her hand up to the moon to find the direction home. I sighed. Of course it was obvious, but I wanted her to admit that she'd been hiding something. “ Hope. ” “Alright. It's the Source of magic, and I've kept it from you. There, happy?” She turned and walked away. I paused to think for a moment, then ran to catch up with her. “Why aren't you opening a wormhole?” I asked. My sister's walk slows, and I can see her growing paler in the moonlight as she abandons her pretence of strength. I should've told her not to bother in the first place; it's always exhausting, pretending to be something you're not. “The Source is gone, Faith. I won't be able to manage one.” “But -” “No buts.” I sighed. “Okay then. If we can't open a wormhole, how are we getting back to the palace?” I asked, dreading the answer. Hope just glanced at me without answering, and tilted her head towards the landscape in front of us. Walk. Far off into the thick forest, I saw a large clearing. I squinted, just making out a circle of wall filled with log houses – and on the border of the forest, the tips of two golden towers showed. “I can't walk that! That's – twenty, thirty miles.” Hope kept silent as I spluttered. “We don't have another option,” she said when I'd finished. She speeded up, and we walked down the mountain in silence for about an hour – the mountain path was relatively easy, but trapped in the palace as I often was (and Hope not having to walk anywhere with her wormholes), we had to take multiple breaks. “Hope -” My sister stopped walking and turned to me. “ Shut up. Do you have any idea what's happened?” I was tired and confused, but away from my parent's rules of not losing my temper, it was too easy to lose it. “So your magic is gone – big deal,” I said, with more acid than I'd thought I held. Hope paled, and we continued walking in silence. I should've been more worried about her, but I was preoccupied with inward guilty giggles at the thought that I'd done something wrong for once. “How would you like to lose a family member?” She spat at last. There was silence again as I contemplated what she'd said. I'd just got used to clambering over boulders and not tripping over protruding rocks when the scene changed, and we were stumbling over roots with a roof of leaves above us. How would you like to lose a family member reverberated around my head. The only thing I could think of was that her magic had been part of her, as she'd said. The stars had given her it, so losing the stars – suddenly I was desperate to comfort my sister, and when we stopped again, I reached out to hug her, but she pushed me away, and put a finger to her lip. Shh. A rustle of movement behind a holly bush. I hide behind my sister, unsure of the danger but knowing that she would protect me. A boy, roughly Hope's age (15), with thick muddy-blond hair, hopped out of the holly bush. He was looking at the ground with gritted teeth, his face red. He didn't seem to see us, although we were barely three meters in front of him. Despite not wanting to declare my magic to a stranger, I felt compelled to help him. Slowly, I separated his string and severed most of his pain, absorbing it into myself. He looked up. *** I stared at the boy in front of me. He didn’t look very clean, so he must be from Nix’s village. “Who are you?” I said, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice. He looked at Faith, ignoring me completely. “ I said,  who are you?” I repeated, and this time he looked up at me. “She’s the princess, isn’t she?” He asked, his voice rough like gravel but not too deep. I rolled my eyes. “She’s not the only princess.” I said, my hand on my hip, “And you still haven’t answered my question. Who. Are. You ?” Again, he looked at Faith, but this time he glanced back at me. “I’m Rastor. You must be Faith.” He said, nodding to the girl in question. I couldn’t believe this guy. I turned to look at Faith and saw her staring at the stranger like he was some miracle boy. “Y-yes, I’m Faith.” She said, not breaking eye contact. I sighed. “And I’m her older sister, Hope. Now, where do you come from, Rastor? Is there a village near here?” I stepped in front of Faith, shielding her from Rastor and making him look at me instead. He reluctantly met my eyes and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, there’s one about an hour’s walk away. I can help you find it if you want.” He offered, shrugging. “No, I think-” I started, but Faith cut me off. “That w-would be really nice, actually.” I whirled around and glared at her, but she just shrugged and made a face at me. “He obviously knows the area better, Hope. Come on, loosen up a bit.” She walked past me, standing closer to Rastor. I sighed and rolled my eyes again, but reluctantly followed them. As I followed Rastor and Faith, they chatted about everything and nothing, constantly looking at each other. Rastor led us through the forest for a while, but the trees eventually thinned out and became meadows. I started recognising the landscape, thinking about the twisted old tree in the field next to us and how there was a similar one near Nix’s village. Then I noticed the field. The exact same one Nix and I sometimes practice in. I caught up with Rastor and Faith and tapped him on the shoulder. “Rastor, what’s this village called?” I asked, changing my pace so I could walk between Rastor and Faith. “Please, call me Ras.” He said, and I raised one of my eyebrows. “Hmm, that’s a strange name for a village.” I said sarcastically, looking at ‘Ras’ from the corner of my eye. He chuckled and smiled weirdly, only using half of his mouth and it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, that’s what I thought when I first heard it. No, the village we’re going to is called Duffrin.” “I knew it!” I said quietly to myself, striding confidently ahead. I needed to talk to Nix about the Source disappearing. He’ll probably know more about it than I do. When I got to the outskirts of Duffrin, I weaved my way along the familiar path to Nix’s house, stopping only once to avoid a group of sheep running across the road. I found Nix’s door, the dot harder to notice in the almost complete darkness. I knocked and bounced on my toes, waiting for the door to open. When Dena’s face appeared, I sighed in relief. She ushered me inside, closing the door softly behind me. There was a little alcove that hid the door and anyone standing near it, so when I walked into the main room in the house, Nix saw me and stood up from the table to greet me. “I was wondering if you would make it.” he said, reaching for my hand, but then thinking better of it. His hand dropped awkwardly to his side, but I extended mine and he smiled at me gratefully. He led me to the table, where his father had a book on the table. I sat in the chair next to Nix. Dena sat on my other side. “Do you know how it happened?” I asked, looking between Dena and Nix. Dena looked down and Nix shook his head. “But who could’ve done this and how did they do it?” I asked more to myself than anyone else. Dena looked up and fiddled with her sleeves. “Well, once, a long time ago, there were ancient writings that told of a way to destroy, but at the same time strengthen, the powers given to us through the sun and stars. Apparently, there is only one type of magic that has the potency to take the Sources. They’re usually referred to as AVs.” Dena let me think about what those letters could stand for, but my expression must’ve betrayed me. Dena smiled gently and continued. “It stands for Absolute Void. It means whoever is and AV has all the powers ever created and can do things no other void-user can. Things like stealing the Sources.” When I looked at Nix to verify them, he nodded and sighed. “Those writings were thought to have been lost when magic was banned,” Dena continued, “but then this happened. Someone must’ve found them, found an AV, and decided they wanted to rule the world. There were some documents that were specifically hidden though, the ones that explain the costs of stealing the Sources, like how the stealer loses all their power and the fact that the world will slowly start to disappear.” I frowned, trying to follow Nix’s words. Something doesn't add up. “But how do you guys know this?” I asked, looking from Dena to Nix. But it was Nix’s father that responded. “Because our ancestors wrote them.” *** “W-what are they t-talking about in there?” I asked Ras, sitting on the bed in the room he'd given me and Hope for the night. He shrugged. “I don't know. Probably some boring grown-up stuff.” “B-but Hope's n-not a grown-up,” I stuttered. I hadn't stuttered since I was eight – why now? “It's not our problem.” He was still looking at me, and I fixed my eyes on my swinging legs, blushing. “N-no. I suppose n-not.” Stop stuttering, I said to myself.  You look like an idiot. He smiled. “I'm not going to eat you, you know,” he said. I smiled weakly, not trusting myself to answer. There was an awkward silence for a few minutes. “What's it like in the palace?” I could've told him of the glamour, the luxury – but that wasn't what the palace meant to me, so I told him my truth. “C-constricting. B-borders everywhere and you can't be your own person. You're not allowed to act or even think by yourself.” I forgot my stutter in the remembrance. He gave me a lopsided, sympathetic smile. “What was y-your childhood l-like?” I asked. He thought a moment before answering. “Similar to yours, but poorer.” I smiled. We had something in common. Then I felt something, a sort of whisper in my head, and I wasn't half as nervous anymore. I lifted my head and gaped at him. “You're – you're an EV too?” Suddenly his attitude changed. He stood up and said, “We should probably see what they're talking about now.” When he was at the door, he paused, and looked back with a cute lopsided smile ( Cute? Faith what are you thinking? ). “Well?” I stood up and followed him out, wondering why he had changed. He took your nervousness – you know how these things work. He's nervous for two now, I reassured myself. Ras led me to the main room, where we found Hope, a strange boy about her age with dark-blue eyes, black hair and freckles, an older man who could've been the boy's father, and – Dena? My thoughts were drawn away from her when I realised there was an argument going on. I stepped back into a little alcove by the front door and pulled Ras in with me. “That wasn't supposed to upset you,” the boy with navy eyes said. His voice was level, and if he was angry, he wasn't showing it. It was only my sister who was openly heated. Her golden eyes burned with a fire that made me miss the sun. “You try to fool me into believing that the Source is limiting our magic instead of providing it. You tell me that everything I've believed in is a lie. You say that you've lied to me since we were children and you didn't expect it to upset me? ” Hope snapped at him. I'd never seen her this angry before. The boy gritted his teeth, but all he said is, “Trust me.” “How am I supposed to trust you?” Her voice wavered and became higher in pitch. “I don't know if you're lying now or were lying then, but whichever way, you've still lied.” The boy took a deep breath, but her anger was infectious. “How am I supposed to prove to you that I'm telling the truth?” He said in an attempt at calmness. I looked at Ras, and nodded. He nodded back. I felt my way into Hope's mind, separating her string gently, hoping she doesn't feel me as I do it. After I located her anger, I began coaxing it slowly towards me. I closed my eyes to concentrate, taking a deliberate breath before continuing. You know the cost of doing this. You should be willing to pay it, I reprimand myself. I watched as most of her anger unthreaded, and left her mind. I hope Ras is doing the same with the other boy. I felt the anger joining me before I opened my eyes and saw it leaving Hope, and I struggled to swallow it. Telling myself that it wasn't my anger didn't help at all. My sister turned to me with a worried expression. “How did you do that?” She asked. She wasn't angry anymore, just confused. “He's telling the truth, Hope,” I said gently. “Why don't you trust him?” “Because – because - well, you've proved he's right now anyway.” She turned to the boy, and held out her hand in apology. He took it, and held it for a moment, unsure whether he should shake it or not. They exchanged a glance, and he let it drop awkwardly, and stepped towards me. “Hi,” he said, shifting his eyes uncomfortably back to my sister. “Hope's told me a lot about you. I'm Nix.” Hope gave him a glance, and his string shifted as he tried to relax and lose his awkward formality. “Should I help with that?” Ras asked from behind me. “No thanks Ras,” Nix says, smiling. “The introductions are done now, so it wouldn't be much help, but thanks for offering to be the pack-horse.” They both chuckle, but Ras' seems strange – like he's already absorbed Nix' nervousness. “So. What do we do now?” Hope asks. [Co-written by Annie Persson. She wrote the part between the '*'s]

uwagp1

The Way You Make Me Feel

She was here. Holy crap, she was actually here. Charlotte got off the train from Liverpool, walked up the steps with all the other groggy train patrons, and froze. A wall full of what looked like flowers embodied a radiant peacock on the exterior of a Coffee + Beer Palace whose sign in the peacock's tail identified it as Brewhemia. This felt like something out of a dream or a fairy tale. The air carried a loamy scent as if the earth itself was exhaling memories of summer, blending dampness and decay into a comforting aroma that lingered on the crisp breeze. A few hours remained before her room at the hostel would be ready for check-in and the streets of Edinburgh were calling out to her. The narrow streets lent to the old-world charm and boasted shops offering everything from boxed chocolates to handmade woolen kilts. Charlotte found herself wandering into a quaint coffee shop for a midday pick-me-up as she watched both tourists and locals alike go about their day. She could have happily stayed there all day, but her stomach groaned in protest and she knew she should venture back out into the world in search of sustenance. She found it in a charming restaurant named kil•der•kin upon seeing the menu outside declaring to have a must-have dish of haggis, neeps, & tatties so in she ventured to get a beer and the traditional dish. The haggis wasn’t what she’d expected but then again, she wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected. It was crumbly and peppery and she found her favorite combination was eating all three together creating a mix of sweet, buttery, and spicy on her palette. Google Maps told her she was only a 12-minute walk from the hostel, so she paid for her meal and headed to her check-in. A spray-painted mural of Dobbie greeted her as she walked into the reception area of St. Christophers. Check-in was easy enough so with her keycard in hand, she followed the receptionist through the hostel as they pointed out the bathroom, her room, and the locker room where she offloaded her backpack into her assigned locker. Her room was full of the same old-world charm as outside, with a fireplace she could have walked in, ornate woodwork from floor to ceiling, and 9 bunk beds, each fitted with its own privacy curtain. She figured she could probably fit 3 of her bedrooms from back home into this room. The centerpiece, though, was a bay window that took up two-thirds of the height of its wall with a chair begging to be slouched into so slouch she did. It was as heavenly as it looked. Only wanting to take a short rest from the outside, she traveled back out to explore some more. She was walking around the more shop-oriented streets when she found herself right in front of an enchanting little bar called Auld Hundred. Figuring this was as good a time as any for another beer, she made her way in. If they had food, well then that was an added benefit but if not, she’d just get a beer and be on her way. She ordered herself a Cold Town Seasonal and settled herself at a table for two with deceptively comfortable chairs made from barrels. She pulled out her phone and started planning what she wanted to do for the next 3 days to fit as many possible sightseeing, travel junky, experiences she could into her time here. Pondering on signing up for a ghost walk, she began people-watching again, as one does, and her eyes landed on a sign that claimed tonight was Live Mic night. Oh whoopee. A bunch of awful singers trying to get their 20 minutes of validation. She wasn’t the type for live music in bars. Street music? Now, street music was a different story. She had not had a day without beautiful violins or small bands of men in tuxes playing hauntingly moving music since she began this trip. In lieu of all that, taking it slow on her first day seemed like a better plan than rushing around, and anyway, she could go for another beer. Was it just her or did it really taste better over here? Could it be worth it to move two dogs and two cats overseas? The first guy got up on the platform and immediately began apologizing for being “half-cocked” and having a “shy voice”. Charlotte had no idea what this guy was talking about, he had great vocals. Maybe she’d get the chance to talk to him later and let him know, he was kinda cute. She was continuing to research "Fun things to do in Edinburgh" when a cold burst of air hit her legs for about the fifth time. Looking around to see who’d opened the door this time round, she saw a guy carrying a guitar nod to the bartender, grab the beer that he hadn’t ordered, and sit down at a table in front of her. Must be another musician. Looks confident enough I suppose. Eyes flicking back to her phone, she heard the bartender tell this guy he was up next, so she figured she’d stay for his show. As soon as he got situated and began singing, their eyes met and locked on to one another. It was like two frayed ends of a rope had found each other and grabbed on, promising to never let go again. She felt the room go silent except for his voice. She couldn’t hear the words he was singing but it didn’t matter, she didn’t want him to stop. Or maybe she did so she could go talk to him. She pulled out her phone and messaged her friend about this guy who she couldn’t stop staring at. Or he couldn’t stop staring at her. She couldn’t really tell which, but she wasn’t sure if she found it uncomfortable or if she was kinda into it. After a few back-and-forths with her best friend, it was decided, she was into it. Charlotte wanted to get his social media handle but her best friend said to forget the social media and get into his pants. She wasn’t sure she had the bravery for something that bold but who didn’t enjoy a little challenge? And anyway, she was finding herself on this trip. What was finding yourself if not trying new things and stepping out of your comfort zone, maybe living life on the edge a little? After his set, she slid herself out of her chair to sink into the one next to this red-headed guitarist and held out her hand introducing herself. He took her hand and introduced himself as Andrea. She was hooked. Andrea told her all about his adventures of moving here from Sardinia 11 years before without speaking any English. He’d also invited her out for more drinks after the show and Charlotte felt safe around him, so they walked down to The Black Cats bar which was just about to close but allowed the two of them to get one beer each. She felt as if it were beginning to get pretty late and a glance at her watch told her it was 1 am. She began telling Andrea she needed to be getting back to the hostel to get some sleep but he wouldn’t hear of it and invited her to his flat instead, sweetening the pot with the indulgence of a hot shower. She’d told him about her cold shower escapades at the hostels over the last few days. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. She absolutely wanted to go to a strange musician's flat in a foreign country at 1 am for a hot shower. She took his hand and didnt let go until they got out of the cab in front of his flat. It was so different from the apartments she was used to in America. Here, every level was considered a ‘flat’ and the whole building was made from concrete with very secure metal doors that echoed against the walls of the hallway outside Andrea’s front door. He led her to his bedroom in the back of the flat where he handed her a towel and then showed her where the bathroom was. She closed the door and figured out how to turn the hot water on in the shower, taking a moment to realize how crazy this whole situation felt right now. She was in a foreign country, in a hot musician's apartment, in his shower. Was this real life? The water felt unreal over her body. She contemplated staying in there all night but didn’t want to keep the hot musician waiting so she got out and wrapped the towel just tight enough to keep it from slipping off of her while she walked across the hallway where it ended up slipping to the ground in a puddle at her feet. The next morning Andrea took her to his favorite breakfast place around the corner from his flat. She ordered coffee with cream and sugar and something called a bacon, sausage, and egg filled roll which ended up looking exactly like its name implied. The sandwich was good, but the coffee was out of this world. She felt like she was in a storybook again. It had been this run-down-looking, whole-in-the-wall breakfast place but yet this coffee was the best coffee she’d had in her entire life. They’d talked over breakfast about how she wanted to explore the city on her own and Andrea said he’d only agree to letting her go if she agreed to a date with him tonight. So she went and climbed Arthur’s Seat, but not before stopping at a cute coffee shop along the way to pick up some extra caffeine for the day. The top of the ancient volcano offered her a 360˚ view of the entire city leading out into the ocean. It was breathtaking not only figuratively, but almost literally, as the winds at the top of Arthur’s Seat were more like gales. She walked herself around the city for a few more hours, finding a shop here and there that she would wander into, but eventually made her way back to the hostel to get ready to go on a date with her Italian later that night. They met on the steps of The Inn at the Place to grab a pre-dinner drink before heading to a rather unremarkable dinner at an Italian restaurant, but that didn’t matter, this was something from a dream. Not only was Andrea attractive and had an unforgettable voice, but he was also smart and so interesting to get to know. This felt like something she wanted to get used to. Their evening together after dinner was not much different from the last except this time, they opened a window to let some of the cool night air in. Andrea sat up against a mound of pillows on his bed and pulled her in between his legs to rest up against his chest. He asked her if she had any interest in watching Archer and she agreed cooly but was anything but on the inside. This was quickly becoming something she didn’t want to leave. He began rolling up a mixture of tobacco and marijuana offering her what he called a joint and what she explained was considered a spliff in America. It had a different calming effect and more of a body buzz than what she was used to, but she didn’t hate it. She didn’t quite remember waking up the next morning but came to rather quickly when she didn’t see Andrea next to her and then realized what sensation she was feeling in her body. It was a rather unexpected but very welcome start to her day. Charlotte wandered off to explore the city again during the day and found a Harry Potter store where she promptly bought a sweatshirt from the only house that mattered, Slytherin, and wore it for the rest of the day. Only feeling slightly silly when she noticed no one else was wearing any Harry Potter merch around the city but that didn’t stop her. That evening was the ghost tour she had signed up for at Auld Hundred. Charlotte would give her right arm for a good ghost tour, and the tour guide did not disappoint. They walked as a group around the city learning facts from centuries passed and were taken down into the Edinburgh Vaults. What had once housed taverns and workshops for cobblers and other tradesmen, eventually deteriorated to such poor quality that the homeless moved in and criminal activity became rampant. They finished the tour in a small, dimly lit room where everyone was handed a rather tasty glass of whiskey and listened to some ghost stories from a second tour guide. Having her ghost tour expectations met, Charlotte returned to Andrea’s to spend her final night with her Italian musician. He welcomed her into his flat with comfy pants in hand ready for her to change into, like she belonged there. It was a bittersweet gesture. The night's activities blurred into the morning where they continued as if never paused. Charlotte felt like she couldn’t get close enough to Andrea and wasn’t ready for reality to start again. They walked down to Bacon Roll one last time to get breakfast before spending the morning talking about the rest of her trip. She was heading to Dublin next, then Amsterdam. The conversation flowed into how they felt about each other and what life could look like if she moved to Edinburgh. It felt unreal to imagine she and Andrea living here in this flat together, walking the city together by day, going to see Andrea play his gigs every night, but before she knew it, it was time to take her Uber to the airport. She gave him one last kiss goodbye before forcing herself to walk out of his flat, not looking back. She knew if she looked back she would cave and never leave again, and so she said goodbye while driving through the streets of Edinburgh, knowing she had forever left a piece of her heart here. 

