Tally-ho

Nearly 12 hours from start to finish. One Taxi, one Bus, lots of walking, two plane flights. A couple hundred dollars and lots of waiting. Two cans of coffee, one cup of tea, one small orange juice, half a pastry, one steak sandwich.

When I arrived at the drivers license office in Omura at noon I was greeted by the sight of an old man being lifted into an ambulance. He had a calm look on his face, and his eyes were closed, but I didn’t know if it were sleep or something more permanent.

And then he and the ambulance were gone and I was left to walk into a building I still had several hours to wait in.

On the flight back I sat next to a business who was reading a book with an illustrated cover that showed the solar system. In my own lap lay my kindle bearing a science fiction story.

We both watched the lights of Omura fade out as we rose above the clouds and him into sleep. I sat reading my book before the turbulence in the final ten minutes of the flight reminded me of my vehement distaste for flying into the island. Frankly, it’s because it scares the piss out of me. Nothing like tipped wings and sudden drops to evoke prayers and curses in equal measure.

And last yet I trudge up the hill— the famous, loathsome hill. The one my friends comment with “fuck this hill,” more than anything else. Yes, it’s that hill I ascend after a long day.

And tomorrow— I shall finally drive back down it (again).

Sugar Hawks

A fun island fact is the hawks here love ice cream. Now, if you’re an ornithologist, amateur or otherwise, you might want to set the record straight and insist on referring to these birds as “Black Kites” which they are (even if they are abnormally large), but I’ll just call them hawks to make things easier (better yet to use the local name “Tonby”).

The first time I’d been told to watch my snacks if I chose to walk and eat I was with another ALT. They were munching on an ice cream bar, explaining that the birds love the frozen treats will an unbridled hunger. I laughed as they told me about school picnics where the other teachers set up speakers with high pitched noises to fend off the birds when the students ate.

The other ALT had just finished her sentence when a loud whoosh, rustle, and series of flaps was quickly followed by the indignant yells of said ALT who had just been dive bombed for their ice cream. I’d never seen a more serendipitous display of figurative example turned literal— literally as it was being explained.

Now I know you’re thinking, HJ, why do we give a spinners fig about hawks, kites, or avian ice cream bandits? Well, the answer is tied to my first couple months exploring the island solo. I’d get in my car and roam the coastal roads (all roads on this island neé archipelago are technically costal). A couple times I’d come across great groups of these birds— which felt bonkers because predators don’t typically group in large numbers. I’d see spinning wheels in the sky as the hawks flew over the fields during harvest.

I once saw at least six or seven sitting in a row on a fence across from an abandoned school. An empty road, school, and forest bound path, barren save for the birds. The majestic ice cream snatching streaks of swallowed sky.

With eyes like sunglasses, their pectin oculi serves them as they stare straight in the sun. Ultraviolet shielded and sure to slither down a thermal atop another poor lactose enthusiast.

May you avoid the devils drop of the local Tonby, should you ever set foot upon this once and current pirate island. You can learn of the great Tsushima marauders of the past as you walk the streets and keep a wary, non-pectin eye open for the winged bandits of today.

Undine

In time I learned how to breathe water— it was measured by the dwindling hope I had of ever returning to the surface.

A trade I knew not I was making, but ignorance is no shield to consequences.

And in the black depths darker than the space between stars, I found what even the Undine feared to awaken.

Baba Waits

A froggy looking man leered across the bar and said, “the dead don’t rent.” He saddled down in the stool Vitaly had been saving for his friend. The man hailed the bartender, “two of whatever’s strong enough to make shit shine,” he flashed a wet grin. “The boy has stories to hear.”

The bartender disappeared with practiced grace after pouring two doubles of clear liquor from an unmarked green bottle.

The frog pushed one towards Vitaly. “Drink up, you’ll need it.”

Vitaly waved it off, “I don’t need it. I don’t know you.”

“But I know you, Vitaly Luchenko. Drink up and learn why.”

The man waited to slug his until the vapors stung Vitaly’s nose. He swallowed what tractor fuel must have tasted like and struggled to breathe. The frog just smiled and held up two fingers for the bartender. The glasses refilled before Vitaly caught his breath. Another glass pushed forward.

“Baba sent me. She said to tell you it’s been long enough.“ This stopped the second pour from reaching Vitaly’s lips.

“She’s been patient. But she sent me, Vitaly.” The frog finished his glass and stared at Vitaly’s, “And I’m not patient.” The bar felt empty as he said that. Vitaly looked around for help, but not even the bartender seemed to be around. “That liquor will keep you warm during the walk. Especially the second glass. Drink up, you know how far the woods are.”

