Friday, January 20, 2023

A Dark Place


 In the darkened space, the end of a cigarette flared merrily red, and like a belated echo, two red eyes flickered just past them. The long inhale swept through the background drip and drip and drip of whatever pipe was leaking in the darkness. The breath held. One second. Two. A third. 

An exhale with a sigh. 

"Ya know, I don't need to smoke these." A semi-hollow rasp, worn from too much screaming, smoking, time, erosion, decay, who knows. Maybe just too much

"Prob'ly psychosomatic.  Somethin' to do with my hands. Or maybe I just like how it burns."

Those red eyes squinted at the cherry ember at the end of the cigarette. A flutter of ash fell from the tip and disappeared from sight. 

"I do like them, though. Like the aesthetic, I s'pose." He chuckled, despite the sound of grating skin it was filled with a surprising bubble of mirth. "Woke up in an era when smokin' was sexy as hell, ya know? And hey, since it don't hurt me, I figure what the hell. I make it look good, don't I?"

He put the cigarette to his thin black lips and leaned in. The glow from the tip barely made out the sharpened angles of his face, the pallor of his skin, the hairline fractures around his right eye, like broken bits of porcelain had started to crumble loose. There was more red there, beneath his eyes, along a fracture at the bridge of his nose. Slow, gleaming streams of blood lingering at the surface and refusing to overrun their boundaries.

"Do you know who I am?" His breath smelled like smoke and whiskey and blood. "What, you don't know Jack?"

The bound man simply glared.

"Doesn't matter." Jack reached a hand out to grip the back of the wooden chair, inches from the other man's face. The other man's gagged face. This other man didn't struggle, though his body was rigid with tension, as if he could will the bonds keeping him tied to the chair to fray and break. 

"I don't have to eat either." His voice softened, this close to the bound man. Sandpaper drifting lazily over stone. "You wanna get technical about it, I can't eat. Not what you'd eat anyway. Not pizza, not tacos, not mahi mahi, nothin'. Taste buds are shot, I don't get anythin' but cardboard when I try. Sometimes if I'm real lucky it just turns to ash in my mouth. Whadda ya think about that?"

The bound man mumbled something in his throat, more like a growl then a response. 

"There are some things I can consume though." Jack inhaled the smoke, the cherry dangerously close to the bound man's cheek. "Fermented things have flavor. Things in a state of decay work a'right sometimes. But what really gets me goin' is something with a pulse."

Jack exhaled, right in the bound man's face. As tears sprung into the other man's eyes, Jack took the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it into the gloom. It skipped and sputtered in the darkness until only the tiniest pinprick of ember could be seen, so far away.

Now what illuminated the space between them were Jack's eyes. 

"See, most of the time it ain't a problem. I'm plenty strong, I got my shit locked down, but hey, when it gets bad..." Jack leaned in and took a deep breath. The bound man's pulse flickered at his throat. Jack whispered, that blackened smile twisting thinly upwards, a single drop of thick blood finally slipping from a crack beneath his eye to roll down to his jaw, like a promise:

"...I go right for the fuckin' jugular."

Monday, July 18, 2022

Blurb

 Beyond the scant farmlands of home there is wilderness. Sprawls of uncontained forests, aching expanses of desert, and grasslands that look like empty seas in the summer winds. Ancient rocks set into the earth mark out forgotten roads, leading to forgotten places, connecting one farmland to the next like frayed threads.

No one travels those roads anymore. Not if they don't have to. There are too many unknowns along the way. Scavengers lurk in the trees, and predators in the grasses. It's said that sometimes the roads disappear entirely, swallowed by the untamed growth and neglect of ages past. In the distance there are mountains; monoliths of a border long abandoned. To say that whatever lays beyond them could be better would be unwise; because no one even really knows whats past the view from their fields. These people work their crops, and live off what they can. They lead simple lives, deriving contentment from what they can, because to stray too far would surely spell their end. What keeps these farmers safe are the shrines. At the edges of each field, small mounds topped with carved figures keep watch. Their forms and faces worn to unrecognizable specters, each one facing out into the wilds like sentinels. The people here leave them wild flowers, and bow their heads as they pass, but no one knows where they came from. It has been too long since they were made, and now their purpose and function have all but been lost to memory. Even the elders here tell fractured stories at night; their own minds turning to faded and broken things. They speak of towns, towns with large stone buildings, where dozens and dozens of people met and lived together. Places without shrines that the Earth consumed when the stars fell from the sky.


.

Tuesday, April 12, 2022

Traitor

 Brendel Eldrien rode in silence alongside his Silver Spear companions.  The border patrol around the western Keep was a boring post, at best, but at least it was a post. He contented himself with the fact that the Lord here was a very powerful man worth protecting, and not that there were no threats to guard against. Frankly, with Brendel's track record, he was secretly surprised to have a post at all. More then half the time he was unwittingly irritating a superior officer just by having more common sense. 