jixdw2

Uptha Road

The smoke around Jack dissipates. He’s standing at a crossroads. All four signs say Uptha Road. An ostrich bounds down the road toward him. It stops to survey him, honking loudly. “Bad enough I’m lost. I don’t need any comments from the vegemite gallery.” “Vegemite? Yuk,” the ostrich replies. Jack stares at the ostrich. “Okay, so where’s the ventriloquist?” “What makes you think it’s a trick?” the ostrich asks. “Hmm. No strings. No visible computer chips. The beak even moved when it spoke. This is one realistic dream I’m having.” The ostrich nips at Jack’s hand. “What did you do that for?” “You felt it, didn’t you? This is real. I’m Romy. Your current situation may take some getting used to. That’s why I’m here. You’re not from around these parts, are you?” “Nope. Born in Massachusetts and a resident of Hutton Corners, New Hampshire. I was doing some electrical work at my house. I must have zapped myself and passed out. When I came to, I found myself standing in the middle of this road.” Jack looks around at the backcountry setting, noting the lush rolling fields, horse trails, and a battered, broken barn on the opposite hill. “So, where exactly am I?” “Like the sign says, Uptha Road. Those who travel along Uptha Road can find a home, find a way back home, or best of all, can learn about themselves.” “That’s a pretty heavy philosophy.” “It’s in the brochure,” Romy replies. “So, how do I get home?” “Walk. But Uptha Road is considered endless. No one has ever traveled its entire length.” “Then how do you know it ends?” “The travelers who made it the farthest e-mailed us. Those interested in going home walk and walk and walk, until finally, they find a place they like and settle down. Most humans end up in Pompeii City, which is known for its gambling, nightlife, and beautiful people. Some live in Hallowed City, some like Mustang Valley because it’s like your rustic old west, and some are attracted to New Hawaii. There’s a time machine in the Circle, a place where part of Uptha Road branches off into a cul-de-sac. But no human has ever made it that far.” “You’re looking at the first. I’m in a hurry to get home. I left a pot of spaghetti boiling.” “It’s not that simple. You’ll have to get past Steppenwolf.” “The rock group?” Jack asks. “The animals.” “Guards can be bribed.” “They’re not guards. They’re a gang of half-human, half-wolf carnivorous monstrosities who ride Harley choppers and like a good barbecue, especially if human flesh is on the menu. They’ve taken control of the time machine, and they’re trying to figure out how it works. Once they do, they plan to go back in time, extinguish humanity, and rule Earth.” “That’s consistent with other madmen who think their way of life is the right one and the only one. So, what’s their weakness?” “Wolfsbane,” Romy replies. “Fitting. It happens to be poisonous for humans too. Are you busy right now?” Romy squawks. “You mean would I like to try to take you to the time machine?” “I don’t know who came up with the expression ‘bird brain.’ You’re pretty smart. How is it you can talk?” “Our leader figured it was the easiest way for us to communicate. My sounds are being translated into English for you, just as your words are translated into sounds I can understand. You’ll be able to communicate with all sentient beings on Uptha Road, although I’d avoid talking to cats. They seem to enjoy lying. And you’ll need to remember it’s also a dangerous journey. You could die again.” “What do you mean, again?” “Didn’t your mother tell you not to stick a screwdriver in an electric socket? You got more than just zapped. You took enough current to light up Chicago.” Jack chuckles to himself. “How about that? An electrician dies from getting electrocuted. The boys at the Palomino Bar are going to laugh their blocks off when I get back.” “You need to be sure you want to do this, Jack. We’ll have to walk for a week, maybe more, and along the way, you’ll encounter strange and dangerous beings you’ve never seen before.” “You’ve never been to New York City, have you?” A vintage red Cadillac coupe breezes by. The passenger in the back seat waves at Jack and Romy. The car pulls over on the shoulder, waiting for the pair of travelers to catch up to them. Jack recognizes the man in the back seat and is struck speechless. “Good afternoon, Mister President,” Romy says. “Where are you headed?” “We’re on our way to Potsdam.” “…It’s sure taken a dam long time to get to the pot…,” the driver murmurs. “Did you say something, Magellan?” “No sir, Mr. Roosevelt.” “Well, folks, wish me luck.” Jack waves wanly as the coupe departs. “That really was Franklin Roosevelt, wasn’t it?” “Yes. You never know who you’ll meet on Uptha Road.” “Like a President heading to a meeting he never attended because he was dead before it happened.” “Sometimes our leader gets the facts a little screwed up,” Romy admits. “Such as?” “Napoleon being short. He was he was 5'7". Our leader believes the lie, so here, on Uptha Road, Napoleon is 5’2”.” “Do you think you could get us a car?” Jack asks. “I’ll have to cripple you.” “Never mind. I can stand to lose a few pounds.” Jack exhales deeply, looking at the next hill. “We’ve been walking for hours. All I’ve seen is that little girl standing at the end of her driveway with a decapitated doll and a steak knife in her hand, and that giant billboard advertising rides on the Hindenburg.” “Don’t forget the singing crows,” Romy points out. "Yeah, I loved their rendition of ‘My Uncle Used to Love Me, But She Died.’. Where are the shopping malls, and the fast-food restaurants? And are we going to need a hotel room for the night?” The pair walks to the top of the hill. Ahead of them is a town with bustling businesses. “This is more like it. Did you do this?” “No, our leader did. He read your thoughts and created this town for us,” Romy replies. “If he can read my thoughts, you’d be about five feet four, blonde, and with…” “Got it,” Romy says. “Look down at the road.” Jack complies. “Okay, look up.” Standing in front of Jack is a breathtaking blonde dressed in a tight-fitting outfit. “Is that you, Romy?” “Yes. And let’s keep my transformation between us, okay? If the rest of my herd find out I was some human’s fantasy, they’ll banish me from the ostrich ranch.” Jack sighs. “Okay, sex may be off the table.” “Do you want to go to a concert?” Romy asks. “Jimmy Dean is playing at the Roadhouse.” Jack’s features twist into a look of doubt. “He had one hit song. It’s going to be a short concert.” “I hear he also hands out sausages and breakfast sandwiches. Keith Richards is opening for Jimi Hendrix at the Grammercy.” “How can Keith Richards do that? He’s not dead.” “Are you sure?” Jack closes the hotel door, smiling to himself. “Best night’s sleep I’ve had in years. And that concert, wow!” He turns to look at Romy who smiles bashfully. “And you… Don’t worry, Romy. What happens on Uptha Road, stays on Uptha Road.” Jack sighs as he watches Romy turn back into an ostrich. The visage of the hotel dissolves, disappearing. “Sorry. I can’t maintain my appearance for more than eight hours,” Romy says. “As for the hotel, well. we’re done with that too.” The pair continues their journey down Uptha Road. Over the next week, they encounter cows playing football, Fred Astaire teaching a trio of giraffes to dance, and an amphibious creature partial to Herb Alpert that can play its snout like a coronet. As they trudge over yet another hill, Jack is distracted by a strange flailing sound coming from overhead. Looking up at the cloudless sky, he sees a giant metallic insect. Its flapping wings are made of silk, and it uses gigantic aluminum propellers to help it fly. “Have I gone loco?” “No, it’s a wasp all right. We built three in the hope of flying to the end of Uptha Road. It turns out they don’t like passengers and won’t fly past the Circle.” “So, whatever is past the Circle must be really frightening,” Jack says. “Let’s hope we never find out. I think we should get some firepower just in case,” Romy replies. “C’mon!” Leaving the road, Romy runs into a thickly wooded area. When Jack catches up to the ostrich, she’s standing next to what looks like a shed. “Oh, no, Romy. An outhouse isn’t the answer to our problem.” “It’s not an outhouse,” Romy replies, swinging open the door. “Cool, a robot.” The lime-green humanoid has a boxy body, topped off by a square head with red-rimmed, saucer-shaped eyes and a mouth in a perpetual smile. “I had one of these as a kid. Where’s the key to wind it up?” “I’m not a clock,” the robot says in a synthesized voice. “Sentient?” Jack asks Romy. “Very. More importantly, Vox has a replicator.” “You mean he can reproduce guns, money, maybe play a record or two?” “I’m not a jukebox either,” Vox replies, playing Canned Heat’s “On the Road Again”. “But I do like music.” Jack looks up at the setting sun. “How much daylight do we have left?” “Two hours, forty-one minutes, and thirty-five seconds,” Vox replies. “Thank you, Mister Spock.” “Two hours, forty-one minutes, and thirty seconds.” “Okay, that’s enough.” Jack turns his head, looking into the woods. “And what the heck was that?” “I told you it would get more dangerous as we moved along,” Romy answers. Jack stops to look for what he thinks he’s seen from the corner of his eye. A shadowy figure shaped like a man crouches in the woods. The figure has no discernable mouth or eyes and is colored green. It leaps, shooting up in the sky like a rocket. “I repeat, what was that?” “We don’t know. My guess is they’re extraterrestrial. They might be the creators of the time machine. So far, they’ve just been watching the travelers pass by.” “Got any answers, Vox?” Jack asks. “If someone stares at you instead of talking to you, that can’t be good.” A cloud of dust covers the road ahead. “Looks like a dust storm. It’s moving toward us,” Jack notes. “That’s not a dust storm,” Vox replies. The trio takes cover behind several boulders overlooking the road. Jack can hear the sound of torqued-up engines as the cloud moves closer. Six tricked-out choppers cruise by. It’s not the bikes but who’s riding them that piques Jack’s interest. The riders have the bodies of men, highlighted by their muscled torsos and thick legs. But they also have pointed ears and snouts, sharp fangs, and the luminous red eyes of ravenous wolves. The wolf on the lead chopper with the spiked helmet lets out a famished howl. “So that’s Steppenwolf?” “Yes. We’ve reached the Circle,” Romy answers. The wolves dance around a burning cross, howling joyfully. Sitting on a hill overlooking Steppenwolf’s camp, Jack asks, “What do you suppose that’s all about?” “You’ve heard the expression, “Nailed to a cross?’” Romy asks. “I’m willing to bet the next thing they catch gets nailed to it.” “Then eaten,” Vox adds. Jack examines their camp. The wolves’ bikes are bikes parked together a few steps from the campsite next to a mound of bleached bones. Near the bones is a water trough. At the edge of the campsite where the hideout connects to Uptha Road is a computer the size of a house. At its center is a bright, swirling vortex. The wolf with the spiked helmet picks up a pile of bones, tossing it into the vortex. Sparks fly as the bones disappear, seemingly devoured. “Spike’s testing the time machine,” Jack surmises. “That may mean they’ve figured out how to operate it,” Vox replies. “If they have, the human race is screwed.” Jack counts the number of wolves. “We’re outnumbered two to one.” “You can expect them to take a nap in an hour and a half,” Vox says. “They nap?” “Good thing they do,” Romy says. “I’m thinking we wait until dark, sneak down to the camp, and put liquified wolfsbane in their trough.” “That should even the odds up some,” Jack says. “Where I come from silver bullets are supposed to kill werewolves.” “That’s fake news,” Vox replies. “Well, silver or not, a bullet can rip through a wolf as easily as a wall. How many have you manufactured so far?” Vox reaches for his crotch, pulling out a previously unseen drawer. Jack looks in the drawer, scarfing up the bullets. “And the guns?” The left side of Vox’s back pops open. Inside are two rifles. “The liquified wolf bane will be ready in five minutes,” Vox reports. “Great. I’ll dump the wolfbane into their water trough, create a diversion, and lead the stragglers to you. You guys blast them.” “No. I’ll go,” Romy says. “I can change into something small.” Jack hesitates, questioning if he has feelings for an ostrich. “All right. We’ll meet you at the time machine.” Crowded around the smoldering cross, the wolves snore loudly. Disguised as a raccoon, Romy scurries close to the ground. Standing on her hind legs, she pours a vial of liquid wolfsbane into the trough. Romy darts toward the bikes, smiling as she looks at the hill where Jack and Vox are perched. “Here comes our diversion,” Jack notes. Changing into a black bear, Romy knocks over the bikes, roaring triumphantly. Waking from his sleep, Spike regains his feet, yelling, “SNACK TIME!” A pair of wolves charge at Romy. Catching the first wolf as it jumps in mid-air, Romy twists its neck, tossing its dead carcass aside. The second wolf moves in for the kill. Two silver bullets tear through its body, and it collapses to the ground. Romy bolts toward Uptha Road. Spike and his pack dodge a cascade of bullets to get to their overturned bikes. Spike and another wolf speed off, intent on killing the bear. “Banzai!” Vox yells as he and Jack charge down the hill, firing their rifles. One of the two remaining wolves is felled by a shot to the back of the head. The second shakes his fist, baring his sharp teeth in defiance. Jumping on his chopper, he’s shot in the shoulder and loses control of the bike, skidding haphazardly into a thick pine tree. Splayed across his wrecked hog, the wolf looks up to see Jack and Vox standing over him. The wolf sniffs, looking at Jack. “I smell garbage.” “Allow me to take out the trash,” Jack replies, blasting the wolf with his rifle. Jack and Vox rush to Uptha Road, hoping to rescue Romy. They run until Jack’s lungs feel ready to burst. “Something’s in the road ahead,” Vox says. The sound of the wolf's bikes forces them to seek cover behind the nearby trees. Vox raises his rifle as the motorcycles draw closer. “Let them pass,” Jack says. “Right now, our main concern is Romy.” The pair wait until the cloud of dust dissipates and the sound of the bike’s engines fade. Jack runs to Romy’s side. Tire tracks crisscross the bird’s bent and broken body. “Turns out this bird couldn’t outrun a couple of hogs,” she gasps. Jack reaches for Romy’s wing. He finds himself holding a smooth, supple hand. “Thought you’d like to see me like this one last time,” Romy whispers. “But you said we can’t die.” “I lied. You can die today and die again tomorrow and the day after that… I hope to see you again… Now go home.” Romy’s body disappears as Jack leans down to kiss her. Jack and Vox walk through Steppenwolf’s camp. Lying next to the time machine is another dead wolf. “This is the one who took off after Romy with Spike,” Vox concludes. “He came back here with Spike, was thirsty, and took a drink from the trough.” “So where did Spike go?” Jack asks. Vox scans the machine’s settings. “It looks like Napoleon is going to have more than just the Russian winter to worry about.” “Can you operate this thing and send me back to 2024?” “I can set the coordinates. But this machine is old, obsolete. I don’t know why I wasted so many years envying its existence. It’s not safe, but it may be able to send you home.” “That’s all I needed to hear, Vox. Don’t let yourself rust.” Vox pulls the handle on the time machine. “Just like a slot machine, and probably just as lucky. I hope it comes up thee of a kind,” Jack jokes as he’s surrounded by thick white smoke. The smoke dissipates. Jack is standing at a crossroads. All of the signs say Uptha Road. A melodic voice says, “Hello, stranger.” “Romy!” Romy holds out her hand. “How about a nice long walk?”