Maze Day

“Why the fuck are you so flippant?” Always angry. Always afraid. “Do you think we’ll find our way back?” She finally asked in a small voice. The maze had a way of diminishing people. She’d flattened from the terrible pressure of the walls. I dared not to peek at my own reflection— for fear of what it had done to me.

Cowardly, but not without merit. If it took lying to myself to get out of the maze, then I’d be a hologram star and lie my heart out.

The clench around my heart was a cousin to the cold running down my spine.

The depth of fear conjure horrors— but emerging out from the shadows were creatures stranger still.

A terrible pressure built in my ears, I heard an all consuming explosion that ended as quickly as it began. As if I’d lived through the birth of the universe only to be dropped back into my own life.

Who’s to say I hadn’t?

A voice as deep as distant thunder.

A voice that belonged to the dark that existed before the first expansion of stars. Before the first shining suns.

If there is something to fear— it’s that which crawls past the far reach of time.

Whatever called from the center of the maze didn’t belong to a linear universe.

Tuscaloosa Turnout

Gold lipstick and a shot at redemption. The Miss Tuscaloosa pageant held more than one prize for Angeline Tucker. She looked out into the gathering crowd, searching for a certain someone, but they’d yet to show.

Grady Von stood in front of a smoking 1982 Trans AM. His white leather cowboy boots were drenched in coolant and his composure evaporated some thirty minutes back. He’d promised Angeline he’d be there in time for the main event, but that looked as likely as two squirrels sharing the same nut. Not a devout man, but desperate enough to pretend, he got onto his knees and started to pray. Not for the first time in his life, Grady needed a miracle.

A couple hours gone on the run between New Orleans and Atlanta, and Jim Stevens saw the stupidest son of a bitch kneeling on the side of the freeway. Not one to pass up a story, he pulled his rig, Indigo Folly, up past a smoking Trans AM. Jim saw the man snap his bent head up and shout something. The man raced over to the cab, quick as cream.

“Can I get a ride?” The man said almost fevered. Jim took a look at the leopard print vest and tight pants, thinking of a run down cocaine cowboy, he said yes.

“Thank you, thank you! I need to make it to Tuscaloosa. I’ve got cash!”

“I’ll take a twenty and an explanation for how a fella like you ends up on his knees next to the freeway.” The man rifled through his pockets to pull out a slick little wallet, a couple bills shuffled before he found a twenty. Jim accepted it and motioned for the man to buckle up. They got back onto the freeway before the man started talking again.

“You can stop at Tuscaloosa, right?”

“Headed through on the way to Atlanta. Won’t bother me to stop.”

“Thank God,” the man said sinking into the chair. He looked around the cabin at Jim’s specialized interior. A question formed on the man’s face, but he hesitated.

“Ain’t a crime to like peacocks. Always thought they were a pretty bird,” Jim said. “And no, I don’t own any.” The man nodded, seeming to accept the prescient answer.

“I’m Grady, by the way. Grady Von. Thanks again for picking me up.”

“Jim. You can call me Indigo Jim if you like. Only the state calls me Stevens.” Grady nodded again, looking slowly back around the peacock colored and illustrated cabin. He’d never seen the like.

“Will do. So, uh, how long you been on the road?”

“Today or in general?”

“Both? Either?”

“Only a couple hours today. Maybe twenty three years on the road. Ready to retire soon. Get a cabin in the Ozarks, learn how to fish. Boring stuff for a guy like you, I reckon.”

“Ha, eh, you could say that. Not too handy with cars or fish. But I know how to show someone a good time. If you pass through Tuscaloosa again, I can take you around.”

“Reckon I’ll take you up on that.”

***

Angeline bit her nails backstage before spitting them out. Where the hell was Grady? He promised! Of all the times that rotten dog had to flake, it had to be now? She hadn’t been on a stage in five years! Her thoughts flew around like margaritas in a Vitamix. Nothing but loose slurry by the time she heard the distant groan of the mic announcing her name. Angeline stood up, straightened her shoulders, and imagined her best “I could surprise the Devil” smolder before strutting to the stage.

The heat from the spotlights made her want to swoon, but Grace Kelly took all the fun out of that. Angeline looked past the heatwaves to spot the vested Grady standing next to a heavy set, purple hat wearing man. She wondered if he brought his dad with him. She didn’t know if Grady ever mentioned his father. She tried to think about it but the judge motioning to center stage cut the thought off.