He winced at the thought. It was those sorts of ideas that got him in trouble. The rest of the silver spears - his companions included - were full blooded family heirs. They all shared many things; the platinum hair, the grueling training, the loyalty to the Elven Throne. But Brendel felt he had things they lacked. For example, he had green eyes, denoted by his mother's status as a handmaid, vibrant in comparison to the rest of their silvered gray. He also boasted a rather enlightened opinion of humans as well as the other status elves who lived on the border towns. 

He had been raised as the rest of the Silver Spears, to believe that all life was sacred and that all elves deserved their protection and respect... but Brendel felt like he was the only one who really believed any of it. It was a constant source of irritation, seeing as the crown Prince spoke of these ideals himself, and yet few other followed those Tenements. 

Being half moss-eyed forest elf did have some benefits though. Brendel was often overlooked and underestimated as soon as nobility saw his eyes. Many times it warranted him posts in close proximity to said nobility, as a sort of unobtrusive bodyguard.  Most of the times it was fine. They spoke a lot of gossip and hear-say. 

But two nights ago it had been different. Some of the nobles were plotting something against the human kingdoms, despite years of peace between them. He hadn't told anyone what he had overheard two nights ago, not yet. He'd been on post at the Lord's estate, where his duty had assigned him, and he'd just... overheard it. Two men's voices, hushed, outside for the fresh spring air and some pipe, and their whispers had been careless and hateful, and he'd simply stood there. 

What else could he do? It was not his place to say anything. Regardless of the sinking in his stomach at the mention of 'razing the town to ash' and 'blaming it on human bandits'. They had completely ignored him, never locking eyes, barely acknowledging his presence. His first thought was to speak to his Captain, but Captain Rolivyr hated humans almost as much as he hated Brendel. 

He hadn't known what to do, so he'd written a letter. 

He knew in his heart that there was at least one person who would agree with him; The Prince. Prince Neuvyn was always outspoken and liberal in his opinions. So Brendel had composed a letter, sealed it, and paid for it to be sent with haste from the soldier's post. He'd been succinct and composed, in the hopes that if anything it would warrant at least a sliver of investigation and notice.

"Captain?" Brendel asked. They were well into the woods now. He could hear the Lyrius River howling in the canyon close by. 

The Captain harumphed. "Eldrien."

"We ... are out of our patrol route, sir." Brendel came back from his thoughts. 

They had indeed strayed from the route, closer to the Lyrius river. He didn't recall any reports that would require their attention here. He glanced around. There were only two other men with him and the Captain. Being a Shield himself, Brendel was in no position to make demands or question orders, but... well, he had a problem with that too.

Captain Rolivyr, rolled his eyes. "Quiet, Shield." 

Rolivyr was from a noble class, pure blooded as the rest of them. Ever since their time in training, the Captain had looked down on Brendel - even when it was from the flat of his back in the sparring ring. Though Brendel hadn't the class distinction or favoritism required to advance, he had always been able to best Rolivyr. A fact which had brought upon him immeasurable amounts of ire. From just about everyone.

Very shortly after, the Captain gave the signal for a halt. Curious, Brendel followed the suit of everyone else as they dismounted. Thinking very little of the situation other then it was a foolish waste of time, Brendel turned to regard his horse.

Starlight on the shining metal of the Captain's blade was the only thing that gave him warning, and Brendel stumbled to the side to avoid the close swing. He jumped back from a second, bumping into the rear end of his horse. His hands were raised in alarm. The tableaux would have been lovely had it been a different situation - their shining, oiled leather armor, green and silver, the moonlight-dipped shine to the Captain's sword, the roar of the river... Brendel tossed the thought from his head, vividly calling himself all sorts of imbecilic for thinking of sketching at a time like this.

 "Captain!" He searched the other man's eyes. Surely they were rivals, but wasn't this a bit much?

"You nosy little moss-eye." The Captain snarled. "How dare you speak lies about the Lord of these lands!" He swung again. 

Brendel ducked, itching to draw his own blade, but still wary, still confused. He couldn't draw steel against his superior officer, especially if it wasn't for a training drill! His bow and quiver bounced on his back as he put his shoulders to the tree line and looked at the other two Shields. They were both equally bewildered, hands on their hilts, and ready to draw.

"I did nothing wrong!"

The Captain pulled Brendel's letter from beneath his breastplate and let it fall to the ground. He crushed it beneath a heel. "You Traitor."

Traitor? What? "Captain, it is all true, that human town may be in danger -"

"I have seen your lies! Besides, it's just a human town. Just talk. You have no right nor privilege to question your betters. Shields, this man is a traitor. Take him, and if he does not come willingly, end his pathetic life."