zifies

The Light

A ragged breath comes from a lone traveler. His heavy leather boots lift slowly, and fall back down to the ground with a hard stomp. Sweat protrudes from his brow as the heat beats against his skin. The drops of salty water slid down his dirty forehead and sting into his eyes. Clang, clatter, clop, sings the leather sack that slides across the ground behind him, his aching arm clutching to its strings. The sand shifts from under him. Constantly changing from rocks, to dirt, then to sand all over again. He’s forgotten how long he’s been walking. He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he has seen another face. The only thing that comforts him is that clang, clatter, clop that sings behind him. He never looks back. The light in front of him is all he can see, though lately he noticed that the once blazing light has now grown small into a little bobbing orb. Sometimes he thinks he’s only a few more feet from it, then comes to the horrible biting realization that it still could be miles and miles away. Sand and dirt and rocks, that’s the only other thing that goes for miles and miles and miles. His mouth is dry now, his lips screaming in blistering pain. He just needs to get to that light. His mind wanders, contemplating the innermost demons inside of him. The weight of the bag grows with every fleeting thought. His eyes wander back up to the light, his heart sinking lower than he could ever imagine.  It had shrunk into a pin needle, barely visible to the naked eye. His knees gave way, sinking deeply into the warm sand. His heart beat strongly inside his chest, causing the breath to leave his lungs. His ears rang in the silence, and his sore throat let out a weak cry. It is over now. He sat there, tears streaming down his face, his eyes still looking at the little star of light that was an eternity away. “Cheers mate.” A voice broke the never ending silence. The man’s head slowly turned from the pin needle of light, noticing a glowing white fox sitting right next to him. “Greetings.” The man said, his voice hoarse and scratchy. “Nice day for a strowl isn’t it?” The fox said.  The man didn’t know how to respond to this. For him, it had been a milenia of walking, pulling, crying… Bleeding. “I suppose.” Is all he could muster. “Any chance I could get some water from you? I’m parched.” The fox said, smiling. Its eyes were kind. The man could tell that it wasn’t mischievous, regardless of what humanity said about its kind. He could tell the request was genuine. How could he explain to the creature that he had been without water for years. “Sorry,” The man replied. “I haven’t gotten any.” The creature tilted its head, clearly confused. “Oh, sorry about that. I assumed you were a well prepared man, seeing that large sack behind you.” The fox’s nose pointed behind the man, causing him to finally look back. His eyes widened, a shuddered gasp filling his lungs. A large black mass sat behind him, towering over him. The only thing that still resembled the once small pack was the chipping leather. The man’s head turned back to the fox. “I- I don’t know how… What.” The fox nodded, as if knowing what the man was trying to say. “It seems you’ve been collecting some important things. I’m a collector myself.” The fox looked back at the pack. “But i’ve got to commend your strength, it’s got to be very heavy carrying all of that at once.” The man noticed he was still tightly gripping onto the string of the sack, his hand now unable to loosen its hold. “Could I ask, could you just take a peek in that sac and see if there is any water? I wouldn’t be surprised if you accidentally misplaced some somewhere in that mass of a mountain.” The man regarded the sac again, then looked back over at the fox. His eyes widened even more. The creature that had been a fox was no longer a fox. It glowed like the fox and it sat like the fox, but what now sat in front of him was no longer a fox but a tall deer. “If it’s not too much to ask,” The creature said, still smiling. The man shook his head. “No, it’s not too much to ask.” He turned back towards the sac, ignoring the aching in his muscles as he moved. He grunted in pain, his hand shaking as he willed it to open and let go of the string. He rubbed it gingerly with his other hand, then slowly opened the sack. The deer sat up and walked over to the man, illuminating the things that were within. Quietly the man got to work, reaching in and pulling out a jumble of miscellaneous things.  “What’s that?” The creature would sometimes ask. “A coffee mug. My father would drink from it every morning.” “And that?” “A rock from my fireplace. On cold nights my family would sit in front of it and talk about our favorite part of the day.” “Oh that’s pretty.” “This was my favorite Christmas ornament. Every Christmas I would play with it as my mother put Christmas decorations on the tree.” “Oh, what about that?” “My wife’s wedding ring, we said our vows during a stormy night, but it was the most beautiful night I’ve ever had.” One by one the things came out of the sac, cluttering all around the man.  Finally the last thing came out of the sac. It was a toy airplane, red in color, made of iron. The man’s arms fell in his lap, the little plane resting in them. “No water.” He muttered. “I know.” The voice came from right next to him. The man’s head slowly turned, sensing something different from the voice.  His eyes met another’s deep gaze. Another man sat next to him, his hair as white as snow, eyes blazing like a fire. He had a sad smile on his lips.  He lifted his hand and rested it on the tired man’s shoulders. “That looks like something special.” He nodded towards the airplane. The tired man looked down at the red toy. “It was my dream.” He muttered. The white haired man nodded slowly, “I know.” He tugged the man’s shoulder, causing the tired man to turn and look into his eyes. “Will you give it to me?” He asked. The tired man felt his heart rise up in his chest, an anxious and fearful feeling coming over him. He opened his mouth to shout ‘no’, but the cry died in his throat as another feeling bloomed inside his chest.  He looked down at the red object, then slowly raised his hands and handed it to the man in white. “You can have it all.” The tired man said. The man in white gingerly took the red plane, taking his white garments and rubbing them over the old grime that clung to the toy. He smiled. “You better continue your walk. The day is only going to get better.” The tired man noticed something that he hadn’t seen in a while. His shadow grew further and further away from him, causing him to turn away from the empty sack and see a growing light ahead of him.  He leapt up off the ground, eyes widening as the light grew into the horizon. He looked down at the man in white, who sat amidst all of his old things.  “It does look like a good day for a walk.” He muttered, the thirst that had been with him for years finally starting to leave his lips. He stepped forward,noticing that the shifting sand was turned to dirt. He took another step, noticing a lightness overcoming him. Another step and he found his strength returning.  After every slow step a peppier step would follow. Before the man could realize what was happening he found himself running. The dirt turned to rock, then the rock turned to grass, and the grass turned to pasture. The light extended through the horizon, flowing over him and behind him. He suddenly stopped running, taking in deep clean breaths. The path before him is still ever growing, but no longer into a desert but a lush green paradise. He looked behind him, finding the path that he had come from to be lush and green as well, a small pin needle of darkness barely seen by the naked eye showed him where he had come from. A presence could suddenly be felt next to him. He whipped around, finding the man in white standing next to him. “I thought I’d join you.” He said, looking ahead. “Oh, would you look at that?” He pointed. The once tired man followed his hand, seeing a beautiful red taildragger flying high in the sky, just beyond the path. “Let’s get a better look.” The man in white said, starting forward on the path.  The once tired man let out a chuckle.  He smiled, then followed. Matthew 11:28-30 28 “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. 29 Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 30 For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

d6qaat

The Auspicious Adventures of Dr. Winthrop P. Alexander

Dr. Winthrop P. Alexander (also known as “The Professor” by his students and colleagues) stared in disbelief at the notes on the table before him. As a renown (well, formerly renown) naturalist specializing in the study of camouflage this was a most remarkable discovery. He flipped through the pages again, just to be sure. It was, indeed, remarkable.   He pursed his lips, frowned and pursed his lips again, turning his fluffy mustache into a wiggly caterpillar. As of late, few colleagues took his discoveries seriously. In fact, most encouraged him to take up the mantel of his secondary degree in the field of visual arts. I do enjoy painting. But this…this was just too exciting to ignore!   Lightning struck the antenna outside, traveling down the pole into the house, and sparking an idea in the professor’s brain.   Would it be possible to combine my two favorite pastimes?   With renewed purpose, Dr. Alexander set aside his copious notes, clearing ample space on the work table. Next, he opened the cabinet and pulled out tray after tray of paints. Bright colors, dark colors, pastel colors, neon. Earth tones, water tones, cosmic tones with glitter for stars. Colors of forests, of…(well, you get the idea). He was quite proud of his collection. As giddy as a school boy, he set up his supplies and began work straight away. Mixing this chemical and that, making notations as he went along; in practically no time at all, he had a finely tuned system going.   Some of the results were rather disappointing, producing a mild puff of smoke or no reaction at all. (This is to be expected in science.) However, other experiments were quite exciting. (He only singed his eyebrows once.)   He continued his experiments day after day, week after week, making minor adjustments each time, until finally several months passed by. The doorbell ceased ringing. The phone became quiet. Letters, unpaid bills and other mail piled up in front of the door so that he needed a shovel to move it away in order to retrieve his grocery deliveries. Eventually, came a period where he forgot to order groceries (he also forgot to eat) and began ordering paint instead. By the gallons. All colors.   Had he taken a moment to consider the rest of the world at all, he would have realized everyone thought him quite mad. He might have thought himself mad were he to look from their perspective. Dr. Winthrop P. Alexander, however, was not mad. In fact, he was elated!   He could hardly hold the pencil still as he drew mural after mural (life-sized, mind you) on the walls of his attic work space. One wall held the image of an igloo with penguins and polar bears. (Hmmm. Perhaps not polar bears.) He quickly erased that and added a seal instead.   Another wall contained a coastal landscape. (He was very careful not to make the waves too high.)   His favorite drawing, however, the one he was most proud of, looked straight out of a photograph of the Amazon jungle. Vines, trees, coconuts… A vibrantly colored parrot stared at him from its perch on a branch. (Well, it was vibrant in his imagination.)   One bright sunny day (Of course, the professor didn’t notice it was a bright sunny day as his head was still in the clouds.) Winthrop pushed back his sleeves, pushed up his glasses and smiled. “That’s it, then,” he said to no one (for no one else was there).   It was finally time to test his theory. He could hardly contain his excitement as he pushed away from the table. Very carefully, so as not to spill a single drop, he added just a bit of his newly discovered formula to each of the paints on his palette and gently stirred.   He decided to paint the parrot first. It demanded color. Stroke after stroke, feather after feather, with great care he brought the image to life. (No, really. He brought it to life.) No sooner had he put the finishing touch on its beak than it was squawking at him and swooping around the attic.   Dr. Alexander nearly dropped his paints in delight. (Paints, not pants. What ever were you thinking?) After several messy incidents which enticed the professor to study the underside of his table, the parrot returned to its perch. Remarkable! Winthrop took up his paints again, desperately working to bring more of the images to life.   Around the room he went, day after day, painting each mural with great care (also choosing carefully which images received the most formula, given the obnoxious personality of the parrot), only stopping to refill his palette. (And occasionally to take a sip of water or use the restroom). An unknown length of time had passed when he finally set down his brushes and sighed. At last, he peeked out the attic window (You missed summer, professor), and was surprised to see his backyard had become a jungle as well. The grass certainly seems to grow fast these days.   The parrot squawked, flew around the room and landed on Winthrop’s shoulder where it had taken up residence some time ago. Its talons poked holes in the plastic poncho Dr. Alexander now wore over his lab coat—just in case.   “What say you, Reginald?” (He had named the parrot Reginald after the one colleague who had not entirely given up on his mental status.) “Shall we have an adventure?”   “Squawk,” said Reginald, tugging at the professor’s spectacles.   Dr. Alexander spent the next few days putting his notes in order and copying the most crucial into a brand new leather journal he planned to take with him. He also made sure to put a few pencils (and an eraser—mistakes do happen on occasion) into his knapsack along with the remnants of his special formula. (Perhaps you should add some food, too? Just a thought.)   Finally, he declared himself ready, donned his safari hat (This is a safari of sorts, after all.) and stepped into the Amazon jungle. (Well, halfway).   He teetered on the precipice for a moment, stepped back into his attic to see if he could, then fully committed. Upon taking that fateful step, he found himself completely surrounded by hot humid jungle. His attic had disappeared. He tried stepping back the way he’d come but only landed in a mud hole. A mud hole occupied by leeches. This was not a pleasant discovery.   “Well, bugger,” he grumbled while ripping a leech from his pant leg. “I suppose I shall have to go forward since I cannot go back.”   So began the auspicious adventures of Dr. Winthrop P. Alexander of 365 Mystery Lane.