The last event meant the talent portion arrived. Angeline felt the creep of a smile cross her face. Let those prancing petites take a load of this, she thought as the bow stretched over her head. Arrow notched, Angeline’s right foot drew back the string. She took a breath, exhaling as she fired. Zhoom! The arrow thudded in the center of the target. The ground went crazy as Target Tucker returned to the public eye. She reassumed a standing position and gave a bow to the audience, she saw Grady clapping wildly, but the old man had a questioning look on his face. She stepped back into line and waited for the other contestants to try and top her performance.

***

“Baby, you were amazing!” Grady said as he scooped up Angeline and her first place trophy. She tried to avoid knocking his head with it as he went for a kiss.

“That was really something, miss,” the older man said as Grady put her back down. “You ever shoot those bows regular?”

“Only when I get bored of the challenge,” Angeline said.

“Do you ever hunt with them?”

Taken back, Angeline took a moment to think, “I don’t think I’ve ever been hunting. I did shoot skeet a couple times though!”

“So you’ve never used that skill out in the woods?”

Angeline looked at Grady for help, but he looked just as uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Ah, Grady didn’t have time to mention me. I’m Indigo Jim. I picked our buddy up on the side of the road. Poor fella was down on his knees, praying for the lord or a miracle. Only got Jim, but we made it work,” he said with a small chuckle. Angeline nodded slowly, Grady gave an embarrassed shrug.

“Let’s get outta this place and somewhere with a couple brews. I promised Jim I’d show him a spot or two around town.”

***

The exterior of Whitehall left little to the imagination. A ten foot tall neon sign with darts, billiards, and beers told the customers all they needed to know about Grady Von’s second favorite spot in all of Tuscaloosa.

“Why’s the outside a cream color if it’s supposed to be called “Whitehall?” Jim asked as he fiddled with the little umbrella in his tiki drink. The bartender had handed it to Angeline, who slid it over to accept a double scotch and rocks. Eyebrows were raised, but mouths were kept shut. The service played a part in Grady’s admiration for the place.

“I think it’s a big joke. Or a small one, depending on your humor. But I love it. Fresh chicken, cold beer. Even my favorite company from time to time,” he said giving Angeline’s leg a squeeze. Jim gave a nod and looked around the spread of games, drinking parties, solo adventurers, and the seedy. Taking in a flash of a card table in the back room as a man walked out, Jim moved closer to Grady.

“How do you reckon a man like me gets in a room like that?” He said nodding towards the back room.

“Ha, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Grady said turning a little pale. “That’s a room for some uh, special customers.” His hand tightened around his beer as an inward prayer begged that Jim leave it there.

Jim took a sip of his tiki drink and gave a wink, “think I’m feeling special tonight,” before getting up to walk over. Grady made a weak grab for him, but Jim dodged it without veering course.

“What’s he up to?” Angeline asked. Grady shook his head. He didn’t want to be bad company, but he couldn’t come back to this bar if the men in the back knew he came in with Jim.

“Whatever it is, we don’t need to be here for it. Let’s get outta here, baby.” The two of them threw their drinks back and leapt off their stools before the first body sailed out of the back room. A man’s body slapped against the ground, cutting through the din. The bar went still as muffled shouts came from the back room. The shouts turned into screams and the building gave a couple shakes before everything went quiet.

Grady clung onto Angeline as they stared at the door like everyone else. The bartender had a hand on the phone, but didn’t raise it.

Jim stepped out with his half-filled tiki drink and a blood smeared smile. “Would you believe those boys wouldn’t let me join their game?”

Out Past Kvil

There’s a vast and shallow sky that stretches across from the Temari plains to Kvil. Firesharks and Rjakkuns prowl the waters, eager to grab anyone that strays from the mazy stretch of islands that form a semi-navigable line.

The brothers Traje and Orn guided their three boat caravan between the outer islands surrounding Kvil. The warm waters that greeted those arriving in Temari were a distant memory. Long furs covered the frames of Traje and Orn, masking strong, squat bodies. Often confused as Temari, the brothers were from a small, sea faring tribe on the outskirts of the plains. Blood intermingled with the Temari, but seeing them out in the water people understood it wasn’t dominant. No Temari stepped into the ocean to do anything but die. A fearsome group of warriors, but hearts and legs for land.

The soft notes of a wooden flute flowed between the three groups—a practical way to keep the Rjakkuns from swimming behind them for long. Without pulling out serious weaponry, nothing could be done for Firesharks, Maikos, or Onklons. Traje knew that if you’d gotten to that point, you might as well jump into the water because you’d already lost. The clever guide didn’t lead their people with weapons alone.