Brendel's eyes went wide as he searched the faces of the three elves before him. What? No, this has to be some sort of sordid prank. He'd been pranked before in good fun (and abject malice, he suppose) but this was going too far. And though he tried to find a sliver of remorse or good humor in his Captain's eyes - he saw none. 

Brendel's hand went for one of his swords, and that was all the signal the other two Shields needed to drive themselves into action. The Captain made one more swing at Brendel, who deflected it with ease, before the reinforcements made their moves.

One blade was not going to cut it against two soldiers, but he had no desire to harm his fellow Silver Spears. He deflected, parried, and deflected again, and then with his free hand he grasped the incoming wrist of the nearest assailant, ducking the blow. The second man's next blow he mostly managed to avoid, the blade landing a rather shallow hit to the joint of his grasping arm. Brendel winced, but then his foot came up and he kicked the first man in the chest, releasing in time to send him careening into the other Shield.

Then Brendel turned and ran. The Captain shouted after him. 

This is insanity. What exactly had I overheard? Surely it wasn't an actual plan, and surely once the Prince heard about it, the rebellious idea would be crushed, and everyone would move on... what I don't understand is the Captain's behavior. Did he truly hate humans that much? Or... or does he truly hate me that much?

The thoughts were distracting him from the trail, and the woods opened up only to reveal the cliff's edge. Brendel frantically looked from side to side for an opening, but none came.

Lancing pain, sharp and rending, tore through Brendel's side, the force of which turned him.  An arrowhead shot from close range and with extreme force. Brendel could see the shining head of it poking through his abdomen. The momentum spun him around. His foot lost purchase, and suddenly he was no longer upright. The feeling of plummeting was quickly replaced with shocking, inescapable cold as the waters of the Lyrius overcame him and swept him away.

Saturday, March 12, 2022

Summoning Demons




Many Years Ago... 

"Have you seen my necklace?"

"Which one?" The servant carried on her chores, dusting away at cobwebby corners of the room. The keep was in a rather... unkempt state, Their room in particular. They had a habit of strewing their things about without a care. They found it better then the bare, cold stone left unadorned. 

She didn't even look at them when they asked their rather simple question.

Rude.

"The gold one, the chain? The one I always wear around my neck?" They gestured with painted nails to their own throat, stretching it so that the servant could get a good look of just how bare it was, at present.

"No, Master."

"Think I prefer Mistress today."

"No, Mistress."

They gave the servant a squint. Doe eyes, brown hair, the same uniform as all the others, a droll black and white. Fit, tall, and almost stern faced. 

As if they were one to talk about black and white. They rarely chose any other colors for their own wardrobe either.

"Are you new?"

The servant girl finally looked over, feather duster paused mid-swish. "Yes, Mistress. Since this morning."

"Hmph." They turned away from the girl and snatched up the nearest discarded garment from the back of a chair. Oh, they liked this one; a bit lacy on the back, open front, very flowy, showed hip and midriff with the right pair of pants.

Ugh, pants.

"Well," they continued, moving on to their dresser to poke around for undergarments, "for future reference it is customary to knock before you barge in on me. Who knows that the Lord would have me be doing in here." They cast her a curious glance. "Thought the others would have filled you in, but I guess not."

"Apologies, Mistress."

They pulled out a pair of equally flowy, cinch-ankled harem pants and held them up. Oh these were the ones with the little bells on the tie! Yes, that would do nicely. As for undergarments? They scanned the room and then settled on the view outside their window.

Bleak and gray and hot. The kingdom was dirty, and poor, and it was because of this stinking, addled Lord. 

Another day on Earth, they supposed. Thus, it was too nice a day for undergarments.

"On second thought, I think I would prefer if you called me Master."

"Yes, Master."

They smiled, pulling the pants on one leg at a time. They looped the found blouse over one arm with a sigh. 

"Then again, no one calls me by any title here. I would have assumed someone would have filled you in on that, too."

They felt something cold and sharp press against the small of their back, and their spine straightened. They pulled in a long, slow breath and their eyes went wide with amused surprise. 

"Oh dear. Here to kill me then?"

"Yes." The servant girl was rather close now, dangerously close. For her, anyway.

They could feel her breath tickle the feathery hair at the back of their neck. A few black strands fluttered in their vision, catching on their long lashes as they slid their eyes to the side. Yet they did not move away.

"How many attempts does that make? Four? Five?"

"Seven." She pressed the tip of her blade a little harder against their flesh, and they let out a soft hiss as it broke the skin. "Seven. My success will make eight."

They chuckled, the smile wistful and elegant, matching the gleam in their dark left eye. "Not sure what you hope to accomplish. I'm not the one enslaving you."

"You're a loyal pet to the Lord. A powerful one. And if I kill you, he has one less pawn to use against us."

They could feel the hatred in her voice. It trembled across their skin from their bare toes to the tips of their curled horns. "Why not just kill him, hmm? Kill him and our servitude ends."