fljanu

Whispers of the Endless Road: A Journey Beyond the Horizon

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting elongated shadows that danced across the barren, otherworldly landscape, Sarah found herself on a road markedly different from any she had known. This path stretched endlessly ahead, vanishing into a mirage that blurred the line between earth and sky. Each step echoed in the enveloping silence, accompanied only by the soft crunch of gravel under her boots—a stark reminder of her solitude. Despite the unease gnawing at her, Sarah's steps were unwavering, propelled by an insatiable curiosity to unravel the enigma of this eternal road. The scenery was a monotonous expanse: on either side, lifeless fields sprawled under a dome of ever-changing hues, where the day's end brought a ballet of oranges and pinks swirling above. The horizon, however, remained an elusive specter, always a promise, forever out of grasp, fueling her inner turmoil with its intangible allure. Days melded into each other as time lost its meaning. Rest came in fits and starts by the roadside, her dreams a kaleidoscope of endless highways and boundless deserts, each morning greeting her with a weariness that seeped deep into her bones. Yet, the thought of retracing her steps was anathema. She had left a life of stifling predictability behind, seeking answers or perhaps new questions; what drove her forward was not just curiosity but a need to fill an unspoken void within. It was on the third day—or was it the fourth?—that Sarah's solitude was broken. A figure emerged from the horizon, a mirage made flesh, approaching with determined strides. Clad in a cloak tattered by countless journeys, the stranger moved with a purpose that belied his weary appearance. His eyes, when they met hers, sparkled with an unquenchable fire. "Hello," Sarah ventured, her voice barely more than a whisper against the vastness. "Do you know where this road goes?" The stranger halted, his gaze piercing. "This road," he said, his voice carrying the weight of many journeys, "is endless. It's a tapestry of infinite possibilities, a journey without destination." A chill cascaded down Sarah's spine, yet his words ignited a spark within her. "But why am I here?" The question was more to herself than to him, a voice for the restlessness that had set her on this path. With a smile that seemed to hold centuries of wisdom, he replied, "That, only you can uncover. The road is boundless, but its meaning is yours to define." Their exchange was brief, but the stranger's words lingered, weaving into Sarah's thoughts, offering no answers, only more questions. Yet, as he disappeared into the distance, a sense of clarity began to take root. Perhaps the purpose of her journey wasn't to find the end of the road but to understand that the journey itself was the destination. Each step was a move away from her past, a defiance of stagnation, a stride towards self-discovery. With a renewed sense of purpose, Sarah continued her trek. The road ahead was unchanged, yet her perception of it transformed. She began to notice subtle shifts in the landscape—the way the light played on the stones, the faint patterns in the dust, signs of life in the desolation. These nuances, previously overlooked, now formed a tapestry of change, mirroring her internal transformation. This road, endless and unforgiving, had become a canvas for her rebirth. It was not about reaching a conclusion but embracing the journey's infinite possibilities. And with each step, Sarah unraveled a little more of the mystery that was herself, her footsteps a testament to the power of perseverance and the beauty of the unknown. As Sarah ventured further down the never-ending road, the world around her unfolded into a tableau of surreal wonders. Strange creatures, shadows given form, darted in and out of the twilight, their bodies morphing with each leap and bound in ways that mocked the very notion of physics. Trees, defiant in their existence, pierced through the cracked asphalt, their branches stretched like skeletal fingers grasping at the ever-changing tapestry of the sky. She wandered through mists that swirled with purpose, whispering secrets in tongues lost to time, their words caressing her skin with the faint touch of otherworldly knowledge. With each step, the fabric of reality seemed to thin, drawing Sarah deeper into a dreamscape that straddled the line between the tangible and the imagined. Time twisted upon itself, leaving her adrift in a sea of thought, where the echoes of her footsteps mingled with the whispers of the mist. The question of why she had come, and to where she was headed, faded into insignificance. In its place, a profound acceptance took root, a willingness to surrender to the journey's whims, to be carried forth by the currents of an unseen destiny. It was in this state of wanderlust that Sarah stumbled upon an anomaly—a village cradled in the wilderness's embrace. The cottages, quaint and imbued with a charm that transcended time, wore murals vibrant with the tales of old; fantastical beasts and landscapes born of pure imagination adorned their walls, inviting the eye and the mind to wander freely. The villagers welcomed her as one of their own, their smiles warm, their eyes alight with the spark of shared secrets. They beckoned her to join in their celebration, a nightly ritual that bound them to each other and to the magic of their land. As dusk fell, Sarah found herself encircled by the village's heart, a bonfire crackling with life at its center. The villagers, young and old, gathered round, their voices rising and falling in a cadence that spoke of ancient legends and heroes whose deeds had transcended time. They spoke of realms layered upon their own, of magic woven into the fabric of the universe, accessible to those who dared to look beyond the veil. Among them, an elder with eyes like the twilight sky shared tales that resonated with Sarah's soul. His stories, steeped in wisdom and wonder, mirrored the journey she had undertaken, reflecting her fears, her hopes, and the endless roads she had traversed. In his words, she found a mirror to her own heart, a realization that her journey was not just a path walked in solitude but a shared odyssey that echoed through the ages. In this village, among these people, Sarah discovered a sense of belonging that had eluded her on the empty road. Yet, as the fire dwindled and the stars claimed the night, she knew her journey was not yet complete. There were mysteries still veiled in shadow, adventures that called to her spirit, roads that stretched beyond the horizon. With a heart heavy yet full of hope, Sarah bid farewell to the village at dawn, her spirit buoyed by the knowledge that such places of wonder and warmth existed. As she stepped once more onto the road, her path illuminated by the first light of day, she carried with her a new sense of purpose. The elder had gifted her a talisman, a small, intricately carved stone that pulsed with an inner light. It was a beacon, he had said, a guide to help her navigate the mysteries that lay ahead. The world around her was alive with magic, a tapestry of the real and the unreal, waiting to be unraveled. With each step, Sarah delved deeper into the unknown, her senses alive to the world's whispering secrets, her path lit by the glow of the talisman. She was no longer just a traveler on an endless road but a seeker of truths hidden just beyond the veil of reality, her journey a testament to the power of wonder and the endless possibilities that lay waiting in the heart of the unknown. As Sarah delved deeper into realms where reality bent and swirled around her, the landscape transformed into a canvas of pure imagination. Here, in these realms unbound by the laws of physics, every step she took unveiled new horizons of possibility, each more breathtaking and bewildering than the last. Hidden wonders whispered their secrets as untold adventures unfolded before her, beckoning her forward with the promise of discovery. Along her path, Sarah encountered beings that defied explanation—entities of light and shadow, mythical creatures that seemed to step right out of the stories of old. Each encounter was a chapter in itself, a story woven into the fabric of her journey. These beings, with their own tales of joy, sorrow, and longing, shared their worlds with her, offering gifts of wisdom and strength. In their presence, Sarah found herself not just a traveler but a part of a larger narrative, her story intertwining with theirs in bonds that stretched across the veils of worlds. Despite the marvels that surrounded her, a hollow ache lingered within Sarah—a yearning for something more, a piece that remained elusive no matter how far she traveled. This void, a silent companion on her journey, propelled her forward, a reminder that her quest was not yet complete. As days melded into weeks, and weeks into months, Sarah's resolve only deepened. She faced challenges that tested her to her core, from labyrinthine forests that ensnared the mind to towering beasts that guarded ancient secrets. Each trial was a forge, tempering her spirit, honing her will. With every victory, her heart grew stronger, her purpose clearer. It was at the crossroads of destiny, amidst a convergence of paths woven by fate, that Sarah found the missing piece she had been seeking. It was not a tangible treasure, nor was it the end of her journey. Instead, it was a moment of profound clarity—a sense of peace and contentment that enveloped her, filling the void within with light. This peace was a realization that the journey itself, with its trials and encounters, its moments of wonder and despair, was the true treasure. Looking out over a horizon that stretched into infinity, Sarah understood that her journey's value lay in the lessons learned, the connections forged, and the joy found in each step. The road that had no end had led her to discover the boundless potential of her spirit, to find a sense of purpose and belonging that would illuminate her path wherever it might lead. With a heart brimming with newfound joy and a spirit ignited by the thrill of discovery, Sarah stepped forward, her eyes alight with the promise of adventures yet to come. She knew now that the road, with all its twists and turns, was a friend, a teacher, and a companion on her quest for understanding. And as she ventured once more into the unknown, Sarah carried with her the song of the road—a melody of hope, wonder, and the endless journey of the soul. For Sarah, the relationships she had forged with the beings of light and shadow, the mythical creatures whose stories had become part of her own, were not mere encounters; they were reflections of her own journey, mirrors that showed her the depth of her courage, the strength of her heart. In the quiet moments of reflection, she could see how far she had come from the woman who first set foot on this endless road—transformed by the trials she had faced, the mysteries she had unraveled, and the love she had found in the most unexpected of places. As she continued on her path, the challenges she faced grew not just in complexity but in meaning. Each obstacle, each adversary, was a lesson in disguise, teaching her more about herself and the world around her than she could have ever imagined. The setting itself responded to her journey, with forests that whispered secrets of resilience and mountains that challenged her to rise higher. In this ever-evolving tapestry of adventure and introspection, Sarah's journey was a beacon of light, illuminating the truths that lay hidden in the heart of the unknown. With each step, she embraced the endless road not just as a path to be traveled, but as a journey to be lived—a journey that, in its infinite unfoldings, revealed the true essence of discovery, belonging, and the indomitable human spirit. As Sarah ventured deeper into realms unknown, each step on the endless road tested her resolve, presenting challenges that pushed her to the brink. She encountered fearsome creatures that lurked in the shadows and navigated treacherous terrains that twisted underfoot. Yet, with each obstacle she overcame, Sarah's spirit soared, growing stronger and more resilient, a testament to the unbreakable will within her. It was in the midst of these trials that Sarah found kinship with fellow travelers, each drawn to the road by their quest for adventure and discovery. Among them was Jaxon, a skilled navigator with a quick wit and a mysterious past; Elena, a healer whose laughter could light up the darkest nights; and Theo, a bard who found songs even in the silence of the wilderness. Together, they formed a bond as strong as steel, forged in the fires of adversity. Their journey was a tapestry of shared laughter and tears, of stories whispered under the stars about where they had come from and where they dreamed to go. In the warmth of the firelight, Sarah listened to Jaxon's tales of cities beyond the mountains, to Elena's memories of a home lost to time, and to Theo's songs of love and loss. With each word and melody, Sarah found pieces of herself reflected back, realizing that this camaraderie was the treasure she had unknowingly sought. The challenges they faced on the road required more than individual bravery; they demanded collective strength and wisdom. When a shadow beast blocked their path, it was their unity that turned the tide—Jaxon's strategy, Elena's healing light, Theo's inspiring chants, and Sarah's fearless leadership. Through each trial, they learned that together, they were more than the sum of their parts; they were a family bound not by blood, but by the journey they shared. As the days melded into weeks, and weeks into months, the essence of their adventure transcended the pursuit of the horizon. It became a journey of the heart, a lesson in the power of friendship and the resilience of the human spirit. Sarah discovered that the road's true magic lay not in its mysteries, but in the connections forged in its wake. Hand in hand, they stepped forward into the unknown, each challenge a canvas for their courage and each victory a memory to cherish. They knew the road would twist and turn, bringing storms and shadows, but as long as they stood together, there was no darkness they couldn't overcome. And so, with hope as their compass and determination as their guide, Sarah and her companions ventured forth. The road stretched endlessly before them, a ribbon through the wilds of a world brimming with wonders yet to be discovered. But it was in the journey itself—in the laughter shared, the tears shed, and the stories woven into the fabric of their being—that they found the greatest adventure. For Sarah, the road that had no end was no longer a solitary path but a journey illuminated by the light of friendship. With Jaxon, Elena, and Theo by her side, she realized that no obstacle was insurmountable, no mystery too deep to explore. Together, they pressed on, their spirits intertwined, ready to face whatever marvels lay ahead, secure in the knowledge that the true essence of their quest was the bond that united them, a bond as enduring as the road itself.

j2yebx

Report: D 2.26.24 (The Desert Ice Dragon)

I wonder how sunlight once shimmered on the living oceans, before dust veiled the world. When the skies were clear blue and the sun a bright white light. Now the sun shines a dark golden brown light. As I gazed upward, pondering the alien concept of a blue sky, my eyes caught signs of scattered rain clouds and dark specks on the horizon, racing towards us on high-altitude winds. “Rain’s coming,” I told the group, pointing to the sky. Together, we sought refuge, finding solace within the skeletal remains of a deep-sea coral, a ridge large enough to shelter all seven of us. The wind howled, whipping up clouds of sand in a frenzied dance. And then, the rain began to fall -- not as water, but as droplets of black oily liquid, thankfully of the lighter crude variety. Light crude does not mingle with the airborne dust to form hard hail, a small mercy. We huddled together, waiting out the rain for twenty minutes. A day’s journey still lay ahead, with several hours of trekking before we could reach the first known structure to provide shelter for the night. During the brief respite, a few men discovered patches of sand grass in the coral’s deep crevasses, harvesting them for a meager lunch. If one listened close enough, one could hear rodents deep inside the coral scurrying about; that lifted my heart to know that life still hangs on even in this unforgiving environment. Once the storm had passed, we resumed our journey, navigating through the labyrinth of coral. As evening approached and we emerged from the maze, a small building came into view, not too far in the distance. This picked up the morale of the group, and with renewed purpose, we headed towards it. It was a two-level skeleton-like structure, its outer walls half-buried in the sand, its surface blemished with gunfire from battles long past. The second level boasted catwalks encircled by walls with gun ports for defense. Despite the ravages of time, portions of the canvas that had once formed the structure’s walls still clung to their frames. A fully enclosed rose from the structure with circular windows barred with steel atop the catwalk in the northern corner, like a silent guardian over the desolate landscape. ‘Be ready for a fight,’ our leader cautioned, the possibility of the structure being inhabited hanging over us like a shadow. We entered from the south, where a long-forgotten battle had shattered and melted the wall, leaving the catwalk in ruins. Methodically, we swept through the area, each step echoing in the silence until we reached the clean room. Its doors shut behind us with a reassuring thud, sealing us inside. To our relief, the generator hummed to life, and the cleansing fans began their purifying whirl. Beside the maintenance area, a small pile of spare parts and other items lay collected—a tribute from those who had passed through. In this harsh world, encounters could be fatal, but the sanctity of clean rooms united us all. These sanctuaries, more revered than the churches of old, represented the only universally held value among the fractured remnants of humanity. Along one of the walls were bed rolls with a few other items beside them. One of them was a small stuffed animal. I picked it up and wondered how long this had been left here. As the room's purging cycle hummed in the background, we allowed ourselves a moment of respite, removing our headgear. Words were scarce, the weight of our journey pressing down on us. Yet, in silent agreement, we decided to make camp, preparing to continue to the Seamount of Or-San at first light." .. We were in the process of assigning watches for the night when we spotted another group coming forward to the building from the north. We scrambled to defensive positions and raised the buildings like in the colors of our group as a warning. The group paused, then furnishing weapons out and tugged forward to us. As they got closer, we could see their clothes were of the sand roamers, far to often hostile to those that make our homes in the deep trenches of the world. As firefights went, it was a relatively peaceful one with only a dozen or so shots exchanged between the groups, testing the will of each other before the sand roamers left as trying to assault a fortified position like this one was folly when each group had roughly even numbers. If it had been another trench group, we might have had a more desperate battle on our hands, but the sand roamers are much more familiar with the harsh environment of the open lands and how to survive. It was decided that none would have the luxury of the clean room but would sleep in the building where they could quickly join the watchers in battle if the sand roamers tried anything at night. The night passed into the day, and there was no sign of them. Thus, we pressed onward to our location. We got to the foot of the mountains with the rocky walls and bowls filled with sand. Rounding the corner of one, we finally find our sight on the cave entrance. I had never seen a cave entrance so wide, being to my eye over 100 feet tall, but I had to remind myself that while this might have been an actual cave at one part, this was an entrance to a man-made underground city, a large one that was built during the height of the Lake age. The rock formations around the mouth of the car were strange if you did not not they times of the past used to be large decorative columns carved away from the mountain, a grand sight in old times though not any less ground now though the erosion has taken its toll on these rock pillars. I wondered how many thousands of years old these pillars were craved when Earth had above-ground lakes. We stood there for a while, each one lost in their thoughts. Then lead signaled for us to continue. Without a word, we followed him in. We saw more regular patterns carved into the ceiling and walls as we went inside the cave. There were mountings for unknown machines. As we got further into the cave, the sand that had been blown in started to decrease, and we could see we were walking on a level rock floor. Descending more profoundly into the cave, it became colder, and we started to see frost on the walls of the cave as the stories told of the ice dragon that lived in these caves. Not that it was an actual dragon; no one has laid eyes on it and survived to tell the tale, so it could be a significant number of things, but most likely one of the great machines of times past. The cave tunnel we had been traveling split off into three directions. We looked to the lead, who nodded and looked to the technical lead. We split into groups and signaled that we would be splitting up and that the tunnels all lead to the same place, allowing us to attack it from multiple angles. The demolition lead asked if splitting up would be a good idea and if the tunnels did lead to the same area. The lead was unpersuaded, and the group was split up. I the engineer lead, were placed together and followed the tunnel. It was the longest one, and we hurried along so that we could enter the cave of the ice dragon with the others. Yet the cave kept going on and on. As time ticked by, we went for a jog and then for a run. We wondered whether we should turn back as this tunnel was far longer than planned. Then it was time, and then it was past time. When it was past time, the barks of guns rang out. We could hear that we were close. We ran with all our might to the battle. But we were too late; we saw the heroic sacrifice of the demolition lead the last standing member as he flung himself on the dragon activating the rest of the explosives he had. A mighty explosion shook the cave, nearly knocking us to the ground. The attack stunned the ice dragon, stumbling back on its four large metallic legs. We got a good look at the ice dragon. It had four legs that came to a long beam of horizontal steel bar where a reactor was suspended underneath, and the rest of the robot came up like a scorpion tail to two arms with hoses and dispensers and an oblong head with a large camera in the center. Removing the guard across his mouth, the engineering lead said, “It is an ICO 350 NITO; aim for the reactor bulb underneath and shoot anything green.” The ice dragon heard us and started to come down the rocky slope above where it had slain the others. The explosion had stripped parts of the armor plating across the robot's front. I could see the reactor orb beneath it and where the armor plating had pealed away, hanging on the robot the green of the orb. I leveled my sniper rifle, taking aim, and each five of my shots found their mark with green liquid bursting like blood, but the thing never slowed down as it charged us. Then the last 5 yards, it stopped and prepared one of its arms to crush us or freeze us with the liquid. I don’t know; the engineer lead’s arc rifle rang out, hitting the area where I had shot, and then rippled tremours through the robot before it slumped falling to the ground before us. We were alive. We slayed the ice dragon., The others were not. Our hearts were heavy. We inspected the cave for the treasure we hoped to find and find it we did. A complete functional deep tunneling well and pump. One that could reach down to the bottom of the Earth where the oceans now lay and draw them back to the surface. The lifeblood for new life and a new future.