The three moons toiled overhead in the afternoon sun. Two twins and a smaller sister, Orn imagined the smallest one to be mouthy. Younger siblings were like that, he thought, looking over at Traje chide a rower. Still, they had their uses, he supposed. Orn wouldn’t have found the isles map without Traje. Or had to kill an entire inn to keep it secret, but blood’s the price of good business.

A call went up from the rear of the caravan. Orn looked at his brother and nodded at the back of the ship they were on. Traje shook his head and shouted, “What’s the call?”

“Ship to the south! High red colors!”

“It’s a Djerta ship. Has to be running the reds like that,” Orn said as he scanned the horizon. Big ships had problems navigating the archipelago, but Djerta ships were famous for their low hulls. It remained a favorite of pirates and smugglers even after Kvil outlawed their use. Nothing could catch them in the channels, so the heavy warships gave up. Leaving those who traveled the islands to fend for themselves or pray that nature blew foul winds upon those outlawed sails.

Horror Point

Horror movies have always held a special place in my heart— The same place that regards roller coasters, icy roads, and tax season with a combined flushed anticipation and clammy dread.

Overall, horror movies have had an outsized impact on public consciousness. It’s easy to think of iconic horror films— Psycho, Scream, The Poltergeist, Halloween, Sixth Sense, etc. Jaws managed to drag sharks into mainstream thought (and fears) so that most people before its 1976 release didn’t think of them before swimming in the ocean. Now, even if you dip into a pool, you can imagine some beastly great white breaking the surface to snap you up. Before Psycho came out, thoughts of knife-wielding maniacs didn’t pervade the public— decades later, I still have moments of pause before I pull back the curtain on my shower.

Can you remember the first time you had a nightmare from a movie? The terror from a new source? The first time I visited Japan, the Grudge and the Ring had just come out in America. The summer after fifth grade, I found myself in the historic village of Gokiyama. A village from the 1700s kept in traditional style— the perfect place to bring the horrors of those two movies to life. We’d creep across the dark, old wooden floors that gave way to tatami mats. The upstairs windows were left open as the night air did little to calm the summer heat. All the while, my classmates and I imagined dark-haired horrors slithering up the stairs to find us.

The 2013 release, The Conjuring, also had a long-lasting impact. I watched the movie with my first girlfriend— she practically crawled across the armrest during the movie to nestle in my lap— I can’t blame her because I would have done the same. The theater we’d chosen had few guests besides us. It made for an eerie viewing as the volume pushed the unnerving atmosphere up to eleven. I remember standing in the bathroom midway through the movie, and the sound blasted through the walls. If I hadn’t already used the urinal, I bet I would have pissed myself. I remember feeling a frantic energy build inside as the immense discomfort of a possession movie laid itself into my psyche.

A month or two later, having broken up, I woke up alone in my apartment, nearly five in the morning, to a sense of mortal dread. I slowly moved from light to light as I crept around the apartment, praying I was being ridiculous. The nightmare I had consisted of an East Coast setup, a possession, and a pale-faced, masked demon. I showered with the bathroom door locked and the curtain fully open. I stared at the door handle as if it might begin turning at any moment. I ate a quick snack and exited my apartment without a second thought. I headed towards the Greyhound station two hours early for my trip to Corvallis. Even on the dark streets at five am, I felt calmer outside than indoors. All the while cursing that movie and hoping I never had a repeat of the nightmare.

There are smaller moments that I remember that still have outsized impacts. Terrible nightmares from the black and white terrors of zombies from Night of the Dead breaking through the windows. I stood transfixed in front of the TV before leaving for errands with my dad. Or curling up and purposefully falling asleep during E.T. To avoid watching that fucked up slimy alien stick out their finger. A demented firefly finger— trying to represent hope and connection when all I wanted was for my sibling to turn the movie off. “Phone home?” more like “Fuck off.” It's clear to say the suggested whimsical nature of that extraterrestrial didn’t convince me.

In a broader sense, horror films provide a wonderful, if sometimes regrettable, mirror to our psyches. If you can understand someone’s fear, you can understand their heart. I think it’s impossible to make a good horror movie without having an empathetic soul. You can’t play against someone’s greatest fears if you don’t understand what makes them tick. That’s why the unknown and lack of direct appearance in the movie Signs still makes me shiver. The ability of the unknown to provoke our greatest worries is unmatched— because there’s an artistic license that the known can’t claim. It’s why the dark shadows and shuffle of steps always prove heart-pounding. It’s why the empty rooms and open doors stand so tall. It’s the menace of everything your heart and mind can cobble together before you’re granted the horrific reprieve of presentation.

