Sideways

“Love is a sideways emotion in a life where I’ve tried to stay vertical.  But now I’m lying diagonally— trying to fill the space where our bodies would meet— and I can’t bear the thought of standing anymore. 

Time slipped away slow when my eyes were on you. Now you’re gone. And the sand in the hour glass wants to escape along with you. Each grain another moment lost. 

And yet the cells of my body will echo our history in the cosmic deep. 

Each speck is a star waiting to be reborn. 
I’ll stay sideways- no need to fear before the ether echoes.  

Before stranger sands beckon.”

Sweet Sixteen


When people hear of djinns, they think of genies. They don’t think of the demons of fire and smoke that were born out of time. The origins of the Djinn are tied to the Middle East and North Africa. 

Djinn are crafty creatures- possessing control over fire and the most powerful of them, the ability to distort reality with their wish granting. At a price (and peril of the wish maker). 

But this is not a story of Djinn. This is a story of Ghouls. The carrion creatures that many have forgotten are tied to the legend of Djinn and Genie. Ghouls with their insatiable appetite for dead flesh. Ghouls with their deep burrows and graveyard raids. 

Ghouls— too magically inert to make the transformation back to their Djinn state. 

Not all Ghouls are mindless, dirt dwelling monsters. Some are still wrapped in their cloak of dwindling humanity. They try to hide their teeth. And their appetite. Eventually both are revealed. 

You cannot avoid the hunger. Not when destiny calls you through it. 

Family matters. Even for orphans. Especially so. Secrets that live within your bloodline can’t be hidden by a new name. 

Isaiah Fallow learned this the hard way. 

Isaiah didn’t look like the rest of his family, his skin a touch too tan and hair a whirling curl of black. In all the pictures he looked like a distant cousin from far away. But he was loved and that’s all that mattered. 

Until his sixteenth birthday. 

Secrets of the blood can hide a long time, but not forever. 

Isaiah was sixteen when the hunger woke up. When a burning in his stomach felt like the screech of a dying star. He didn’t remember the day or weeks that followed. Outside of the spill of blood and bone. Horrible crunching echoed through half dreams. Wicked lights danced at the edge of his sight— a beacon of fire calling from the Southwest— calling to him in a language that sounded like a song of mourning. 

When he awoke he was changed. No longer a boy and very far from a man. Isaiah Fallow’s hunger had turned him into something not seen for centuries— a ghoul. The change requires magic— the blood demands it. It wants to be transformed from the dormant state. But in an age of technology, it rarely finds it.

Still, a large enough amount of magic will trigger the transformation. Be it through ritual or consumption. Or both. 

The Fallow’s loved Isaiah. If they hadn’t, he would have never turned. His birthday party saw the whole community celebrate a bright, kind, young man. The type of boy who smiled like careless ease. The kind that even strangers feel protective of— knowing that joyful innocence is a rarity.

So, an entire community turned out to share their appreciation of him. Secretly they placed their own hopes and dreams across his narrow shoulders— believing he could become the best of them. Many wishes were muttered as he went to blow out his birthday candles— whatever was wished, it wasn’t what was deliver.
No one expected a pale, primal creature to rip through his skin and then the crowd. There’s an old word for what happened- carnage. 

With razor claws and a gaping maw— the creature tore through the gathering like wet paper. 

The age of monsters had returned to the world— and the only one who lived to tell the tale had to bear the burden of bringing it back.

Celestial Strings

I laughed when I first heard a fallen angel plays the guitar at the second reservoir on Mt. Tabor. I chocked it up to all the other inane bullshit that’s said after a particularly loose happy hour.
Until the day I hit the 67th stair up to the reservoir— heart pumping in my ears— and then I heard it. The rapid staccato of swift fingers teasing at the strings.

I labored for air. One run a week isn’t enough. And as I sucked wind like an open window dog, I watched a nondescript man produce magic in broad daylight— rather, grey light. He only appears on overcast afternoons.
His case laid open for coins— no bills seemed to reside there.
I tried to catch his eye— but he only ever looked at his instrument. Eyes lost to an unearthly attention.