wu5q7g

The Endless Road of Redemption

My chest was already in spasms, etching their way into my jaw, when I saw her Audi pulling into the driveway. The metallic tang of dread mingled with the taste of blood, a consequence of biting my cheek incessantly. Hoping to wash away the impending apprehension, I quickly swallowed a sip of water that felt obstructed in my throat. "Ah, just who I wanted to deal with right now," I muttered to my seemingly unsympathetic ceiling. Heather, the self-proclaimed expert on my life, had arrived. In the last 23 years, she's been a front-row spectator to nearly every emotional circus I've hosted. She could read my vibes like a fortune teller reads palms, but today's vibe was a mystery even to me. Out of the blue, this ominous cloud crashed into my emotional well-being. No life-altering events had triggered it—just a sudden, uninvited squall of anxiety. In an attempt to evade her notice, I hit the deck and army-crawled across the living room, hoping she wouldn't see me in the bay window. "What are you looking for, Rem?" Heather questioned, swinging the front door open and welcoming herself into my house, only to discover me crawling on the floor like a decapitated caterpillar. I give up. Despite the gravity of my anxiety, the scene took on an absurd quality—a dark humor that punctuated the heaviness of my emotions. "What's wrong with you? You've fallen off the face of the earth; you won't return my calls; you haven't been to school all week; you don't even answer the door when I know damn well you're here. I mean, your car's in the driveway." Concerned, Heather raised that bushy eyebrow as the wrinkles on her forehead tried their hardest to outwit the Botox. The worry spoke through her glazed eyes, though. Instead of getting off the floor like a typical person would, I kept slithering around on the shaggy, stanky carpet. I'd rather be a decapitated worm. That encouraged her; she set her purse down, slipped her shoes off, straightened her skirt, which didn't make sense, and pitifully kneeled on the floor like she was going to contract meningitis or syphilis if she touched the carpet. The carpet was actually gross. It had been a while since I vacuumed. Too much exertion. It smelled like a wet dog and an old vacuum bag full of skin cells and dust mites. That dank smell. She was too close; I could feel her hot breath, and it stung my eyeballs. At least it didn't smell bad. That could be what the sting was—trident spearmint. Or winterfesh. "I'm serious, Remster; I'm worried about you." An unmistakable tear slid down her face like it was playing Plinko with her freckles. Her chin quivered, and her nostrils twitched, indicating, in fact, that the tears were real. "I'll spare you the misery of none of the details 'cause there aren't any. There is no need to join in on my pity party." I rolled my eyes again, which momentarily sidetracked my misery and left me pondering if they could actually get stuck in the back of my brain if I did it too much. "Jesus, just leave me alone. I don't know what's wrong with me, but you're making it worse." I arched into a backbend and stood out of it as every vertebra in my back cracked like those plastic air puffs when you squeezed them. "Ya know, whatever stick you have up your ass, you need to pull it out. I'm sick of your pissy attitude. Just tell me what's wrong." Heather barked assertively, shocking me. It made me feel a little guilty about how I had been treating her. She was just concerned. I would be for her if the roles were reversed. But everything annoyed me these days, and my tongue seemed quicker than my reflections. As Heather confronted my erratic behavior and struggled to understand the shadows encircling me, a mix of concern and frustration played on her features. She had been my confidante for over two decades, weathering the storms of my emotions. With each dismissive gesture and eye roll from me, her worry intensified. Under the exterior of annoyance, a deep well of love and care for me surfaced, etching lines of concern on her forehead. "I just. I'm depressed. I don't know who I am anymore or what the hell my purpose is. I'm lost. Frustrated. Helpless. Scared." I snarled with the same combative tone. "Is that what you want to hear?" "Yes. It is. I want to help. So let me." She patted me on the back like a desperate, lost puppy. Oh, Lord, here we go. She will leave if I comply, and I just want this awkward moment over. "So, I keep hearing about this endless road deal on my SWB podcast lately. Everyone is talking about how life-changing it is. It's an endless road you walk down that doesn't have," Heather started to explain, but I cut that predictable long come-to-Jesus crap short, interrupting, "Ok. Ok. Ok. Whatever you want. I'll go; I'll do it, whatever your great idea is." "Super, see you at 6 a.m. tomorrow." She stated matter-of-factly, grabbing her purse, sliding her shoes on, and leaving just as she entered on a mission. At 5:59 a.m., I awoke to the earth-shattering footsteps of a self-proclaimed life coach stomping unnecessarily loudly down my hall. Fricking frack. I am not getting out of this one. I hid under my blankets like a child, hoping the monster under the bed would join me in solidarity. "UP! Throw some workout clothes on and sneaks." I continued to hide, not breathing, because that would trick her, right? "Hurry up, we gotta go; I want to be there before the sun rises; I heard that's the most transformative time. And it's in Linnendale. I'll make us some coffee and wait in the car." Heather said as she ripped the sweaty sheets off my entire bed, leaving me vulnerable and caught. I sort of hurried. I didn't brush anything; I just couldn't find any motivation. The worrylords crawled through my lower back, trying to work their way up to my heart and head to hold me hostage again as I sluggishly locked the door behind me. "So what is this gig anyway?" I questioned, getting into her car. Now, I'm curious. "Like I was saying before, you rudely interrupted me yesterday," she said, winking and slurping her coffee. "On my podcast, they said that according to local folklore, the road was considered a mystical pathway that connected the tangible world with the ethereal realms. It was said to be a transformative journey where you could embark on a quest of self-discovery and spiritual awakening." She looked at me to ensure I was listening and proceeded. "Legend had it that the road was a conduit for ancient energies, carrying whispers of forgotten civilizations and offering a unique experience to those who dared to tread its path. I guess the journey is supposed to be a passage through time and consciousness, revealing hidden truths, confronting inner demons, and ultimately leading to personal growth and enlightenment." She looked at me seriously, but her eyes looked like she hadn't convinced herself with that explanation. We'll see when we get there. I was having a hard time envisioning what she said. Did I hear that right? "Is this a joke? Endless road, huh? This might take a while." That was my futile attempt at a joke. I get unfunny when anxious, cueing the worrylords to creep up my spine and squeeze the back of my neck and shoulders. They were relentless today. When we pulled into Linnendale Park, no one was there. No wonder the sun was just starting to rise. Everyone's still sleeping like I want to be. "Here we go!" Heather said, clasping her fanny pack and taking off down the street with no warning, explanation, argument, nothing, nada, zilch. So I begrudgingly followed. She was walking at a proper clip when I finally caught up. Then she slowed her roll, thankfully. It was a pretty cool road I'd never seen before. There was an energy I could physically feel coursing through my feet and body with every step I took. The golden hour sun had just peeked over the cottonwoods that lined the horizon, casting wicked, cool shadows that seemed to detach themselves from the surroundings, whispering in a different language to me that I somehow understood. These ethereal voices gossiped about old memories, past regrets, and unspoken feelings. At first, it was unsettling, but the shadows forced me to confront buried emotions I'd been suppressing, allowing a cathartic release of a deep, growling sigh that startled me. As we continued, ghostly figures appeared intermittently, embodying moments of joy and happiness from my past. They were fleeting and elusive, prompting a shift in my focus towards finding joy as we walked rather than dwelling on the past. I wondered if Heather was seeing and feeling what I was, but I didn't ask questions because the moment solicited a need for silence. A heavy vibration surrounding me made me feel at ease, almost peaceful and calm. These positive feelings have been foreign to me lately, so I embraced them. I don't know how long we had been walking, but now I've slid down a rabbit hole of curiosity and contemplation in my mind. Something internal was happening to me. The road seemed to pulsate with an ethereal energy, whispering secrets of forgotten civilizations and promises of self-transcendence. Shit, which I'd never even thought about before. Each step opened up a new view, a breathtaking panorama that simultaneously thrilled and humbled me. As a layer of apprehension relented, I began to embrace the moment. I felt as carefree and innocent as I had once been as a child. Sparks of hope and imagination had replaced the clutter and burdens obstructing me in my mind. I felt light and free. And dare I say it? Alive. The further along the road, the more time became an abstract concept, shifting and bending at will, blurring the boundaries between what was known and what was yet to be discovered. As if days melded into nights and seasons merged into one another. I was caught between reality and dreams, experiencing profound clarity yet sublime confusion. I recalled pivotal moments from my past, which allowed me to reinterpret these events. I felt an overwhelming need to foster forgiveness and acceptance. As the echoes of the past gradually lost their power over the present, they miraculously healed my emotional scars. Ahead, I could see luminous stones scattered along the road, reflecting Heather's emotions. I could feel her sympathy and joy as she silently glided by my side. When I picked up one of the mood stones, vivid memories and emotions surfaced. I began rehashing critical moments from my past. I instantly felt vulnerable, allowing myself to dig deeper into my soul. Lost in contemplation, a mystical veil startled me as it fell before me at one point on the road, reflecting my inner self. Stepping through it, I was confronted with manifestations of my fears and insecurities. I bravely conquered these incarnations and crushed the demons with a strength I was unaware of, which boosted my resilience and gave me a renewed sense of self-worth. I noticed the repetition of an infinity symbol in the changing landscape. It made me think of the limitless possibilities that lay before me. The spiral twirling through the air is navigating me through this transformative journey of growth and self-discovery. As we rounded a bend, an elaborate labyrinth emerged from the shadows of a dense forest that challenged our willpower and tested our perseverance. It presented riddles and illusions, encouraging us to embrace the complexities of our own existence. As we navigated through the intricate twists and turns, we found hidden truths unlocked in our souls' depths. At one point, we encountered a mystical fountain that conjured deep emotions from the essence of my core, unleashing tears. Each tear that fell into the water rippled into a luminous, floating orb. These orbs were conveying the emotional baggage I'd been carrying. So I let it all out, releasing all of the pain. Embracing the emotional liberation lightened the colossal burden I'd been holding on my shoulders. A beautiful celestial bridge appeared at a crucial juncture, offering me a chance to rewrite aspects of my past. Walking across the bridge, I was allowed to make amends with others and, most importantly, myself. I got to express suppressed feelings I was hindering and rectify some futile mistakes I had made. The transformations led from one phase of my life to another, unveiling connections between the lessons learned and the experiences yet to come. The bridge affirmed the continuous potential for growth and redemption in every moment. As we journeyed further down this endless road, something dawned on me. This was not just a physical journey but a metaphor for life itself. The road was a never-ending search for purpose and fulfillment, a quest for a deeper understanding of myself and the world around me. It reflected my human condition, where the journey itself was the goal, not the destination at its end. I realized that as I continue to voyage through this life, I will discover more about myself, but the journey toward understanding and self-discovery will never truly end. The endless road. I'm actually shocked at my epiphany. An eclectic old man greeted Heather and me as we neared what appeared to be the end of the road. He had a mythical twinkle in his eyes, and he confirmed my thoughts by revealing the secret that had eluded me all this time. The road, he explained, was not a means to an end but an invitation to embrace the wonder of the unknown, to find solace in the unanswered questions, and to seek fulfillment in the perpetual pursuit of growth and self-discovery. As we took our last steps, the road dissolved before our eyes, merging seamlessly with the vastness of the universe. I realized that the endless road was not a separate entity but an integral part of my own consciousness, an embodiment of my eternal quest for meaning and self-realization. At that moment, I understood that the road had never ended, for it resided within me, guiding my every step. The revelation brought a profound sense of peace and contentment as I realized that the journey was not an isolated event but a continuous exploration of the boundless depths of my own existence. I glanced at Heather with my profound realization written on my face; she just nodded, smiling and confirming my thoughts. Still, the pleasurable silence remained. Suddenly, specters of joy surrounded us, sending a spontaneous moment of elation coursing through my veins. That beautiful moment was swift, making me realize the value of cherishing these fleeting moments, knowing to let them go, and accepting the transience of life. As we looked back at the endless road, the mystical elements had already begun working their transformative magic, profoundly impacting my emotional and mental state. The experiences along the journey had become stepping stones toward a newfound understanding of myself, my purpose, and my resilience. In the wake of this experience, gratitude and joy streamed down my face as I tightly wrapped my arms around Heather. As we embraced each other, a silent understanding passed between us. I had found a sense of purpose within myself. I declared that navigating life after the endless road experience will become a commitment to living authentically and embracing the journey, regardless of its challenges. Knowing she had played a crucial role as a guiding force, Heather smiled at me with a sense of fulfillment, recognizing that I could no longer be defined by the past's shadows. The support and love she provided served as a beacon of light during my darkest moments, and now, with a shared understanding, we are ready to face the next chapter. The impact of the endless road journey on my day-to-day life was nothing short of revolutionary. The lessons I gleaned from the mystical experiences along the road seeped into every fiber of my being, transforming the way I approached each day. The luminous stones of reflection, the ephemeral specters of joy, and the whispers of the shadows have become an intrinsic part of my emotional toolkit, guiding me through moments of introspection and growth. With Heather by my side, I could envision a future filled with possibilities. The bridge of second chances has allowed me to mend relationships, and the fountain of tears has washed away the stains of my regrets. The wisdom gained from that transformative experience manifested in my actions and decisions, creating a ripple effect that touched every aspect of my life. The endless road had not only ended but had also marked the beginning of an eternal journey within.