It’s why we fear what goes bump in the night— and hope beyond hope that it remains that way. Even when that unknown gnaws on our composure like an ornery dog with a fresh bone. And that split between wanting to snatch it away and being afraid of getting bitten tears us down the middle. So, even with the nightmares and daytime fears that exceptional horror films can plant within us, we repeatedly return to the things that know us— to the fear that makes us feel alive.

Beginnings

A heavy hand fell upon the young man’s shoulder, “Begin, then, as I showed you,” the grizzled man said. Finn drew back the bow, taking sight of the scout in the meadow below. “Prepare yourself. This won’t be like an elk.” Finn released the arrow and watched the fletching sail through the air before it struck the scout in the back. The man below pitched forward into the snow. The white beneath the downed scout slowly darkened. “Well done. What’s next?” Finn grabbed his pack and nodded towards the fallen man.

“Check the shot, make sure he’s finished before leaving.”

“Good. Remember, even if you’re enemies, small mercies don’t go unnoticed.” The man rubbed the worn token around his neck. He grabbed his pack and followed Finn. The two men stayed wary as they tromped through the fresh powder. The winters in Malton weren’t as forgiving as the homelands Rollo had grown up in.

They closed on the body, and Finn made to get closer; Rollo stayed him with a hand, “Now would be the time to give a chuck of a knife or handaxe if you’ve got it. Don’t need to roll the boy over and get a nasty surprise.” Finn nodded and pulled a sharp axe from his belt. He hesitated for a second before flinging it at the downed man’s back. No motion from the body. Rollo nodded, and they went over to see who decided to creep into the forbidden land. The scout seemed of average build and height, nothing of note outside of a pair of obsidian daggers that Rollo had a vague recollection of similarly styled weapons. Still, the man didn’t seem remarkable beyond his purpose of sneaking amongst the corner end of Malton. A land that had been notorious for years for being forbidden to enter (outside of the service of his rangers).

Shadows cast across the distant range. A ribbon of white peaks beneath an azure sky. A beautiful day doesn’t make a terrible deed better, but it can ease the mind for a spell. Rollo watched Finn, waiting for the weight to settle upon his shoulders. Both his deeds and name would decide his life— the Maltonsin whelp turned rangers apprentice. Not the glamorous life a duke’s son would be living, but bastards never half it has as good. Even when their fathers do recognize them.

Turning Point

Not even the past remains static.

I’ve been reading through my pieces from the past year. Specifically what I wrote down at the beginning and middle of my first year on the island.

I’m struck by the intense reflection— I grappled with a form of grief I’d never encountered before.

It wasn’t easy to give myself the grace I needed to heal from that.

I’d spent months trying to dispel myself of the notion that I could be lonely. Or that the state of flux I was in didn’t relate to my undecided plans for staying in Japan.

The turning point has been committing to a Portland return. I’ve gone on countless social excursions since then— throwing myself into parties, athletic events, and anything else that life offered up. Sucking the marrow from the bone.

Things are both embarrassingly simple and horribly complicated. We aren’t well equipped to judge the things that make us happy. Often, we fall into the trap of believing something will make us happy. Make us feel validated. Whatever hole you’re trying to plug— whatever emotion that will fit.

But we can dismiss ready answers. Things that dance in front of us on the daily. The things that newcomers to our lives can spot within five minutes and go, “why not this?” and point to the thing you won’t stop chattering about before you dismiss it with a wave, going “oh, it can’t be that. That’s been there forever.” But whatever “that” thing is— it most times, is the thing that flips our proverbial script.

This ramble is less about that— and more about enjoying this spot I’m in now. Five months left to enjoy something I’ve already been in for over a year. There’s a wild abandon to the finite nature of it. A permission to be goofy and energetic. To try weird ass shit and swing for the fences.

There’s a subtle undertone of “you’ll never be back this way again,” to all the things I see and people I meet (not all, but most). It rubber-stamps the joy. The confusion. The splendiferous fuckery of it all.

The other night I stood under a wash of stars and held my hands out to the first warm breeze of the emerging spring. I shook my head and laughed as the tell-tale flash of warmth ran down my spine. In that moment I couldn’t have been anywhere else in the world. I couldn’t have been anything but who I was.

I gazed upon distant constellations in their slanted axis and said thanks. Somewhere back in time, through distant light, a younger version of me stood wondering what it would be to become older.

I still have the same question— but the fever is gone. Instead I say thanks— and smile yet at what is to come.

Stalks

A white Ford F-150 idled at the red light. Corn fields on both sides of the road blocking line of sight. A man sighed as he shifted between stalks and peered towards the roadway. Goddamn Midwest, no need for all the corn, he thought, Potatoes are just as good.