"Lies."

"I keep trying to tell you people this, and you always say the same thing. But why would I lie, exactly?"

The blade pushed further, and they arched their spine, an involuntary movement. Their head tilted back and another sigh brushed past their lips. 

"To save your own skin."

"My skin hardly needs saving."

"Enough talk."

"Then stop talking and kill me already." They snorted. 

The girl behind them edged the blade a fraction deeper, and they let out a surprised hiss. Her voice was hard, but confused as she hissed her next words. "Why aren't you fighting me? I thought you were supposed to be powerful."

"Oh I am."

"I could kill you right now."

"But you won't."

"I will."

They sighed at her persistence. And then, they started to turn around. The blouse they had been holding slipped to the floor, and they felt the tip of the blade glide across their skin, leaving a thin crimson trail. They stopped when it was aimed just above their bellybutton, eyes leveled at that frightened, doe-brown gaze.

"You won't, actually."

She stared at them. They had to give her credit - her hand didn't so much as tremble as it held the blade steady, and she blinked, but didn't look away. However, she did seem at a loss for words.

"Shall I tell you why?"

She did not respond. 

They reached up one hand and ever so gently put it over hers, the one holding the knife. And then they brought their joined hands up higher, the blade pressing just beneath their ribcage. "Because I am not the one you wish to kill, of course. You need to kill the Lord. The one who summoned me."

"I... I can't. He's too well guarded, I would never--"

They reached up their other hand and gently cupped the side of her face. "I can tell you how. It'll free us both."

She stared at him. As they held her hand, the knife clattered to the floor between them. And in the instant it took for her to take a breath to speak, they had stepped closer. The air smelled faintly of winter air, blood, and jasmine. Their lips were an inch away from hers, no more, and they spoke again.

"I hate him as much as you do. Let me help you. Free us both."

A whisper in a larger room. The faintest echo of the fallen blade, and this girl's heartbeat. She impulsively reached out to put her hand on their chest, to stop their movement, perhaps?

"I - I have nothing to give you, I cannot pay--"

"I don't like being paid." They looked over her face, a ghost of a smile playing on their lips. "I like gifts. Nothing more. And I wish for closeness. I wish for warmth. I wish for... a kiss, maybe."

"A kiss? And you will tell me how to kill him?"

They dropped their voice to something more like a purr. "Oh you know how to kill him. for a kiss, I'll tell you where. And for perhaps a second one, I'll tell you when."

They could feel her heart skip a beat as their eyes met again. They could watch as she steeled herself for this arrangement, straightening her spine and setting her jaw. 

Oh that wouldn't do. 

They brushed their thumb along her cheek, and felt some of those muscles relax. "Please. I will not harm you. And despite the... teeth I bare, I will not bite."

Please. Just this once, kindness would be so very nice.

"M-my name...?"

"Only if you wish to tell me."

"Myra. I'm Myra." Her eyes softened, and with such trepidation, her one hand slid up along their chest, over the firm ridges of their abdomen, and to their neck. Delicate fingers, worn with hard work, but slender. Soft.

"Myra." They breathed, repeating it tenderly. They shut their eyes a moment, letting the name convalesce in their mind. A name freely given. It sent a shiver down their spine. What a gift. They leaned a fraction closer. Their warmth mingled with hers, roaring softly between them, unbeckoned. 

This was where real power came from. Their power. These gifts. 

"Your... name?" Her breath was a soft whisper as she gazed at them. They opened their eyes to receive the question, tasting her shallow breath on their lips.

The time between them stretched for an eon as they listened to the cacophony of their racing hearts. And the moment before their lips met, and a delicious, forbidden passion claimed the both of them, they whispered their name in the silence between.

"Darius."

Thursday, March 4, 2021

Stay Close

 “Stay close.” Mother said.

The forest around us slowly and steadily darkened. 

There were eight of us in this group. Two weeks earlier there had been twelve. Before that I can recall maybe twenty at its largest number.

I speak for 'us' but these were not my people. They discovered me, as they tell it, in the woods. I had been wilder, lengths of corded hair and a fawn’s gangly limbs. Young enough then to warrant their sympathy and care, but not anymore.

I was perhaps twenty six? Twenty seven? As old as thirty, maybe? I didn’t mind not knowing. It was one less thing to count down to.

We were always counting down. Count down to dusk. Count down to dawn. Count down our rations. Count down our members. Count the steps to the next safe place to hide.

“I said stay close, Stray.” Mother yanked on my arm and I took a few stumbling steps to keep pace.

Mother was not my real mother. Mother was what everyone in our group called her. She acted as mother, lawman and punisher. She had eyes that sliced through lies and false hopes alike. She was practical and knowledgeable. Her hair was always cut short around her ears, and her eyes were dark and her skin was very dark, and her voice was dark. She was second in charge only to Wizened. 