0s0tl5

The Post Card

That morning Helen had had a donut for breakfast instead of her usual black coffee and grapefruit. So, that day ideals of impulsivity and spontaneous women behaving wildly swirled in her mind. She walked with an extra pep in her step as the elevator doors closed behind her. "Mrs. Terrence?" A small voice called. Helen whipped her head. The receptionist was looking directly at her. The mousy girl at the front desk had never looked her directly in the eyes before let alone called her over. Helen pursed her lips and turned her hips walking back toward the clean marble desk. "Yes?" "Well you see, the postman came earlier. You know the postman with the blue eyes, he always comes on Saturdays. And there was the usual mail. All in manilla envelopes because you know how mail always comes in manilla envelopes. Well, I suppose they come in regular envelopes too. But most important-" "And?" Helen interrupted. She had a reputation for being blunt, which she was glad for. She wore her directness like a badge of honor. But today she felt particularly short-tempered. The girl blushed, bringing her hand to her cheek. "Oh dear, I've run away with the sentence again, my wife always tells me I run away with my sentences. Here," She said. The girl held a postcard in her hand. "It's addressed to a Helen Pennel so I wasn't quite sure if it was you, otherwise I would've put it in your mailbox." Helen nodded. She hadn’t heard her name followed by Pennel since she’d married Richard. The old combination sent a pang of uncomfortable nostalgia through her chest. "Thank you, er." she paused realizing she'd never learned the receptionist's name. "Melly," She replied. "Yes, Thank You, Melly." On the front of the postcard, a picture of a smiling couple, wrapped in leis with a picturesque beach background, embraced. Hellen flipped the card over in her perfectly manicured hand. The first thing Hellen noticed was the handwriting. She frowned at what could only be considered chicken scratch. The handwriting looked familiar although she couldn't quite place it. She squinted her eyes, still unable to make out the words. "Can you read this?" Helen handed the postcard back to Melly. Melly pushed her glasses back over her head. "My dearest Helen, I have loved you from the moment I crossed your path, and I will love you forevermore. There’s a coffee stain here." Melly said she squinted holding the postcard up to the light. The ink of the pen had been spread with the liquid. “Something, something, Meet me somewhere at 4.” Helen frowned. “Meet who?” Helen asked. Melly handed the card back to Helen and shrugged. “Who did you say handed this to you?” Helen asked. Melly shrugged. “The postman with the blue eyes.” Helen was sure there was more than one postman with blue eyes. That tidbit of information was entirely unhelpful. And maybe it was the donut she had for breakfast but Helen decided at that moment to behave in a way that was very un-helenlike. “What are you doing right now, Melly?” She asked. “Oh you know, not much, just the job I am getting paid to do,” Melly said light and teasing. “Funny,” Helen smiled, “How would you feel about a little paid excursion?” Melly’s eyebrows raised. “I would be delighted.” She replied. “Alright let’s go.” “Now?” “No, time is better.” Melly clasped her hands. “Can I drive?” she asked. “Absolutely not,” Helen replied. Melly shrugged and grabbed her coat. She fell into step behind Helen barely keeping pace with her. They walked to Helen’s pristine black car, then drove all the way to the post office. Helen strutted with Melly scampering behind her straight to the Help Desk. “Hello,” Helen said to the man sitting behind the counter. He looked up over the thin frames of his eyeglasses. “Yes?” He said his tone was laced with pre-loaded annoyance. Helen frowned at the man’s rudeness. “We’re looking for a postman,” she said. The man rolled his eyes. “We have multiple postmen who work here ma’am you’re going to have to be more specific than that.” “Yes,” Helen agreed, “The man had- Melly why don’t you describe him.” Melly stepped forward “Well yes, the man had blue eyes and brown hair. Yes, blue yes and.. and.. He looked like a smoker, no not a smoker… he looked like someone who used e-cigarettes. Yes, and he looked like he might read, yes… he looked like a reader maybe even a poet… He had quite emotional eyes. Likely a pisces…. No, not a pisces, a cancer. His voice was deep but not in a scary way, no not like yours, yours is a bit gruff whereas his was more sharp, sort of like a businessman-” “Ma’am,” the worker interrupted, “unfortunately I do not know of a postman with the eyes of a poet and the voice of a businessman.” “Yes, well-” The man shut the plastic window between him and the two women before Melly could finish. She turned toward Helen, her eyes wide. “Oh my, I’ve run away with my sentences again. I’ve ruined everything haven’t I?” In the short time she’d known Melly, Helen had developed a keen liking toward her and an odd protectiveness over her. She knocked on the plastic window. The rude store worker pulled the window open. “Yes?” he ground out. “I’m looking for whoever might have delivered this,” Helen pulled the postcard from her bag sliding it towards the man in one fluid motion. “Clearly my mail has been damaged and I would hate to have to contact the higher-ups to get this sorted out, but, I will.” She looked at the name tag pinned to the man’s shirt “And I would hate to be forced to tell them how Greg refused to service my associate.” Melly folded her arms over her chest and nodded along as Helen spoke. The man sighed and grabbed the postcard. He looked over it for less than a second then slid it back. “Unfortunately ma’am, I have no way of knowing who delivered this. However, I can offer you a refund for your damaged mail.” Helen tapped her shoes. The click of her heels filled the silence. She sighed. “I don’t need a refund. I need to know what was written on that postcard.” She scowled. Melly chimed in, her friendly and light demeanor a sharp contrast to Helen’s assertive one. “Yes, we would like to know what was on that postcard, please. You wouldn’t happen to have a record of it, now would you?” “I’m sorry ladies but we do not. I can tell you that this postcard is from Big Pete’s. It’s right across the street.” The worker pointed through the windows of the office to the building across the street. “Thank you, kindly,” Helen said. The man simply grumbled and reclosed the window.  “This is exciting,” Melly said, “I love a good mystery.” Helen smiled. “Yes, me too.” The two ladies crossed the busy street. When they entered Big Pete’s they were greeted by a clearly frazzled-looking hostess, whose eyes were unnaturally wide with barely contained emotion. Two families sat on the plastic cushions. The restaurant was packed with people. And the frazzled young lady seemed to be the only person who donned the red-aproned uniform. A bell rang from the kitchen “Order up!” The young lady flinched at the sound. “How can I help you, ladies, today?” Her customer service voice cracked on certain words showing her panic. “Yes, I’m wondering who bought this.” Helen held up the postcard. Then flipped it around to show the couple smiling. The hostesses' smile dropped. “Look, I have a full restaurant. I truly wish I could spare a second but I can’t.” Helen had spent time as a waitress and she knew how much pressure the lunch rush could be. She sympathized with the poor girl. “Yes, I’m sure.” She agreed. “Could we be of any help?” Melly asked. “I wish. The time it would take to train you alone would-” “I have waitressing experience,” Helen said. “You know, I used to work at my Aunt’s restaurant when I was a kid. So I’m no newbie either. It was the cutest little diner. Unfortunately, she had to close it. Not many people-” “You’re hired!” The frazzled woman said. “Red aprons are in the back!” Helen and Melly nodded and made their way to the kitchen. Among the mess of employee bags, they were able to find two red aprons. They donned the aprons like armor and went into the battle zone. With the two women added to the mix the food was given to the proper tables and a lull had been reached in no time. Helen found the young woman who’d been previously hosting collapsed in one of the empty booths. She tapped her shoulder and the woman jolted awake. “Well, we’ve got some time now. What can you tell me about this postcard?” The lady sat up. She smiled sheepishly. “Quite frankly, I don’t think I was working that day. I would have remembered a man buying a postcard given, no one ever buys the postcards, sorry,” she said. Helen hated liars. She also hated the smell of pork that clung to her hair and clothes. She gave the lady a scathing look that the young woman would later describe to her roommate as “Hellish”. Silently, Helen removed her red apron and threw it on the table. She grabbed Melly who barely had time to remove the red apron before they were out the front doors. “What happened?” Melly exclaimed, clearly reading the fury that was written across Helen’s face. “The woman doesn't know anything about the postcard.” She plopped down on the edge of the sidewalk ignoring the fact that her work pants would be dirtied. Melly sat next to her, placing a gentle hand on the square of her back. “At least we had fun right?” “It’s not enough,” Helen said. Melly frowned. “You know Helen, you just spent an hour bussing tables. You’ve survived a rude postman and put up with my rambling. My only question is; What could possibly be so important about this postcard. I mean no offense and I absolutely do not mean to imply anything, it’s just that, you are married and-” “Richard and I are separating.” Helen blurted. She sniffled. Her eyes stung with tears. “Oh dear,” Melly said. She wrapped her arms around Helen who leaned into the touch resting her head against Melly’s shoulder. Her body shook with the silent tears. “There, there,” Melly comforted. “Excuse me,” a voice said. “Can’t you see that we’re busy here?” Melly chided. The directness of Melly's tone was enough to shock Helen into realizing she was crying in the middle of a busy sidewalk. The embarrassment of being seen as anything less than perfect was enough to dry her tears. “Sorry, it’s only that my coworker said you were looking for the person who wrote that.” She pointed to the postcard still clasped in Helen’s hand. Helen wiped the tears from her eyes and cleared her throat. “Yes?” Helen said. “Well I couldn’t tell you who wrote it but I do know that he’s going to be at, what was it the Destellar, no that wasn’t it, DeVella?” Helen’s eyes widened “The De Nella?” she asked. The restaurant where she had waitressed while in college. That must be where their paths had crossed. “Yes!” The stranger chirped “That was it! The De Nella at 4. I remember because he wrote it on the postcard. Strange that you hadn’t known about it.” “Yes, well, long story!” She said standing up with a renewed vigor. “Come on, Melly! We know exactly where my secret admirer is.” Melly grimaced as she looked at the time. “Can we be there in ten minutes because 4 o'clock is just around the corner?” “We can if we use our walking legs instead of our talking mouths! Now come, hop to it!” Melly hopped up, infected by Helen’s sudden renewed hope. They jogged to the car. “Let me drive.” Melly said, “I may know a shortcut.” Helen didn’t think twice; she tossed her keys in Melly’s direction. As soon as they were seated Melly pulled from the spot like a madman. She shifted between lanes and turned down streets that Helen was not even aware of. Then the car came to the main road where it stood unmoving bumper to bumper against the next car. Horns honked and drivers shifted gears to park, knowing they would be there for a while. “It looks like there was an accident up ahead. Sorry, Helen. Oh wait, can I call you Helen?” “Yes, I think we’ve gotten to the point where you can call me Helen,” Helen said. Melly smiled. The red numbers on the dash read 4:05. “Shit!” Helen shouted. Melly jumped. She hadn’t known Helen was capable of swearing. “I’m gonna run for it!” Helen proclaimed “What?!” Melly spluttered. Helen unbuckled and unlocked her door. “Yes, I’m going to run.” She popped off her high heels figuring bare feet would take her there faster. “Are you sure?” “It’s only a 20-minute walk from here. I should be able to get there in half the time if I run.” “I’m not sure that’s how it works, Helen.” “Careful, Melly, I may just revoke your first name privilege,” Helen teased. “Alright then, boss. Run for it!” “Oh and Melly,” Helen said, her body halfway out of the car. “Thank you for everything.” Melly nodded. And Helen ran. She ignored the small rocks that scraped at her feet, she ignored the eyes of the passersbys that clung to her unusual display. She allowed the wind to pull strands of coily hair from her bun. She allowed the expensive fabric to cling to her sweating body. Even as raindrops began to fall from the sky, Helen Terrence ran. And when Helen stood outside the tall windows of De Nella she stopped. The rain poured. It drenched her hair. The dense mess of curls absorbed the water like a sponge. The city was busy but all she could hear were the heaving breaths as she took in air and the bruised heart that pounded in her ribcage. She missed Richard. She missed how he would hold her. She missed his cologne which smelled like coffee and whiskey. She missed how kind he was. She missed the way he’d make coffee for her in the morning. She’d missed it so badly that this morning when she awoke in their king-sized bed and had to come to terms with the idea of his side being empty she couldn’t bear the thought of having coffee for breakfast and suddenly found herself craving a donut. She missed Richard so bad that she couldn't bring herself to step through the doors and meet her secret admirer. She turned away from the large windows coming face to face with a drenched Richard who held battered tulips in his hand. “You’re late.” He said but he smiled and it was glorious. The realization dawned on Helen like sunshine peeking through storm clouds. “You…” she let it sink in. He was her secret admirer. “You bastard!” she heaved, her breath still stolen from the run. She pulled out the postcard jabbing her finger toward the wrecked piece of paper. “You couldn’t have given me a call? You know I had to go back to waitressing to get here! I thought you were some past fling. And then I wasn’t going to go in because..” She paused, catching her breath, her eyes brimmed with tears “I didn’t drink coffee today and I ran all the way here and I wasn't going to go in to meet some stranger because Richard, I am madly in love with you. And I know I don’t always show it. I know you left me because you couldn’t always feel how much I love you. But I want to be a better wife. I love you more than anything in this world and if that stupid spill hadn’t obscured the writing of the letter and I had known it was you who wrote that for me. I would have run a million miles! I would do all of this again if it would mean you would take me back.” She sniffled. Richard stepped toward her, closing the gap between them. He enveloped her in his arms and dipped her, kissing her passionately and fervently. Their gazes found each other when they parted. The matching crow's feet that lined each person's eyes were so familiar, so inviting, and so filled with love. “I’m so sorry Helen, I love you more than life itself and I never should have left. I want to work on us. I want to be a better husband for you.” He kissed her again, softly. She laughed as he tried to wipe the tears from her face. “You look a mess,” he said. She laughed again. “Seriously though, Richard, Next time just call my office,” She added. “I thought it would be more romantic. And did you say you took up waitressing again?” “Yes, Richard. It’s a long story.” She grabbed his face and kissed him again. 

l0ao25

Sailor

I anchored Magic in a little cove that was bordered by coco palms and fern over a black sand beach. It was one of those perfect beach scenes that I dreamt about as a child and now I was here. I got the dinghy in the water faster than ever with the thought that maybe the cove might disappear. I had my rum and a sandwich in my backpack to celebrate a small delight at finding this place. Before I touched the sand I had a sense of being in that dream; that I wasn’t really alive yet but still comfortably in my cot under our tree in our backyard. But, I knew I was here. The sand between my toes. The warm water over my feet. I tied off the dinghy to a palm next to a tiny trail that lead into the bush. It is truly amazing to step into a place you’ve never been before, and yet not only know that you’ve been there before but strangely, though not startling, that I recognised people along this path and that they recognised me showing welcoming nods. The trail led to a small village and the people seemed to stroll in a cadenced grace of motion. They were in a mix of complexions, all dressed in loose whites going about their business with a general expression of alertness that I interpreted as something about to happen. I noted again that the clothing they wore was in various stages of cleanliness or age. But they all wore white without anything contrasting. White shorts, long pants, skirts, sarongs, dresses, all white. Even the children wore white, though mostly stained from games and play. There was a laughter about the place, even in direction giving or conversation that made me smile. My first thoughts were that this was a religious community of some sort. My next thoughts were shocked by my name being repeated in greeting. ‘Afernoon, Cop’n Piktorne’, a little girl, bowing from the head in passing, said merrily. ‘Good Afternoon, Capitan Pickthorne’, an older man said raising an open palm and bowing slightly. A string of small fish were dangling from his other hand as he passed along. A group of children ran across my path giggling at some pursuit in which they were engaged. The cobbler making sandals, the woman selling vegetables, the people sitting under the shade of a round twig thatched roof talking all reminded me of people I thought, no, I was sure with whom I was familiar. My head heated. The sun was relentless. I went over to the shade where a group sat talking under a thatched roof. ‘Hablan Ingles, Señores?’ I asked standing in the sun in front of their smiling faces. ‘Why yes,’ a white-whiskered man responded, nodding to me and giving me his full attention with a curious stare and parted lips, ‘we do, Capitan Pickthorne.’ ‘Do I know you, sir?’ I asked directly. ‘Why yes, you do, Capitan,’ he smiled quizzically, ‘you know all of us, maybe you... have forgotten us, but... but time eventually chafes the untruths.’ He invited me into the shade and introduced me, or it seemed he was reintroducing me to the group who were seated on stiff straight back thatch chairs in a loose semi-circle. One man out of the group of seven arrested my attention with his smiling eyes. He was introduced as Capitan Alejandro Grande. I was informed that Capitan Alejandro was captain/owner of a trading sloop and a great dancer. The others, all men at least in their fifties and the soft mix of skin colours, turned out to also be great dancers with a couple being introduced as both great musicians as well as great dancers. ‘Capitan Pickthorne,’ Capitan Alejandro spoke, ‘why do you not see the village... then please return to this shady spot... we still have refreshments awaiting your return.’ They all smiled in a warm excited manner at me and in agreement with the captain. I dug in my pack and handed Captain Alejandro my rum bottle. They all beamed at the gesture and some grunted laughs as older men sometimes do. The village passageway softly curled as a snail’s shell, the apex being the older men’s shaded spot. I walked along the homes, each raised a few feet from the earth on mahogany trunks. They were well constructed huts or palapas of thatch roofed, most contained a single rooms with divisions and were white washed thatch and daub rounded structures. A smaller model was also raised above the ground for food storage. Each property was spaced at least 12 meters apart. Vegetables greened the borders of the buildings to the mixing with a neighbour’s growth. Orderly rows of greens, spinach, chilis, tomatoes, yams, zucchini, various beans, berries, ranging trees of mango, papaya, tamarind, sweet and sour sop, and banana palms waved to the slight of breezes, dwarf coconut trees formed the actual property lines. The properties were neat, a rubbish fire here and there. Many of the people seemed to be waiting for me. They stood in family poses in front of their homes, each welcoming into their property and their homes. I went into the first three more out of courtesy than curiosity. They were very simple inside, with one wall dividing a comfortable cooking and eating area with sleeping spaces. The thatched twig sidings, painted white, provided shade from the sun, and allowed a breeze to pass through the gaps in the mud daubed thatch work. Being elevated provided a coolness to the floors where they had laid grass mats which seemed to direct air upward to my feet. Their choices of mattresses or thick cotton mats, chairs of fat pillows, curtains or shutters were the only distinctions I could detect. Generally each home was an external duplicate of the others. This was a very organised community. My slightly developed curiosity waned after the third one and I only token glanced into others that had a different entrance design or windows... something that would draw my immediate attention. By the end of the passage I was drenched in sweat, the birds screamed too loudly, the children were too impulsive, the sky was too white, the smiles somehow too loud. My shirt was taken off gently. I was sponge washed, towel dried. A white shirt was slipped over my head and extended arms.. A simple shirt with a slit in the top for my head and of a soft cotton fabric for my comfort. My shorts and underpants were taken off and I was sponged again and dried. Loose white cotton trousers were pulled on me and belted firmly in place by a thick leather belt with a large silver rectangular buckle. A wide brimmed hat was placed on my head, its swooping brim sheltered my shoulders and head from the sun. I adjusted the fit, feeling refreshed. A drink of clear liquid was handed me in a half coconut shell and I gulped it down. All of this bathing and clothing was accomplished with happy chatter, even jokes and laughter. I did not feel I was in any way being ridiculed. It felt as though the people were simply at work making light of what happened to them on the way there. I thanked those who had washed and clothed me and walked over to the village border of rice fields. The smell of the tall grasses overwhelmed me. I was in a complete state of smiling. Probably if I were on a city street I would have been labelled a fool grinning for no apparent reason. There, I simply joined my hosts who were mostly smiling at something or leading up to a smile or just coming off one. And it was not the kind of smile that you show at a cocktail party or because of listening to a comedian, or a good poet... it was just some kind of happiness inside that created the feeling and set the features. Strange one, I thought, you look for reasons to smile to be happy and you never find a consistent one... you find yourself happy and you feel you have to explain it. Poof, I said to myself, I can’t think of the whys or the feeling will go poof... this is it is all. The drumming started and became stronger, the melody more defined, a doo dee doo bop doo dee doo bop. I half stumbled, half trotted around back through the passage way, looking probably like a Tarot Fool and just like one not caring through an innocence in feelings that lightened my chest and straightened my back and pulled me toward the low sky. I felt that the clouds sent invisible fingers that pulled or pushed me. I was there but not. I was a passenger in my own body. At the shaded hut of the older men my meandering stopped. I did not see them. I could not anything until I entered and the darkness dissolved to show a room not unlike my family’s room with a rounded couch, with a small cocktail table in front and an opened book lay on the table. But, there was an elevated open fire pit that sent a stream of smoke upward with a sweet smell on one side of a centre pole that supported the roof. Mats and pillows lay strewn upon a light cotton rug. Kitchen utensils were hung neatly along a wall. A long iron bar stood upright, implanted in a hole in the rug near the pit. Books lined a curving four shelved bookcase. A scorpion ran across my path. The scorpion was awash in a ray of sunlight, crouched openly near the pole as if hiding. My feet were dusted from the walk and my ankles had sweat streaks marked brown in the dust on my dried skin. I looked at the palms of my hands as though they were new to me. Soiled dark in their sharply defined creases. Small and large mounds adding emphasis to the muscle underneath. Ready for any work, chore or pleasure that needed the contact for the touch I wanted to give. Around the palm and the light hued flesh of my fingertips there was a glow of golden richness that was tanned deeply. I looked around me at the smiling and grinning faces of the older men and others and a growing rumble of a chant. I looked at tall rice stalks waving through the window, gold-headed, green-bladed, the sun at it’s last rays laid on the bristles encasing the rice heads. Turning back again a great woman stood before me in the darkness of the poled hut. I started to understand some myriad of associations affecting me. But, it was as though other knowledges were passing me by. The great woman stood in front of me and sprayed me with liquid air. I inhaled as much as I could. ‘We are the clowns,’ she said to me and to white swaying figures around me, ‘the true buffoons of the Almighty Lords. They play with us and if we are aware of the game it is then possible to piece together some of the rules. The Lords might want you to play consciously, and then they will make the rules available... only the rules will be in their language and you will have to make a game of translating or absorbing their language. But you know their language is not to be interpreted, only absorbed.’ My heart was pounding rapidly, drowning out the drum-sea waving rhythms. Grains of light were rising speckled along the pole’s path into the darkness of the tent. I floated higher, feeling presences brushing through and about my body. ‘The cowardliness’, a voice within me softly spoke, ‘in us is not a false one. One that says we should find that spot before we get too old and settle upon that spot until we die a natural death, that is after living a natural life in that one spot.’ The darkness lightened into browns and golds that separated each fibre of the thatched roof. I was again with my feet on the earth, the ground pulsated the rhythm of my heart. ‘We are cowardly’, the voice resumed as I defined each golden hued palm braiding, ‘in that march toward the depth in our real being. Many other levels come our way and reached, only then can we absorb enough to be on our way to the grand threshold.’ I was smoking a black pipe, a top hat nudged, unbalanced on my head. I had a long black skirt on. It had big white dots. I had a tuxedo tailed jacket over my bare chest. My cane, which I swirled eloquently overhead, was the colour of my skin tipped with glowing silver. I wanted money that the people gave me in bills and coins which I stuffed greedily into my pockets. I wanted a bottle which appeared in my hand, I swallowed and sprayed air on the smoke pit and into adjoining mouths. People became clear. I could identify facial features, individual gestures, rings, bracelets then they became a swirling mass once more... except for one. The great woman danced for me. Her eyes were closed and she was lovely. Her body undulated pulling at my loins. I twirled my stick above us and circled her bringing her urgent body to mine, slipping past her, pulling her to me, slipping past. People threw coins and bills in the air and at my feet. She was racked with sensual spasms that lifted her off one foot, almost falling she would stomp down that foot to gain the other foot and again tilt to falling, then the other way she would go. My cane was pointing first this way, then that and she would follow to the wild beat of my heart. I stopped her, willed her still, willed her back bent head just above the ground. I lifted the skirt of her dress and the soft layers of her petticoats. Her lushness was thrust toward me. I opened my loose fly and placed my hardness upon her clitoris, pulling backward and forward., rubbing it with my urgency. She shook. I inserted slowly to the full and moved into an exploding darkness of dull luminescence. Instead of feeling spent, emptying , I felt as though I was pulling out her juices with me filling. She was on the ground asleep. I was twirling my cane, comets trailed the tips. I was happy, like a child who was an adult. The great woman again danced in front of me. The great woman was now dressed in billowy white blouse and trousers and had jumped up to then down from the ceiling. She danced before me with a concerned expression on her smooth face. A primary blue sash cut into her blouse and pants joining them to a narrow waist. Her long raven hair was matted, streaming black seaweed. She pointed to my crotch and my protruding organ. I quickly tucked it back in and closed my fly, my passions suddenly sapped. I was tired, barely able to keep my eyes open. My cane was gone and I was again dressed in loose whites. I felt ashamed of the wild nastiness I had enacted. I was ashamed in front of all these people as witness. But, the drums still paced and my heart again throbbed replacing the drumbeat with my own cadence. I smelled the sea but could not see it, knowing that I was well inland. I looked into the great woman’s eyes, unable to speak but willing my concern about being landlocked to her. She smiled. ‘Trouble is a voyage by land’, I heard a woman’s from behind me. I turned and saw nobody, turned back and the great woman was gone. I was alone on my cot under our tree.