Could have been out chasing mysteries, Lowell thought, he gave a little exhale as he squeezed the trigger. The driver’s side of the truck flashed red. But here he was killing half-assed methheads with a habit of blowing their own fingers off with their shitty pipebombs. It’d be embarrassing if he didn’t receive such a high commision. You could swallow a lot of disappointment if you followed it up with twenty year old scotch and caviar.

Lowell kept his head down as he ran to the truck to check his target. A certain, Maynard Conroy occupied his worries until he arrived at the drivers side window. He needn’t of worried, hollow points and skulls go as well together as rowdy teens and unattended jack-o-lanterns. He stalked back to the corn field after laying some plastic explosives. It wasn’t necessary, but he’d developed a penchant for flair, imagining himself on a kill compilation video somewhere, he liked to stand out.

Lowell hadn’t worked too many jobs for the agency before management began to take notice. After a diplomatic envoy had been discovered coated with honey and paprika, strung up from the ceiling of his penthouse like a piñata, the executives decided someone should have a chat with Lowell and gently inform him that the agency valued results above all else.

Unfortunately for everyone but Lowell, he interpreted that as “keep up the flair, but make sure you don’t mess up.” Turned out the paprika and honey piñata didn’t even crack the top twenty of Lowell’s creative endeavors.

The following years and exploits had blessed Lowell with a busy schedule, but eventually the maxim of “do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life,” turned out to be false.

Lowell, standing in a midwest cornfield, forty feet away from a flaming F150, felt burned out.

The results were noticeably different. While management tried to be happy about a more subdued set of results, they became concerned a lot an unhappy operative.

Lowell ended up in therapy, agency provided, of course. It gave him ample time to reflect on the breadth and variety of ends he’d designed for his assignments.

The platypus poison filled cupcake had been a pain to fill, but worth it when the medical examiner snapped his clipboard in shock. A pair of deftly cut Achilles at Pamplona led to an exquisitely gruesome goring, and of course? The C4 shuffleboard game proved explosive.

Sortie

Whiskey breath and a swagger that spoke of secrets that were never going to come to the light of day. She had the sort of face that made it easy to laugh off the rejections but a name made for oaths.

Hot Tights & Glitter

The door opened to a lavish suite in Puerto Vallerta doubling the volume of a righteous falsetto, “ Rock up brother yeah, a rock opera is on! It’s totally not out of style and we’re gonna get it ON!” Kenny Lucius grooved around the kitchen island while an automatic espresso machine whirred on the counter. Six empty, stained cups lay across the counter. An open journal filled with frantic scribbles and ink drops lay beside the cups.

“Please don’t tell me this is what you’ve come up with after thirty seven weeks of company financed sabbatical,” a prim faced company suit said running his finger across the grimy counter. His frown deepened.

“…”

“God damn it, Lucius.”

“Rock opera, yeah!”

“It’s not going to happen.”

“You can’t put a price on genius. And this musical will go on!”

“You absolutely can. Your luxury resort staycation that’s apparently all for not totaled seven hundred thousand dollars.”

“I said, ‘you can’t put prize on genius,” but that figure seems pretty high! Didn’t they say it was all inclusive? I’m pretty I read that somewhere,” Lucius sang brokenly as his confidence deflated.

“You probably read a pamphlet for the Rio Grande next door. That’s a service offered there. Not here.”

“… I did eat a lot of caviar. Not for the taste, but for the novelty. I tried to pair it with crème fraiche, but you can’t any in part of town. Or maybe I don’t actually know what dairy byproduct is used along with caviar. Help me out, Marcus. Lend me that sweet, sweet soprano and take it away.”

“You’ve completely the company. And they’ll squeeze your blood and balls out before you get away without paying. So drop the damn rock opera and give us them some real songs.”

“Do it with the soprano the whole way through. You know you want to be a star,” he said eyes shining bright. “A star,” he mouthed as he stretched across the island for another espresso.

Boarding

No lights on the road and a cold wind started blowing. Sam checked his pockets to find a dead lighter and three nickels. His sneakers had worn heels and strayed more towards brown than their original white. Each step brought a squelch as an earlier rainstorm caught him uncovered. Three miles to go, he told himself.

Escaping from the dorms proved the easy part. Arthur, the house prefect, had more interest in opening bras than checking on the wards after ten pm, not that Sam could blame him if he had the same tailored looks and air of confidence. Sam had shimmied down a rusted drainpipe alongside the third story corridor that led between the rooms and the bathroom. The timing had to be perfect, in between the would be delinquents also absconding for the night and the night owls whose bladders finally forced them from their nocturnal studies.