I began to ran more— always up to the reservoirs. I’d even wait to start putting my shoes on until the clouds rolled in. I didn’t want to lose my chance to the sunshine.
Each time brought a new tune. His songs made you scrunch your eyes as you tried to remember where you’ve heard them before. But as soon as I’d leave, they’d slip away like the last details of a dream.

I wanted to talk about him with my friends— but I felt embarrassed. I had seen him at least ten times, but I was as helpful as a blind man to a sketch artist in trying to describe him. I couldn’t remember what he looked like— just that he was.

You’ll understand when you go. You’ll understand why he didn’t fall all the way down. An almost invisible penance— playing for the absorbed that hardly hear themselves.

I bought a guitar. One of those cheap online ones— where the strings are too heavy and the tubing knobs too loose. I felt foolish whenever I plucked the strings when someone else was home. But when they left? I’d find the smallest corner of confidence and back myself in until I heard a note. The note. The one you play and you try to exist within.

I’d run and pluck. Run and pluck. Trying to solve the Rubik’s cube of a person I couldn’t see the colors of.

In the brief moments of bliss where I’d stretch a perfect note into the intangible— I understood.
After that I didn’t see the angel again.
but on long nights when I had the home to myself— I’d hear the melodies float through my head— reaching out like an old friend for a long awaited dinner.

If you hear the fallen angel play on a cloudy day— stop awhile.

Broken Soil

Smoke rings flowed over an emptied bottle of whiskey. His voice followed after like a ragged hound. 

“It smelled of rotten fruit and broken October soil, Benjel. Something is stirring inside those walls.” Walter said. Eyes fixed on the end of his pipe. 

“The cemetery walls? Those walls are for the superstitious and vain. Nothing beyond rotted wood and faded bones is left in there.” Benjel said. 

“Something followed me through the paths yesterday. It’s stunk clung to my nose— don’t look at me like that, I know what I said.”

The house settled around them— letting Walter’s words sink into the creaky joists. 

Walter turned to out the third story window  to peer over the St. Johnstone cemetery walls. Clutch’s of trees and shrubs dotted the landscape as headstones of marble, granite, obsidian, and stone interspersed the space between them. 

Since the early pioneer days, the St. Johnstone cemetery stayed busy. Only current city expansion pinned the grounds in. Leading to grave re-origination. In a controversial move— the old pioneer graces without headstones is were exhumed & transferred to a mass grave in the south side— the area parallel to the caretaker house both McCluskey boy’s lived in. 

Walter had authorized the move on renewed insistence from Benjel. But last night brought the first kernel of doubt— the first of many that would bloom under the flames of fear. 

St. Louis had a reputation for ill-gained land, dubious deaths, backroom thuggery, & poisoned moonshine. None of that spelled half as much trouble as the McCluskey’s graveyard Feng Shui exercises. 

“Lock the grounds tonight after your shift and salt the exits. I think we’re on the verge of calling Father Kellan. 

“Salt the exits? Walter, I think you’re going over a line here. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is how witches inhabit the Aaron’s house and frolic in the moonlight.”

“Damn it, Benjel. Just salt the exits— this queer happening falls on you. Shouldn’t have dug up those old graves.”

“Come on, you know we needed the space. Can’t bury in a filled plot, now can we?”

Walter got up with a grumble and left the room, leaving Benjel to stare at the new family venture— their dead fortune. 

The caretaker house creaked as the old wood adjusted to the moisture of the fog rolling in. It blanketed the graves and took away any point of staring while there were still chores to do. 

The heavy blanket of fog turned the grounds into a silent crypt. Benjel hated walking the night patrol. Too easy to break an ankle out in the mists. A squirrel hole here or unseen headstone there, it was a minefield you didn’t want to fall in. 

It fell on his shoulders to do it— Walter agreed to the deal, so Benjel stomped the grounds. Brothers can be such crafty bastards. 

Benjel kept a tight circuit through the cemetery— unconsciously avoiding the area that spooked Walter earlier. 

No one needs a yellow stripe when walking along the dead— you remain above it, he thought. 

The soil broke fifty yards behind Benjel. The mist smothered the noise, but not the smell. He broke into a trot back to the house, cursing himself for not having a dog. 

Walter watched him as he burst inside the house. 

“What happened?”

“Didn’t see anything out there, but I smelled it, though. Damned if you weren’t right about the fruit.”