Wizened was like a Father, though no one called him that. He was older and taller than mother,  and lean from years of running and hiding. His hair was white as snow, and covered by a ragged cap that hung like an empty pouch to his shoulders. He led the group across the land from safe haven to safe haven.

I remember Wizened mentioned that there used to be fifty people in our group. How hard it must have been, I wondered, to move unseen?

I also imagined that was why they were gone. 

My insides shout warnings at me. They have for as long as I can remember. At first, I didn’t tell anyone. I was afraid they would think that I am a Dark Thing and cast me out. But after there were twenty, there became seventeen. And after seventeen there were sixteen. And after sixteen there were only the twelve of us. 

The last time my insides screamed at me, I had nightmares. I tossed and turned and woke Mother, who scolded me for the noise, saying I would draw Dark Things. So I told her about the screaming warnings that echoed inside me, and she shushed me back to sleep with a dark glare.

Then of course, they came. 

Despite the distrust the survivors showed me after that, I did have a friend. His name was Atta Boy, and he was good at staying out of danger. He liked me a great deal. Kissed me once or twice. (It was warm and sweet at the time, but I didn’t know any better.) He was dark like Mother and had light eyes like Wizened, a matching shade of morning blue.

Perhaps that was why I only half liked him.

“Pay attention to your steps, Stray.” Mother hissed at me. 

I turned my attention back to the beaten road. It was always flat, wide enough for our aged wagon and the lone, emotionless beast that pulled it. (The Horse was old, and had trouble sometimes, but they never spooked. We called him Husk.)

The sun was still just above the tree line, turning everything just past it’s reach golden and gray. The tension that came with twilight gripped the group, and as it usually happened, dark looks flitted in my direction. 

Mother kept her hand on my arm to lead me onward. 

Always at the front of our group, Wizened held his hand up and gestured for the pair of men just behind him. They were called Rusty and Copper, a pair of twins they always sent as scouts. The two of them darted ahead, down a side trail that Wizened pointed out. Their slinking shapes could just be discerned ahead, if one squinted. 

The group held their breath. Eight left, including myself. Two off to check the safety of a trail. All of them clung to the hope that it was clear at the other end and a good place to hide, because darkness was coming.

This path led off of the flat, mossy road and down a slight hill. It curved up a distant embankment and into a darkened structure that was backed up against a curtain of dense wood and stone that reached well up over the roof. 

We six that remained held our breath. Even I felt the pounding of blood in my head with my effort to remain still and silent. Wizened stood straight and tall, gazing out over that clearing as a beacon for the others, as if his will alone could bid them to return. 

When Copper and Rusty returned with smiles, the group let out a collective sigh. 

“It is safe. There is another inside, but he means us no ill. He’s a trader.” Rusty reported in an excited whisper. 

“A Trader? What does he trade?” I asked.

Rusty shrugged. “I don’t know. But he had a great big pack on that made him look like a huge turtle. I heard clanking when he took it off.”

I settled with that clue.

Atta Boy came up behind me as Mother released her grip to help Husk down towards our evening reprieve.

“Haven’t seen a trader in a while. I wonder how he’s survived on his own?” Atta Boy chirped quietly at my elbow. He always sounded like he was chirping.

I shrugged. 

“Hey, I asked Mother about marrying you. She said it would be all right!” He grinned. 

I sighed. “Sure thing, Atta boy.”

“Hey you could be happier about it.” He scowled. 

I remember how I put a smile on my face to please him as he drifted off towards the others. 

I slowed to remain behind the group. My own pack was light in comparison to theirs. I received less from the times we went out to hunt or scavenge.

I was not ‘theirs’ and thus was not as valued.

Rusty and Copper helped the others set up the portable firepit we had stashed in the cart. Atta Boy and Mother took care of Husk. Wizened and Pala handled rations. Gully set out the sleeping bags and blankets in a tight circle. The entire process was quick - perfected, regardless of the loss of life over the past months. Everyone had their tasks except for me. 

I was lean, like Wizened, but not old. I was not blessed with his gift of navigation, nor was I commanding like Mother. I was not as strong as Atta Boy, nor was I as quiet or quick as Rusty and Copper.

I was never given the opportunity, then, to prove otherwise.

My insides screamed when danger was near, but to admit that it was useful would make them admit that I was useful. And if I was useful it meant that such a feeling was not an ill omen. And everything that could not be explained away was an ill omen in those days.

The enclosure had a roof overgrown with vine and moss, but was otherwise open, save the back side which pressed against the trees and stone of the ledge. The wagon had rolled easily in, and it and Husk were tucked against the safety of the cliff wall. 

Everyone began to lay down their burdens and relax. Save for me.