In another life, Sam might have joined either camps, but he didn’t have time to waste drinking swill or reading ancient tomes in hope of discovering a tract through the arcane. He had something better— he had a secret.

Sam pulled the sealed vellum note out of his pocket for the hundredth time.

Meet us in the lower tower past Wralheim falls in the Drywjallen forest. Half an hour before the zenith of the moon. Come alone. -V

He’d found it lying under his pillow earlier in the week. His door still locked and items untouched. It wasn’t until he’d gotten into bed that he heard the rustle of the note against his sheets. Sam couldn’t recall anyone with a V name in his grade. Nor at the school itself, but that wasn’t a surprise. He hadn’t covered himself in social accolades trying to learn many names after he transferred. Better to keep to himself with all the cliques, he thought.

Finger Tricks

“Oh, baby,” a velvet gloved hand stroked the boy’s face, “one day you’ll learn the net positive of shutting the fuck up.” The leather clad dominatrix cocked the trigger on a Dirty Harry Magnum 45 and blew the boy a kiss.

Click.

The woman laughed as the boy heaved a watery breakfast onto the floor. “Next time, don’t open a tab you can’t close. Silvio will be in touch. Ta ta!” She swept out the room leaving the boy to his filth.

A flash of silver brought her reflection open in her hand mirror. She touched up her plum wine lipstick and dabbed daintily with a napkin before snapping the mirror shut. She stepped out into a busy Monday morning on fifth Avenue, she calculated the costs of debonair stylings of the Wall Street drudges as they marched down the street. Cellphones pressed to heads everywhere you looked. Not a single bright eye in the bunch. Cynthia let her disappointment fade, no use getting blue at the beginning of a work week. She had so many fun appointments scheduled!

It Ain’t a Seesaw

“First time you see the gallows you understand the world a little better. Even more so if a crowd is there. Being special doesn’t mean a spit of shine if you end up doing the dangle along with all the other rubbernecks.

I wasn’t born to a thief of a father or a whore of a mother. I’d come from a good family. An upright, moral, god fearing-“

“Will you shut your gob, Ralf? Some of us would like to die in peace.” The audacity of Figgen to say something like that. I wasn’t even speaking out loud, was I?”

I’d check my pockets for those thrice cursed Panner striped buttons, but being tied up stopped me. Dying because of Panner buttons. What an amateur. Hawthorne would be disappointed to see his fifth best student wasted. He could hardly spare the others to fates like mine. Too busy smuggling blue pearls and gun powder to rescue old, faithful Ralf.

What a shame.

Weighted Pockets

A group of lean, feral looking men stepped out from the tree line. Their riding leathers half soaked in sweat, easy grips on their weapons. Not good. They bore the mark of active mercenaries. Men used to dealing in death, but not yet fat from its profits.

The scribe bowed his head and muttered a hasty prayer to Zemalkis, the god of fortune. “Don’t fuck me harder than normal, you arrogant prick,” he added an amen and looked back at the men headed his way. Fates above, he found it funny to miss Arkes. But here he was in the Temari wilderness within reach of active mercenaries wishing for the presence of a decidedly worse man.

The scribe donned a shroud and prayed at least one gods fearing man in the group stayed the hands of the others. He prayed the Letheno would understand the need for his deception. He’d leave coins at his altar if he survived. Might as well toss the dice if you’re already halfway in the grave.

The leader had an ambling gait, one that could break into a run if needed, but knew he didn’t. “‘Lo, stranger. Not safe to travel solo round these parts.” No malice crossed his face, but it looked closer to the kinder side of forty than thirty, and any mercenary that experienced signaled trouble. The older, the steadier. The steadier, the longer it lasted. “Boys, go on and give our friend a hand with his stead,” he said pointing at the scribe’s worn pony. It wasn’t a riding mount, but a baggage companion. More importantly, it was the scribe’s lifeline.

The men rifled through the few bags the scribe had before turning back to the man.

“Ain’t no food in here. No wine neither,” a weaselly man said staring at the scribe with beedy little eyes. The scribe gave a sorry shrug and faced the leader.

“Don’t have much outside of some inks and paper scraps. Not the best taste to them.” The beedy eyes mercenary grabbed the scruff of the scribe’s robe and jerked him forward.

“You playing with us, boy?” He looked around at the other snarling faces and the distant mountains beyond.”

“Just explaining my empty stomach. Surprised I made it this far.”