“Looks like we woke something up.”

“We need a dog, Walter, that’s what we need.”

“We needed to not move those graves, but we’re past that now.”

“I’m not going to say sorry. Who the hell is supposed to know something hinky would happen?”

“Perhaps some wise woman or priest, but we don’t know what’s happening— outside of it being off.”

“Yeah, well, I need some whiskey and a nap right now. We’ll call Father Kellan tomorrow.”

“In the meantime, keep a Bible handy.”

“Why?”

“Can’t hurt.” Walter said as he retreated to his study. Benjel stared out at the pale view and shivered. 

“Shouldn’t have moved those bodies.” 

Moel

The Dark Lord—Known as El of Mo—created a false dominion beyond the reach of mortals. It holds a corrupted pantheon or false gods at which he stands the head. 

In the early days, he raided small villages and stole away the youth. As his power grew— so did his takings. Soon, entire cities fell before him. His carmine locks peeked beneath his infamous black cowl. 

Humanity and him were former friends turned reluctant pen pals. 

You may have heard of his empire— and the corrupted that live within it. The long the pocket world holds you — the more your humanity drains away. 

Celebrated among the taken are a beast that revels in filth, a caped mockery that thirsts for blood, and even a giant avian predator haunts their nightmare flock. 

Projected to the outside world— the Dark Lord presents a satirical farce. A mocking inverse of their true values. Play the tapes in reverse and you will hear the screams as a demonic laugh echoes. 

“Nah, nah, nah, Elmo’s world.”

Beyond the First Step

He hurt beautifully like the ache from a cracked star. Thin tendrils of vapor rose from his mouth as he stopped to pray. The villagers told him no one survives the cold out on the tundra. He let out a choked sob. He should have listened. 

In the distance he could see a bright moon hanging over the land in the daylight. 

Just like him, it didn’t belong. 

He had heard of a village in the deep north that lived near a portal to another world. Chauncey hadn’t believed a word of it. He was a scientist— and would conduct a thorough expedition to confirm it was all a ballyhoo. 

Forty yards in front of him stood a rippling, azure doorway. Energy swirled like errant snowflakes. He had been wrong. About the portal. About many things. 

The air seemed to crackle around it as he drew near. His steps still stiff with pain as the cold nestled inside him. If death courted him now— it must chase him to the other side of that portal for capture. 

Hopefully he wouldn’t be walking straight up to the gates. 

He took a step into the portal— it’s viscous matter inviting him in like a warm bath. He stretched back, but with a sudden lurch it pulled him all the way through. 

His thoughts fell away as energy pulled him through the backside of the universe. 

He woke up to the roar of a river. A massive delta that led into an ocean lay before him. Sheets of ice rode on top of the river like rafts. They must have been the size of elephants, but the river would have made the Nile jealous. 

And then he saw it. Perched on a rock at the mouth of the river. So large it made his mind stutter. A dragon. It stared at him with unblinking eyes. Not a twitch outside of the rise and fall of its chest. 

“Come.” A voice called inaudible, but understood. Chauncey walked to the edge of the river. Peering up at the masses coils of dark green scales and muscle. 

“You are not from this world.” Chauncey let the shock roll through him. “You will find it much more dangerous than your own. This world is three times the size of where you came from.” A wry glint appeared in the dragon’s eye. “I wish you luck, young traveler.”

The spell broke like brittle bones “I can go?” He looked at the torrent of the ocean and listened to the roar of the river. 

“If you can survive. Come back and tell me your stories if you do.”

Chauncey backed away from the dragon. His steps slow and measured. A primal fear kept his heart beating as he edged closer to safety. He felt small. The world loomed with a primal energy. He heard a thin pop and saw the azure of the portal squeeze into a ball of empty air. 

“Survive to tell the stories. Proper adventure.” Chauncey thought of Gulliver’s travels. How he had laughed while reading them. No laughs now.

Crumbs

Two bits to his name and a laconic drawl that stretched words like hot taffy. There wasn’t a gunslinger in the west that hadn’t heard of Russell Jeffries (RJ).  People asked him how he did it. He couldn’t answer any more than a hummingbird could explain how they flapped their wings. They just did.