My blood ran quickly through my veins that night. I could not seem to unwind from our day of walking. I could feel that something was coming. I felt the undeniable urge to run, and squashed it. (No one would listen to me, so what was the point?) 

The sight of the Trader did nothing to ease my mind.

He was incredibly large. Like a bear on his hind legs, but an extra man’s width across the shoulders. His hands were giant, likely able to palm someone’s face and lift them off of the ground with no effort at all. What I thought had been a hood turned out to be a full mane of curly, ink-black hair. His face was dark, but not as dark as Mother’s. This was the dark of a man who spent days in the sun, with his face turned skyward. His eyes were deep set, and his brow was broad and creased with worry.

He sat on a log that had been pulled into the enclosure who-knows-when. Even seated, he still looked enormous, as if this place was too small and frail to hold him. Beside him was his mountainous pack, nearly the same height as his hunched form.

His eyes peered over each and every one of us before they rested on me. 

I waved.

I am not certain, even now, why I waved at him.

He didn’t wave back. But he did watch me walk by, with those deep, dark eyes. 

He looked familiar, somehow. Like from a dream.

I didn’t realize the significance of that. Not yet.

The giant man had a can before him, and a fire had been started within it. It was small, just enough to warm his fingers, not nearly enough to warm the entire enclosure. It let off very little light, but what it did reveal as light descended were the unsettled shadows on everyone's faces.

I claimed a small edge of cement for my own pack and blanket. I was not invited to join the group's tight circle of sleeping bags. I never was.

It was as if they were hoping I would get picked off. After my screaming nightmares, I did not blame them.

Perhaps that is unkind to say. They did their best. They could have left me where they found me. I am alive today because of Wizened’s kindness and Mother’s administrations. 

Everyone spoke quietly among themselves, for the first time during the daily trek. Once camp was made, it was as if there was safety and everyone dared make some noise.

Never a lot of noise. 

No one spoke to me if they didn’t have to except for Atta boy. Which was fine.

They never listened when I spoke anyway. 

“Hey. You. Girl.” 

The voice was exceptionally deep; deep enough to startle me into thinking that it was a growl. I turned to regard the Trader, mouth dropped open and eyes wide with what must have been comical surprise. 

I think he laughed then. It was hard to tell between laughing and grunting and coughing with the Trader, to be honest. He beckoned me over; a slow sweeping gesture that seemed like he was moving a great weight with it. 

Atta Boy, somewhere behind me, hissed a warning as I stood to walk over to the Trader, but it was fleeting. I felt the heat of his scant fire in a few steps.

It was dense around him, like the air was thicker, as if I walked into a wall of fog. I felt myself taking a deep breath in an attempt to get past it. The air felt humid, but no less chilled by the evening breeze.

“Do I know you?” The Trader asked me. 

I shook my head. 

“You look like someone I know.” He continued.

I looked down at myself, trying to imagine who he must have met before me. A skinny girl? Easy enough out here to find. Worn poncho, dirty shoes, cap with holes in it? Also common wear for a traveler. Pants with patched knees, gloves with some fingers missing, a many-times-mended pack, an old length of rope for a belt. I looked like every other traveler in the group.

“Them eyes. It’s the eyes I’ve seen before.” The Trader murmured.

I looked pointedly at the ground then. I’d seen my own reflection before in tarnished metal, in water or glass we pass by. I don’t have a memorable sort of face, but my eyes were different. It seemed like everyone else had dark eyes like Mother or blue eyes like Wizened. 

Mine are green. 

I never used to like them. I thought they were too bright and too noticeable. 

The Trader watched me for a minute in silence. I could feel his eyes on my face as I scrutinized the cracked cement at my feet. I thought about how there was a hole in the toe of my right sock, and how the sole on my left shoe would need to be replaced soon. I thought about marrying Atta Boy, and how that might be nice, anything but how the giant Trader was staring at me. 

“Must have been someone else.” He grunted.

His gaze passed. 

I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. 

“I’m sorry.” I managed to mutter before scooting back to my pack.

“No problem.” The Trader rumbled back at me.

At a safe distance, parted from the weight of his presence, I felt I the air thin again and sat down on the cool floor.

Then I realized that the squirming in my blood had returned; which meant that in the Trader's presence I hadn't felt it at all.


Saturday, October 3, 2020

Words In Stars

 Parking Ticket.

Par-King Tick-Et.

Parkingticket.

... Had he truly taken a vehicle out here? How interesting! How had he managed that? He couldn't even remember if he knew how to drive! How novel!

It didn't look familiar.

Mr. Perkins made a slow circle of the vehicle, PARkingTICKet between two fingers, flapping slowly back and forth. This was a 2015 Honda Civic. Front wheel drive, automatic, in line 4 cylinders, 16 valves, banana yellow.

He knew nothing about cars, what a waste of time. Mr. Perkins tucked the parKING tickET under the windshield wiper with a friendly pat pat.