zrzyab

PARTIAL TRANSMISSION

 INCOMING TRANSMISSION….SENDER: HIGH COMMAND……….DOWNLOADING…….4% ……. 36% ……. 78% ……. ERROR! TRANSMISSION MISSING CLOSING REQUEST. DECODING PARTIAL TRANSMISSION….. _______START PARTIAL TRANSMISSION_______ [SOL 127 - 0724 ] Sergeant Jay Hopkins, you are to head east of the town of Grenrik. Our foot soldiers are being pinned down from Imperialist artillery fire in that direction and data shows you are the only Javelin in the area who is capable of dealing with the threat. Reconnaissance suggests two artillery guns with t… _______END PARTIAL TRANSMISSION_______ “Well shit,” said Jay as she re-read the transmission. “The rest of that message could say anything. Artillery guns with the most dangerous soldiers this side of the Red Line. Artillery guns with the best brownies recipe stabled to them….Hey K-5, any chance of getting the rest of that message?” The 30 foot tall bipedal mech stood towering behind Jay, with it’s rifle sweeping around their perimeter. “I’m sorry Jay,” said the computerized static voice coming from the Javelin’s external speakers. “Seems as soon as High Command started transmitting to us, the Imperialist activated a radio jammer. I’m not receiving any external communications or data at the moment. Although a new brownie recipe would be a nice change of pace.” “Yah, I figured that must be the case,” Jay said looking at a blood smeared picture of what looked like a happy family from a time long ago. She tossed the picture and dropped the bullet ridden bag it had come from. She had been inspecting the Imperialist troops her and K-5 had just killed while on patrol. These troops were nothing more then grunts. Possibly doing some reconnaissance to see what defenses we had. By the looks of their gear, the Imperialist did not expect a Javelin pilot to be making the rounds since they had no armaments to deal with such a threat. Standing up and brushing the dirt off her pants, Jay started walking back to K-5. “I guess we better get going. These grunts don’t have anything useful. Do you at least have our heading?” “Yes Ma’am. I cross referenced the transmission with our own downloaded maps of the area. If we head south east at our usual pace we can arrive in 15 minutes. I’ve sent the data to your PDA.” Jay looked at her wrist PDA to see a detailed map of their current location, heading, and projected path. She furrowed her brow, analyzing the new data. “We don’t know what we’re walking into. There’s some high ground just south of the artillery. Lets go there first and see if they’re hiding anything.” “Roger that Sergeant.” Jay walked up to K-5 who had knelt down and opened it’s cockpit in the center of the javelins bipedal body. She climbed up the lowered hatched door and sat into the padded leather interior of the mech. With familiar gears whirling and a final airlock hiss, K-5 closed its hatch and stood up. “Passing controls over to you Jay,” came the computerized static voice inside K-5’s cockpit. ______________ Jay and K-5 could hear the artillery fire before seeing it. It’s thunderous booms rattled Jay’s eardrums, even through K-5’s thick hull. About half a kilometer from the source of the explosions, Jay brought K-5 to a halt. “We’d better keep a low profile until we know what we are really dealing with,” Jay said as she hoped out of K-5. “I’ll go ahead on my own, you hold down here.” As she crested over a crater filled hill, Jay noticed 300 meters away, a small enemy foxhole dug into the side of a cliff. It looked like a wave of dirt and rock hovered over, ready to crash onto the Imperialist underneath. She could see two long range anti-personal artillery rifles surrounded with sandbags. Each artillery rifle had four grunts assigned to it, working in unison to fire an anti-personal round every two minutes. Beside each artillery rifle was a single Scarab Class Javelin posted on guard duty. “Son of…” Jay whispered to herself. Scarab Javelins were tough little machines. Hard to kill, but thankfully they were no where near K-5’s Class, Mantis Javelin, fighting power. Scarabs were more like thick exo-suits then mechs. They had no A.I. like K-5 and were completely driven by a pilot. Standing only 10 feet tall, they were usually equipped with basic grunt weaponry. However, their thick armor can cause some problems. Normal bullets won’t penetrate it. Luckily K-5 comes prepared for any situation. Jay continued to survey the encampment. Watching the Imperialist shoot shell after shell. She committed the enemy soldier’s movements to memory, analyzing every nook and cranny, looking for vulnerabilities. K-5 was the only mech around that could deal with this threat. All other’s were probably on the Red Line. If Jay failed this mission, the town of Grenrik would be a loss for sure. Jay couldn’t let that happen. As Jay was turning around to crawl back down the hill, she noticed pressed inside the wall of the dug out cliff, a 10 foot metal door. “Interesting…” Jay whispered. Jay continued crawling down the hill. When Jay reached K-5, he was watching the perimeter with his rifle aimed. Jay began to talk in a low voice, “K-5, looks like Command’s intel was accurate. Two artillery guns maned with four infantry. We’ve also got two surprise guests, Scarab class Javelins.” “Those are easy to take on. How do you want to do this?” K-5 responded, continuing to watch the perimeter. Jay looked at her wrist PDA and reviewed the maps K-5 had sent her. “Ok K-5, I’ve got it. I want you to go half a km west of their foxhole, towards the town of Grenrik, and hide. We can’t signal to each other since they’re jamming us. So when our clocks read 0810, I want you stand up and start sprinting towards their encampment to draw their fire. If my timing is right, you’ll be their focus as I swoop in and kill them all.” “Roger Jay, beginning to move to position. You stay safe Ma’am.” “You too. See you at 0810.” ______________ K-5 reached 500 meters east of the enemy encampment. Looking around, K-5 noticed tall shrubs to hide in until it was time. Wood branches scraped their tough metal armor, as he laid down. Hiding from anyone who’d be taking a stroll in the battlefield; not that it was likely. K-5 never liked it when Jay would separate them. Their primary goal was keep her safe and with maneuvers like these, it was never a guarantee. Jay and K-5 had been in their share of fights together, so he knew to trust her judgment and intuition. But does not mean he had to like it. 0805, almost time to go. K-5 laid there noticing the clouds lazily drifting by and thought, “Jay, please be safe.” K-5 continued to lay there until an alarm sounded in his system. Turning it off, K-5 pushed out of the shrubs, unintentionally taking some branches with him, and ran towards the enemy artillery. It did not take long for the enemy to notice K-5. He was a gigantic mech trampling war torn farmland with pieces of branches stuck to him. K-5 shooting his rifle at them didn’t scream subtlety either. But K-5 would do it’s job to the letter if it meant having all the attention on him to keep Jay safe. K-5 could see the encampment clearly now, both artillery rifles were spinning towards him. The artillery grunts were screaming at each other to move faster. The Scarab Javelins broke formation and charged their oncoming foe. This had been Jay’s plan all along, K-5 rightfully assumed, because as soon as the Scarabs had left the encampment, K-5 could see Jay cresting the cliff above the encampment. K-5 planted his feet and raised his rifle at the oncoming Scarabs. Focusing his rifle on the closer of the two, K-5 unloaded the rifle into it. Bullet after bullet slammed into the closest Javelin, slowing it down. The Scarab raised his hands, deflecting the oncoming bullets. K-5’s rifle fire wouldn’t be able to penetrate the Scarab’s thick armor, but that wasn’t the point. K-5 wanted to slow them down and do everything possible to hold their attention away from Jay. The suppression fire only helped for so long as the other Scarab Javeline readied it’s own rifle and started shooting at K-5. While K-5’s armor was very strong, he wasn’t impervious to gunfire. One stray bullet, hitting the wrong place, and K-5’s systems would be in jeopardy. K-5 knew this, so he jumped to the nearest mound of earth to use as cover. K-5 put his back to the earth mound and waited. The Scarab continued to fire, trapping K-5 while they advanced. K-5 waited, tracking the Scarabs as they closer. 100 meters. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Bullets continued to drive into the dirt behind K-5, sprinkling dirt over his chassis. 50 meters, the Scarabs were almost on top of him. Relentlessly shooting and cutting through the earth. 20 meters. The branches still stuck to K-5 started splintering from the gunfire. 10 meters. K-5 holstered it’s rifle and bent into a crouch. It’s gears winding up and hydraulics pressurizing in it’s legs and arms. 5 meters. “Now,” K-5 thought to itself. K-5 grabbed the top of the mound and used it’s whirling mech arms and legs to push himself up. Leaping over the mound and landing inches from the nearest Scarab. “Nice of you to come to me.” K-5 belted out of his speakers. K-5 grabbed the arms of the Scarab’s with his own and with one swift movement, ripped the metal arms off. Oil and hydraulic fluids spewed from the Scarab’s open appendages. K-5 could hear the pilot’s scream as it looked like K-5 had also ripped the arms off of the pilot inside. “One threat eliminated.” K-5 exclaimed towards the remaining Scarab. The last Scarab, stunned, looked at K-5 who was still holding the limp arms of his fallen comrade. The remaining Scarab pilot howled in horror, raised it’s rifle, and sprayed bullets in K-5’s direction. K-5 swiftly dropped the appendages and grabbed the fallen Javelin mech. He then raised it between him and the enemy. Bullets screamed off the armless Scarab as K-5 advanced closer to his target. The enemy Scarab’s pilot bawled as his fallen comrade inched closer and closer. When within range, K-5 reeled back and threw the lifeless mech at his friend, knocking him over. The pilot tried using his Scarab’s arms to push his fallen comrade off of him, but it was too heavy. As K-5 walked to the defeated man, the pilot started cursing at him. “When my men are done with you, your soul will be dragged into the deepest pits of hell where it belongs!” K-5 leaned directly over the Scarab pilot, blocking out the sun. “Luckily for me, we AI don’t come equipped with souls.” K-5 clasped his right hand’s fingers into a spear like shape, and stabbed into the Scarab. Piercing through the thick metal armor straight into the pilot’s chest. K-5 removed his hand out of the now slumped enemy’s body. Unfolding his blood soaked hand, K-5 began shaking off the filth. He stood up and looked to where Jay was hunkered down. He could see Jay smirking back at him from atop the cliff. Raising his right arm K-5 gave a thumb’s up to her. “He can clean himself after we get through this,” Jay thought to herself. A thunderous explosion erupted below her. Ears ringing, she saw the horrific site in front of her. An artillery shell streaked towards K-5, ripping through K-5’s chest, shearing the cockpit and sending him back 20 feet. Jay watched from atop the cliff, helpless, as K-5 landed on his back, lights flickering. “No! K-5! You fucking bastards!” Jay screamed through gritted teeth. She took out two grenades, pulled the pins, and lobbed one to each of artillery gun. Two concussive explosions were followed by screams of pain. With her rifle armed, she slid down the cliff looking for survivors. She noticed a disoriented soldier who was struggling to his feet. Jay kicked in his knee with a gut wrenching crack. The enemy cried out in pain, falling back down. There was no sympathy in Jay’s eyes, or pause, as she turned her rifle to his head and fired. Silencing the man instantly. Jay risked a quick glance at K-5, lying there. His lights looked out. A crack of a bullet whizzed by Jay’s head. She instinctively crouched behind the closest artillery crate as more bullets peppered the air she used to occupy. “You scum!” A surviving Imperialist grunt screamed at Jay. “We’re going to fill you with holes like we did with your robot friend over there!” “Yah! You’ve got nowhere to go! " said another grunt. Both recklessly shot at Jay’s cover. Splinters of wood struck her face as she peered around her cover. “Shit,” Jay whispered, assessing her surroundings. There, within arms reach, she noticed a dead soldier within. She patted the soldier down, finding a smoke grenade in his breast pocket. “I can make this work,” Jay thought as she pulled the pin and dropped it at her feet. Thick green smoke billowed all around her, making it impossible to see anything, including her. “You think we got them?” The first Imperialist grunt said cowering behind a wooden crate as the second continued to shoot into the smoke. “How would I know? You should go check. I’ll cover you from here.” The second one had stopped firing but didn’t dare take his eyes off the thick green smoke. “You kidding? I’m not going to walk blindly into some smoke where a crazy soldier is waiting to ambush me. You go in there!” The second grunt ponders, weighing his odds. “Fine, how about we both wait and keep watch. The smoke will eventually stop and they can’t go anywhere. We’ll pick them off then.” “Good idea! We can just wait and see!” Both men agreed, trying to hide the fear in their words. A female voice came from the smoke, “Thanks for talking dick wads. You make this much easier.” A bullet streaked through smoke, creating a thin vortex protruding from the green cloud, slamming into the second grunt’s head. The first Imperialist yelped as his fallen comrade hit the dirt floor, blood leaking out of his head. Screaming in terror, the last Imperialist scrambled to his feet, attempting to dash away, jumping over dead bodies and spent artillery shells. Jay, stepping out of the green smoke, aimed her rifle and fired. Crack! The last Imperialist fell. Panning the area, she confirmed the area was clear, and sprinted towards K-5. Jay screamed at him, “K-5 are you ok? K-5 respond! Damn it K-5 respond! That’s an order!” Jay could now see black smoke coming from K-5’s chest as she got closer. “K-5! Failure to follow orders will cause immediate discharge. Now you get your ass up!” K-5 remained motionless on the ground. Jay’s eyes started filling with tears. “No. K-5,” Jay choked in a whisper. She slowed her pace upon seeing the extent of K-5’s wounds. His body was littered with dents from gun fire, oil from other Javelins or his own, and one big hole at the center of it’s chest where the cockpit used to be. Tears streaked Jay’s dirt covered face as she knelt next to him. “Come on K. Can you hear me?” Silence. She lowered herself into what was left of the destroyed cockpit and looked around. She prodded at the remnants of a central control panel, tearing off the screen exposing five control drives. These drives were what stored K-5’s core functions and saved data, basically K-5’s soul if he had one. Three of them were cracked, who knows if they’d be salvageable. She undocked each one carefully and put them in her pack. Jay slumped down, legs folded into her chest. “You can’t leave me K-5, ” Jay whispered. “I need you. We need to finish this war, together.” Jay laid in K-5 for several minutes before standing up. She stepped out of his metal body and brushed the dust off. A rough smoker voice echoed in the back of her head. “Buck up your bootstraps Jay. Mission’s not over.” A faint smile washed over Jay. “Roger that Dad,” Jay whispered. Jay walked through the battlefield, stepping over javelins bodies alike, to the mysterious metal door. She examined it, noticing it had not been opened and didn’t appear locked. Jay readied her rifle and rested herself next to the iron door. She listened for anything on the other side. She could hear computer beeps and what sounded like chains moving. Jay grabbed the door handle, took a deep breath and the flung the door open, aiming her rifle into the unknown. As sunlight bled into what looked like a small warehouse, Jay’s eyes adjusted to see the contents. Jay gasped and lowered her rifle. ______________ INCOMING TRANSMISSION……SENDER: SERGEANT JAY HOPKINS……….DOWNLOADING…….2% ……. 28% …..57%……. 95% ……. SUCCESS!….DECODING TRANSMISSION….. _______START TRANSMISSION_______ [SOL 127 - 0958 ] Command, the artillery east of Grenrik has been taken care of. Tell our soldiers in Grenrik to get a move on. I’ve destroyed an Imperialist jammer causing the issues with our communications. You wouldn’t be receiving this otherwise. You’re welcome. Reporting single casualty of the Mantis Class Javelin “K-5”. Retrieved memory drives for possible recovery. Returning back to Frethlin base to resupply. Will not be alone. Requesting eight fresh beds. See you in two days. Over and Out. Jay _______END TRANSMISSION_______

kow9a5

Fated.