“Step off, Finnen,” the leader moved towards the scribe. “Not normal for a scribe to wander the wilds. Where’s your party?”

The scribe grimaced, “I was part of a pair. Could say I was trying to chronicle his story.”

“Whose story?”

“Arkes.” No more was needed than that. The leader turned back to his men and let out of a short whistle. He gave the scribe one more hard look before shaking his head.

“In his company or not, he’ll be your death. But we won’t have any part of it.”

Theoretical

Theoretically, I have neighbors to the left of me. Outside of the occasional thumps I hear through the paper-thin walls there’s no sign of them. The notices for the apartment block that cycle through the floors often stay stick out of their mail slot for days on end.

Supposedly a family of three lives there, but there’s neither hide or hair of them. It’s a weird place to be a recluse. Even on my own weekend days where I  don’t venture far from my own apartment I haven’t gotten to that level.

I’m on a walk to Isiribi Park up the way and I’m trying to air out the stale cigarette smoke stuck to my denim jacket. Every time I go into the billiards bar I come out smelling like an 80 year old grandpa who can’t give up cigars.

A stroke of double luck saw me retrieve my lost coin pouch after playing darts, but the machine that we played on darts they gave us a hell of a lot more games then I put coins in for. Didn’t help me win too many games, but I count it as a win anyway.

It’s funny to live so close to the ocean and have days where I don’t see it. It’s a force of nature right beside me, and there are times when it just slides across my field of vision.

I couldn’t work at writing anything in the apartment, so I’m walking at a slow pace and using diction to copy all this down. The wind is blowing at a decent clip in through a murky dog shit grey sky.

My Sundays are spent on phone calls and pacing in my apartment. I’ve been a big fan of talking on the phone my entire life and have always paced during it. I wonder how many steps I’ve taken over my life. How many miles have gone under my feet. How many rugs have been worn out as I make circles with nowhere to go.

In the distance, I can see the two ridges of the mountains on Iki. I haven’t been to the island today. Don’t know if I will be for my time is up here. Same for Korea. It’s funny how close are you to be to something completely different and never go.

I was doing some ancestry research earlier today to track where my fathers paternal line is from. I discovered that instead of Bavaria, like I thought that my dad‘s family came from Prussia, specifically the Pomeranian region. The town where I can trace. The last legitimate record of evidence goes back to Nowogard is a small spot in modern day Poland.

It’s funny how quickly he begin to accumulate different names from people you’re related to. A couple of the winners are Sylvester Pious, Bengal, Archon, Ida Eda, amongst others.

You go back and pretty quick the amount of people you’re related to blooms like wildflowers. You Imagine yourself to be in a small family bubble and in reality your relations spread tendrils across Time and space linking you to people you’ll never know. Histories you’ll never uncover. Stories you’ll never hear.

And yet— it all runs through you. Small parts like pieces of sand. All there for you to pile together as you built your temporary statues on the beach.

Rialto

I stared into the hollow of her neck like it could stop me from thinking about forever. The shuffle of feet brought me back to attention as the priest continued his sermon. Faith and love intermingled as he spoke of an eternal commitment. I didn’t know if he was talking about himself or not. I wondered if the white collar ever got itchy.

The assignment had lasted for three years past its expiration point. Bells tolled in the distant as another church made its afternoon show for attention. I wouldn’t have figured a wedding band would come with the outfit change, but I’d presented stranger realities in this line of work.

Broth

Any man with enough swamp ass to boil their balls like chicken broth should be diligent about ritual bathing.

Most men are fools.

If you’re not marrying into the Foster Family Farms, possessing an aroma of chicken stock from the downstairs larder isn’t advisable.

Gary had been with Linda for five years, but after her anniversary inspired rhinoplasty, her latent sense of smell returned. And with it exited her attraction and commitment to Gary.

The grass isn’t always greener— but anywhere seemed ideal if it didn’t carry that haunting smell with it.

The early bird gets the worm— and keeps it for itself, Gary thought as he shifted his chafed thighs. The swivel chair sunk below him like clockwork during his shift. Rise and fall, rise and fall. The sun, empires, and this fucking chair. Gary’s mood teetered like a sazerac sippin’ acrobat as unexpected bachelorhood brought with it cheap beer and frozen pizzas. The last fresh vegetables were weeks off and he’d already forgotten what table arrangements looked like.

Gary had returned to the fraternity of the bowl and towel. If it couldn’t fit on or in either of those, it wasn’t worth the effort.

Cheesy slices and slop chili. He tried not to complain. Even working up the nerve to call a urologist before hanging up. The dial tone sounded like a lazy cicada as it begged him to hang up.