"There you are!" He turned and faced the world and it spread out before him like the end of a rainbow.

Lets see, lets see... Rose Marie and the burglar on 5th and Main, well that's just around the corner!

He strolled right through traffic. He ignored the honking horns and waved slender fingers at the drivers as they passed. He stepped over a homeless man and dropped several steel buttons into his hat. No no, not steel. Copper? Perhaps tin. Whatever they were, they clinked merrily together, and the homeless man smiled and waved.

So many people up and about! It smelled like a buffet! A bouquet? A bucket. A slightly dingy bucket. Yes indeed. A bucket.

Thunder cracked around him and Perkins raised a hand to shade his eyes from the moon. He peered at the sky. Curious! Not a cloud in the sky! It smelled suddenly like blood, and clouds certainly didn't bleed! Well unless you count the rain. Rain could be sky blood, how gruesome!

He giggled as his hand snapped out and caught the throat of a man.

Mr. Perkins turned to regard him with delight.

"You shot poor Rose Marie in her living room!" Like an old friend, he squeezed until the man's hands came up to claw at Mr. Perkins's slender fingers.

"Oh that won't help! Perhaps if you said please? We are a world of manners, you see. They just crop up like weeds in the sidewalk, all manner of manners. See? Even words have manners. How courteous..."

A great whirling sound started echoing down the street. Oh dear, how long had he been standing there? Mr. Perkins looked back over at the man in his hand. He put him down in the street and straightened his collar. Wouldn't do to be buried a rumpled mess, hmm?

Rose Marie's apartment was quite spartan, but well furnished. The stairs were a quick sprint and the door was open with a dangling lock without a key. No looking through this keyhole, pshaw, modern locks were such trouble.

Mr. Perkins popped a squat next to Rose Marie's gasping body and tut tutted. "And it was such a lovely blouse, like a goldfinch. Or a goldfish. Or crackers, those little fishy ones that don't taste at all like fish."

"H-help me..." She gasped from the floor. "P-please?"

Mr. Perkins beamed down at her. "Such courtesy! Oh but of course! I shall be happy to help!"

He locked eyes with her.

See the truth and be well, dear Rose Marie!

Her eyes went wide and wild and her body went still as they flickered and fluttered and stared and stared. And while she gasped about how her life had been a lie, Mr. Perkins had lunch.

And when he had finished, he wrapped her in her nice Egyptian Cotton and slung her over his shoulder.

The banana civic was waiting patiently, and the paRKingtICKet waved a merry greeting, and together they somehow managed to drive away, with groceries in the back for home.

Or a body. Oh yes. Rose Marie! How very delightful!



Friday, May 8, 2020

Madness


Madison sat in the living room. The news had cut out yesterday, after a particularly disturbing broadcast about how to destroy the living dead.

She tried the channels anyway. Only thing she could find was some desperate preaching from the evangelicals. She turned it off. Hugging the collar of her green bathrobe, she looked out the front window, past the hole in the sheet she'd tacked up over them.

No one out walking today. The car across the street was still smoking, and the corpse was still sitting there, just outside of the open door. It's arms were still moving, despite the weight of the car's front wheel pinning it's torso in place. 

Madison wasn't sure how to feel about that. She looked away, then at the clock across the room. It was already 4:00. Jordan said he would be back with supplies half an hour ago. Not that he'd ever been great with time management before, but...

Madison looked down at her engagement ring. It was pretty, but not much of a comfort. She still felt empty and hollow and -

She got up and made coffee.

Ten minutes later the back door was unlocked and opened. "Mother fucking, fuck--"

Madness scurried to the back room, hovering in the doorway. "...Jordan?"

"Who the fuck else would it be? Christ." He spat back at her. He was a good looking guy, blonde hair, blue eyed, strong, an engineer... He'd never been very nice though. She'd known that from the beginning. Dated him anyway. Loved him anyway, best as she knew how. But who really knows what love is? Does it HAVE a definition?

"Are you... all right?" Madison looked him over, pulling her hands into the sleeves of her robe. Jordan hadn't let her leave the house. Been afraid she'd get hurt, or bit, and bring it back inside and get him too. He was afraid she would mess something up, make too much noise, hurt herself, etc...

"Take this, do something with it." Jordan snapped, handing Madison a bag of stuff.

She took it and hurried to the kitchen to put away the canned food items, the batteries and the other stuff Jordan managed to find. She noticed, with a tick of her eyebrow, that he'd neglected to find any canned vegetables. Only Chili and Chef Boyardee. He also hadn't found any TP. Damnit, she'd made a list. She would have said something - but he was cussing from the other room, and she didn't want to get into it with him right now.

"FUCK." Jordan kicked something. Madison heard a crash, and she winced. Slowly, she edged back into the door frame. He was holding his arm. His hair was wild, and he'd stripped off most of his rugby gear. Madison came into the room.