Lily is the woman I have been looking for my entire life. She thinks we met two years ago. Almost four years ago, I saw her from the window of a tiny café, across from her gym, as she burst out the door with workout bag in hand, another day bag thrown over her shoulder, hair thrown up in a partial bun with trailing strands of hair (curling by her ears in tiny sweaty ringlets), phone in hand trying to plug an earbud in her ear with her right hand, fumbling for her keys with her left hand in the side of her bag while trying to hydrate from her powder-blue water bottle and finish her stunted conversation on the phone. She was like a tornado bursting determined ably through the empty space of the parking lot. There was something about her. It was the disheveled organization as she multi-tasked her exit from the gym (an hour that she refused to take out of her day) and off to her yet-unknown-to-me day job. I was sitting bent over my laptop. Buttoned to the top of my starched, white shirt and well-fitted Roberto Cavalli suit. I kept my eyes on her until she was in her car and pulling out of the lot. I made note of the day of the week and the time. I would try to be here again another day to glimpse her coming out of the gym. I needed to know if this creature was this intriguing every other day or if today was an anomaly. At the risk of sounding like a stalker (in full disclosure, I only brought binoculars one time), I saw her three more times over the next month and each time was a more intriguing amalgamation of put-together and barely-holding-it-together. I was fascinated. For a person that calculated out each moment of my spreadsheeted existence, her unpredictability in her full reliability (she came out at nearly the exact same moment each time  I saw her although the day of the week varied and so did the number and color of her associated handbags and backpacks that were falling from her grip) had sparked my entire attention. I realized the creepiness of my watching her from across the street outside her gym. I forced her out of my mind and went deliberately ahead in my banal life. What about her would be interested in me? How was there not someone in her life who had seen the magic of this unexpected vision. And how does one introduce themselves after they have been watching someone come and go from the gym for weeks. I considered joining the gym. I considered giving her a flat tire and happening upon this stranded woman. I considered the possibility of following her from the parking lot and learning all about where she lived and worked. I considered a lot of things. I considered myself on the brink of full on Creepy McCreeperson. And then I knew that I needed to step back. I forced her out of my mind. Every day. Fate was not without her moment. Two years, three fantastically boring girlfriends later, Fate put Lily (unexpectedly and without plan) in my tiny café. She was halfway through a double-decker chocolate muffin when I came in for my pre-prepared latte that I picked up every day at this time. The various twelve-year-olds that worked at the café all knew me by name even though they turned over employees like they turned over pan-fried eggs. I was so shocked to see her that in a very love-story way, I literally stopped my forward motion and stared at her. She had clearly finished eating and was now just ripping what was left of the muffin into tiny shreds and stacking it into a chocolate mountain. Uncharacteristically bold, I stopped by her table with a “is something wrong?” Lily looked up at me halfway through the shred of the last bit of muffin. She laughed. “I’m just pouting about a power outage at the gym. No biggie.” “I can’t say that I have loads of experience, but isn’t it possible to lift weights with the lights out?” “My point exactly!” She smiled up at me and lifted her plate. “Would you like some of what used to be a chocolate muffin?” What followed was the best first conversation of my life. And I am not grading on a curve. We started with some super small talk like wading into the shallow end of the pool. We dove deep with an overshare of both of our childhoods and paddled for shore with some trivialities about our lives. I found out that she worked for the county. She hated it and was looking for something else. It was her first out-of-college job. You know when you see someone from a distance and you think they can be amazing and then when you meet them in person, you are devastated that they are hideously disappointing in real life? This was the exact opposite of that. As she grabbed her gym bag, day bag, blue water bottle and phone, I mentioned I would be here if anytime that the power went out at the gym. I never thought I would see her inside that café again. She showed up the following Thursday. Even though the power had not gone out at the gym. I do not think she believed me that I was here every morning. I asked her out. She seemed surprised but she agreed. And then she agreed again. And nearly two years later, I proposed that we make our connection a permanent situation. She dropped her glass of wine, we nearly toppled the table when we both tried to pick up the glass at the same time under the table, and we set a wedding date. “We’ve got all the time in the world.” I told her as she gaped at the size of the line just to get to the security guard checking gate passes and IDs. I put my arm around her waist and pulled her closer to me. She always laughed at the two of us at the airport. I struggled to ditch my workday suit and wished I could be comfortable like she was in her work-out pants and slip on boots. I looked like her driver more than her husband. And I loved that about us. As usual, she was standing there, a purse across her chest, a handbag in her hand, a boarding pass, and her ID in the other hand an empty blue water bottle threatening to topple from the handbag. And every day, I felt like that single guy watching her leave the gym across the street. The security guard took my ID and looked at me and the ID and back to me. According to Lily, I had not aged in ten years, so it did not take long for the guard to waive me through. He looked at her ID and boarding pass and looked back at me surprised as I was that she agreed to marry me. We are side by side as I remove my shoes, belt and tie clip and she is filling up the concrete color bins with all her bags, my laptop, her fuzzy boots and reading material, pushing the plastic bins down the rolling belt toward the x-ray machine. Lily is a sucker for airplane treats so my backpack is filled with Cheetos, chocolate, gummy everything and her supermarket check-out line magazines like People, US, and Life that she only allows herself to read on the plane. She tries to peek around the x-ray machine as I’m standing in the circular scanner with my hands above my head. She says she wants to see the x-ray so she can see my secrets. Truth is, there is nothing I have ever kept from her accept that I watched her from the café from across the street. Lily is eager to get in the air. She has never understood why the first-class passengers get loaded first and then all of the rest of us third-class citizens need to file past them like prisoners. Her passion about this fact is never lost in the airport and she will say it to anyone in earshot and generally loudly as we pass first class back to our coach class seats. She refuses to eat the food that they sell on the plane for crazy amounts of cash. My backpack of treats will get her through. I let her in the row first because she is a sucker for the window seat and she doesn’t like to sit by strangers. She will take the aisle seat if she has to, but she is constantly getting hit in the elbow with the drink cart as it slides down the aisle with the determined flight attendants. Once seated in our dark blue seats and following the how-to-do-up your seatbelt video, I am loosening my tie and asking Lily what snack she would like to start the flight. I know she is desperate to dive into the Cheetos, but she is debating whether she wants to spend the entire flight with orange-tipped fingertips. She wants to start with People magazine, and she is giggling at what she calls my How to Win Friends and Influence People-y type book. I am a nerd about learning workplace skills to bring in clients. I do not know what she sees in me but at least I make her laugh. I am getting sleepy, and my head is drifting down toward the binding of my book. My chin is resting on my chest. Lily is knee-deep in her tabloid magazine and choosing “who wore it best.” The plane suddenly drops, and she grabs the handles of her seat. I jolt awake, and grab her. “It’s just a little turbulence.” I say softly. The jostling continues and it feels like we are losing altitude. She grabs my arm and I put my arm around her. She lifts the window shade, and we can see flames on the wing. Others around us are seeing the flames and ringing the flight attendant. She whispers in an urgent voice to the other attendant who flees to the front of the plane and disappears into first class on her way to the cockpit. A voice comes over the PA system and requests everyone be seated and belted. There are screams around us as the nose dips forward and the plane descends. I pull her tighter to me. This cannot be it. I have waited so long and finally made her mine. Fate would not mock us this way, would she? She finally brought her into my café. “You know I love you.” I say. I need her to know it. I need more than words. I need her to know I am not just saying it because I can see flames out the window, but I need her to know it because I have never felt this way about anyone in my life. I do not know how I could ever live without her now that I know what life is like with her. I should tell her. I should have told her every moment. I do not know if she knows how intoxicating she is. How I am drunk on her stumbling determinedness, her clumsy intensity, and her impassioned opinion of anything that is not fair in the world. I do not know if she knows how desperate I am to be with her for the rest of whatever this life and the next life and the next life after that looks like. The plane levels out unsteadily and tips toward the burning wing. But the flames are still growing and lapping the side of the plane. The nose dips again and the oxygen masks drop from the space above us. I slip the elastic band around her head and then around my own. She pulls my mask down to my chin and hers too and she leans into a kiss. She has never kissed me like that before. I have one hand around her shoulders and the other on the side of her face. I pull the mask back into place over her mouth and she does the same for me. She pushes closed the window cover so we can no longer see the flames or the earth rising up to meet us. There is one last breath and the sound of metal peeling and

m99kja

RandoJRNY

"We have to set an intention first, Matthew..." Jennifer grabbed the phone.  "You don't need the phone to set an intention". Matthew snatched the phone back. You'd think this couple were in their teens, but apparently 50-something soulmates married for thirty years can do the whole "playful bickering" thing just as well as their younger counterparts. Matthew and Jennifer walked out of their house and headed towards the gravel driveway. Autumn leaves, strewn across the yard, crunched underfoot. The bright sun hung low in the sky, with only a few wisps of clouds, but offered little warmth. "Who's driving?" he asked, jingling the keys mid-air.  "You!" Once again she grabbed the phone from her husband. "I'll put the information in the app and see what coordinates it gives us, then let you know where to go..." Matthew tousled her red curls. "I'll tell you where to go, missy..."  Jennifer rebelled against the whole "go gray naturally" trend, despite her spunky 75-year-old mother calling hair dye "Cancer in a Bottle". She even had the gall to make a song about it, singing it to the tune of "Message in a Bottle" by The Police. "Hey!" she protested, giving him a shove. "That's not nice!"  Matt almost fell. "Jesus, Jen, we're not in our 20s anymore. Unless your intention for our trip was Broken Hip..." They laughed as they got into their white Chevy Cruze.  He started the car, waiting for the heater to kick on. "So you're sure this is safe?” he asked. She loved the crow's feet around his blue eyes, time's inverted commas that broadcasted either joy or concern.  Duchenne marker, they called the genuine smile. Right now, though, his crow's feet were definitely furrowed towards worry. "Oh come on . Have I ever steered you wrong?” she asked. Matt raised an eyebrow. "OK, except for ghost hunting at the abandoned state penitentiary... " He shook his head and rolled his eyes. His effervescent wife—always up for a crazy adventure.  "Look, this will be fun . All we need to do is set an intention..." "Like money? Lots of money”, he said.  It was Jen's turn to roll her eyes. He didn't need to remind her that they lived paycheck to paycheck, especially since she took care of the household finances.  "I don't recommend that. There's an incident where these teens intended money, and found a suitcase containing a dismembered body..."  " Jen! Oh my God..." He grew as pale as their car's paint job.  "But that was just a weird random thing! Just one incident..." "That you know of, Jen. Of course it was random...that's what Rando stands for!" She let out a huge sigh. She adored her husband, but sometimes trying to coax him out of his comfort zone made her weary. She massaged her forehead. Her excitement level was nose-diving. But then she remembered what her best friend, Heather, found on her first experience with RandoJRNY... Jen brightened back up. Maybe if she told Matt about Heather's experience, he'd feel more at ease.  Matt turned up the heater. She put the phone down on her leg and began rubbing her hands to get warm. The portable essential oil diffuser attached to one of the vents filled the car with the sweet lively scent of spearmint.  He didn't want to rain on her parade. Why can't you be more like her? He hated his anxious nature. You wouldn't have had most of your life's memorable experiences without her… He, too, let out a big sigh.  "Let's set our intention", he said, looking at Jen with so much tenderness she thought her heart would burst into rainbow confetti. "Are you sure? If you're not comfortable, I don't want to drag you into..." He placed his hand on her arm and kissed her cheek. "I'm sure, Babe. What will it be?" "What about... purple?" she suggested.  "Purple? Is that really an intention?" She shrugged and smiled. "Why not?" She grabbed his hand. "Close your eyes and imagine purple. Intend purple ." They sat silently for a few minutes, head bowed and eyes closed. If their neighbor had peeked out her window, she would have assumed they were praying.  Eyes now open, they smiled at each other. Jen typed PURPLE in the intention box, then pressed GOrando. After a few seconds, the app generated GPS coordinates for them to follow. ••• They drove up, down, and around the twisty rural roads characteristic of southwestern Pennsylvania towards their destination, coordinates selected by a random number generator that—supposedly worked in tandem with the quantum field of intention. If the world was a simulation as some speculated, random excursions like these could disrupt the matrix...and possibly reveal glitches as a result. "How much longer?” he asked.  "About two miles more", she answered.  They had been driving for about twenty minutes, seeing more trees than houses as they meandered on pot-holed roads while dodging a few deer. Jen loved October, her favorite month. The sun-dappled yellow, orange, and red leaves dazzled and thrilled her. "OK, almost there." The car ascended a steep hill, rounded a curve—and a village of houses appeared below as if God lowered a colorful folk art painting into the middle of nowhere. Jen looked over at Matt, staring ahead, gripping the steering wheel. "Wow. Where are we?” he asked.  She looked down at the phone. "Not sure. Don't see a town name on the generated map."  "There! Turn right!” she yelped. Matt slowed down towards the bottom of the hill before they got to the village. He put on the turn signal, even if no one was in sight—let alone another car. He turned into the lane. Braked. And they gasped. There, in front of them, was a stone fence. With a mural painted on it. Grass, flowers, cows, clouds, hot-air balloons—all in various shades of... purple . Purple . "Holy shit, Matt!” she squealed. "Are you seeing this?" Her smile was so wide he could barely see her sparkling green eyes. He laughed at his gloriously rhetorical wife—and this painted purple stone wall staring back at them. "Man..." Matt shook his head. "This is crazy!" He finally put the car in park. "We gotta take pictures. No one would believe us!"  They got out of the car and Jen began snapping pictures. Oh, they'd believe us alright, thought Jen. She had visited the RandoJRNY community board earlier that morning and read some of the amazing synchronistic experiences of fellow Randos. Sure, there were a few scary and weird tales posted there, but they were flagged as trolls by the Admin—so she didn't give them another thought. Jen walked up to the fence. The paint looked so fresh and smooth, it could've passed for wet. The stones were rough and cool. She marveled at how detailed the images looked from a distance—but up close, they seemed a bit distorted in shape and size.  Did she smell grape? Not grapes. Grape . An artificial scent straight from the 80s—of Kool-Aid and scratch-and-sniff stickers and Bubblicious bubble gum.  She suspected she was a synesthete because she smelled colors, but she hated labels. Matt stood off to the side, arms crossed, eyes still wide as he stared at the mural. He kept muttering "Wild. This is so wild ." "Well, this is a raging success!" she exclaimed. "Want to do another?" His head jerked towards her. Another? He always joked her motto was "Too much is never enough".  "Are you serious...?"  "Yes!” she busted out laughing.  He looked at his watch. His stomach grumbled. "Lunch first?" "Awww no ! Can't we try again?" she pleaded.  His least favorite thing in the world—well, next to smokers, fundies, and liver—was telling Jen "no". If he could, he'd give her the world.  He smiled. "OK, girlie..." She started clapping, but he held up his hand. Jen stopped, looking expectant. "But only if the coordinates show a trip of less than ten minutes away. Deal?" Jen looked upward. She reminded him of a two-year-old who was just asked her age but couldn't fathom the answer. She counter-offered: "OK, unless it's in the direction of home. Then it can be longer." Matt grabbed her and hugged her. "You rascal!” he said into her hair. She hugged him tight. Everything with Jen was a series of mini-negotiations.  He wouldn't have it any other way. They got back into the car. "You pick the intention this time!" She thrust the phone into his hands.  "Babe, I can't drive and navigate at the same time..." "Oh, I'll navigate after you type in our intention and hit GoRANDO.   "Hmmm. Well...what about infinity?" he offered. "Hmmm. That's not very specific...." Matt looked almost hurt.  "Why not?” she said quickly. "Maybe we'll end up facing a wall with a lemniscate painted on it." She smiled at him and his Duchenne marker—crow's feet and all—was back. "Do we have to do the whole heads bowed...?” " Yes ! Now come on so we can get some lunch." It was her stomach's turn to growl. They intended infinity, Matt typed in the word and pressed GoRANDO. Just like before, a few seconds passed before the app generated their GPS coordinates. "Looks like our destination is just a few miles from home. We'll stop at Little Noe's Diner when we're done. How's that sound?” he asked. "Yummy!" she replied. "I've been craving their zucchini fries with ranch dressing." Matt started the car. "Alrighty, then. Our Rando journey, then food. Here we go." He handed the phone back to Jen. Finally, they returned to familiar roads.  They passed Dr. Hadley's veterinary clinic (she took great care of their three cats, Geddy, Alex, and Neil), Wilson's Farm (home of the juiciest, tastiest summer tomatoes), and Sky-View Drive-In Movie Theater (still the best way to watch a film). "How much further?" he asked. Jen consulted the phone. "Less than a mile. Looks like the destination is near the riverfront, past the railroad tracks." A train whistle blew in the distance.  They rounded a curve...and Dr. Hadley's Veterinary Clinic was on the right. Wait... what ? Matt slowed the car. Jen rolled down the window.  Cold air rushed in. What the actual... "Jen. Jen. Jen ...what's going on?" He never took his eyes off the road. He sped back up, still not looking at her. Refusing to look at her.  What had she done? Where had she led them? Wilson's Farm. Again. This can not be happening. Sky-View, up ahead.  He thought he heard Jen whimper, but he was not going to look away from the road. He couldn't.  Nearing the riverfront. A train whistle blew. Their car rounds the curve. Dr. Hadley's Veterinary Clinic. On the right. 

mbopwv