"Jordan? Let me see--" Madison reached out for his arm and Jordan slapped it away. The sting of it snaked up her arm and she winced, recoiling.

"If I want your help I'll fucking ask for it. Fuck." Jordan started peeling away his sleeve.

Madison felt the tick in her eye. When had he started acting like this? Had it been when the outbreak started? No... No she remembered it from before too. Little things. Insults. Condescending. Controlling. Had she just... put up with it? How? Why? Something sparked and lit in her belly, chasing away foggy thoughts. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"What the hell Jordan, I'm just trying to help." She felt the burbling anger in her chest, coming up from beneath layers of floor boards she'd tried to bury it under. "TOUCH me like that again and I'll--"

Jordan peeled the sleeve away and exposed a nasty looking injury. A bite. A tear in his fine skin by human teeth. It oozed, dripping blood onto the floor as he glared at it.

"You'll what?" Jordan croaked.

Madison looked up at him. "Jordan you -"

He reached out, grabbing Madison by the wrist and pulling her close, hissing into her face.

Oh shit. Oh shit he's lost it. Madison felt panic churning right alongside her anger and she snarled back at him. "Get off Jordan."

Jordan shook her. "Touch you like that again and you'll WHAT, you useless bitch!?"

Madison yanked her hand away and growled into his face. "I'll fucking kill you!"

Jordan laughed in her face, spittle catching her cheek. Madison rubbed it away in disgust, about to say more, when the slap sent her spinning.

Right across the face, a burning hand print. Madison caught herself on the kitchen door frame, stunned. Jordan didn't say anything, but Madison wasn't listening. She held her cheek and padded quietly away.

"...Madison. Madison, I'm sorry." Jordan called after her.

He was always sorry. Always sorry they never had time to go out or do anything. Always sorry he never invited her out with his friends, or did anything for their anniversary, or their birthdays, or holidays. Always sorry when he couldn't pick her up from work. Always sorry that he was short on bills, or left his dishes around, or went out without telling her. Always sorry about his casual insults. Always sorry. Never sorry.

She made it to the hutch in the hallway and wrapped her hand around the nearest object.

"Madison?"

She turned. He was bitten, his look said it all. He stood at the other end of the hall. Madison gripped he screwdriver with white knuckled intensity. "...You don't even really love me, do you."

"...What?" He seemed surprised.

"...You just figure I'm good to have around and pay bills and clean house and stay in my fucking pajamas all day. So you can feel like some big strong man. 'Don't wear your makeup like that, hun, you'll get cat calls.' 'Don't get those boots, you'll never wear them.' 'Turn off that trash music,' 'smile more'--" Madison ran one hand through her hair, the only haircut she'd gotten that she liked and he hated it. Said it made her look... nevermind.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Jordan snapped.

"You're bit, Jordan." Madison lowered her hand, and brought up the screwdriver.

Jordan snorted. Sure. Probably thought he was immune. Idiot. Not even his egocentric ass was immune to this shit. He looked over her face as if he didn't recognize her, then his eyes filtered down to her hand. "...What are you doing?"

Madison felt the anger pounding in her ears, the panic screaming in her veins, fire, fire everywhere. She launched herself at him, screwdriver out. Show him how useless she is! Show him he's not right all the time!

Jordan caught her wrist. He was strong. Stronger then she was. He pushed her back to the floor with a growl. "You gonna kill me? Well you're fucking doing it wrong."

Madison hit the floor with a thud. She kicked out at him and he came down too, clawing to get the screwdriver out of her hand, pulling her close to disarm her. But she wasn't going to let him disarm her. Not again. Nope. Nope. Noperoo.

She bit his hand. Not hard. Hard enough. She brought her knee up viciously, catching him in the groin. Jordan rolled, stunned & gasping. She climbed up on top of him, and she was grinning, and she spat right in his face, and she drove the screwdriver down into his beautiful, surprised blue eye, and she felt the resistance until there was nothing else to go through, and she sat there panting for a whole minute before she shambled up to her feet and went to the bathroom.

Madison watched Jordan's corpse from the bathroom doorway. He didn't move. Guess the TV was right.

Gatta get them in the brain. Small enough target in this case. She must have good aim.

A laugh bubbled up from her chest. It felt inappropriate, but she was way past caring. Before long she was laughing and sobbing on the bathroom floor, watching the slowly extending circle of Jordan's blood creep towards her. Somewhere in the manic laughter and hysteria, she'd crawled back over to him and yanked the screwdriver out, wiping it spitefully on his stupid t-shirt. She was shouting and cussing and crying and laughing--

By the time she had calmed down she was sitting on the couch again. She turned the TV on. The evangelist was quiet, marked by a humming 'standby' screen. She turned the TV off again and peered out the window.

....Bout time someone took care of the zombie under that car.