He’d draw, aim, & fire in the space it took you to realize he should start. Over before it began and another challenger spilling their crimson conscious on the dirt. 

West Texas is flat as an ironing board and twice as hot as the devils’s oven. None of that stopped RJ from taking in the landscape like a fish to water. Hanging off the side of his saddle was a small easel. That’s how he garnered the name “The Painted Kid,” not that he liked it. 

The painting, certainly, the name not so much. 

But when the public gets ahold of something that’s put mud in your eye— they keep squelching till there’s nothing left but soggy feet and sore feelings. 

Each town heralded his arrival like a fallen angel— open distrust and an inability to look anywhere else. 

RJ figured once he hung up his guns, he’d make his way over to Barnum and Bailey’s. Seeing as he’s already a show. 

Some challengers would call him out on main street. Crying out that they’d find him at high noon or see the back of him running off. 

Most days, he had no problem raising to the task of pest removal. But once in a blue moon and deep in his cups, he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he scampered away in the night like a spooked jackrabbit. 

His mama told him that bravery was well and good, but making it home for dinner would always be better. 

Ain’t much of a choice between being a coward or death. 

RJ had no intention of dying in Mesa Verde. But then again, not many of us see the soft steps of Death tread upon the ground before us. 

A boisterous young thing from Colorado had set about claiming the state as his stomping grounds by the time RJ crossed state lines. 

Unfortunately for RJ, there weren’t many left in the west that didn’t know The Painted Kid on sight. 

One look at the saloon and the whole street filled. You’d swear the town had planned it, they way they spread out, ready to see a quick man take the long sleep. 

That’s the problem with destiny— you can’t offer your legend without knowing you might be building another. 

They called the young man “Billy.” He was all of five foot five and mean as a stamped snake. He had a sneer wiped across his face that made you think he took a personal offense to anyone who breathed the same air he did. 

Some of us aren’t meant for a tender soul. Lord knows Billy did not tend the gardens and pet stray cats. This was a man meant for killing. One way or another— he’d ride the coattails of the reaper all the way to the land of fire. Blank eyes— without even a thought he couldn’t win. 

That’s why you don’t trust fate. She’s a tricky catch at the best of times. But when you’re knocking on the door to the afterlife, it’s polite to wipe your boots on the mat first. 

“I hear you want to die, old man.” Billy said. Sun tanned and sweat through, he took a slow drag from a badly rolled cigarette. 

“Or we could leave the day as friends. I don’t need to warm my guns if there aren’t any fools in front of me.” RJ replied. 

The crowd took a sharp breath in. A pack of land sharks instead of humans, the way they smelled the blood in the water. Despite the pretty words, no one would be leaving early. 

“You calling me a fool?” 

“Are you standing in front of me just to gibber?” RJ said with a wry smile. One day he learn not to egg melonheads on. But it wouldn’t be today. 

“You know the time— high noon. Wash your face, I’ll let you die real pretty.”

Billy ashed the cigarette and blew RJ a kiss before stomping off to the saloon. 

“Oh, and how about you paint me a picture or something. That’d be a real nice momento to remember you by.” 

RJ looked at the crowd and sighed. He’d been crossing his fingers for whisky and cornbread. Didn’t seem like the day would settle for anything less than sour attitudes and spilled blood. Shame. 

RJ guided his horse, Glenda, to the stable. The rotten straw and stink of stalls yet to be mucked made him pause. Best to finish this quick and find that cornbread elsewhere he thought.

The clink of spurs echoed through the street as the church bell rang out twelve peals of between the crowds bated breath.  Forget the sermons and songs, this was legend in the making. Two men set to battle and only one to walk away. 

“Ten paces, easy as you like. You get six slugs, but I’ll only need the one. Tip your hat to the boss when you catch him down south. Tell him Billy sent you.”

“You gonna jaw all day or do you want to die?”

“On the count then, old man.”

“One,”

…

“Two,”

…

“Three!”

Two quicksilver hands whipped up their guns and fired. The street silent before the slump of a body. A drip and an “I’ll be damned,” followed. A second slump and the crowd was left in wonder. 

Two slugs found the mark. Heart and head, RJ & Billy, respectively. 

Don’t wrap up your desires in the hands of fate. You’ll go hungry more oft than not. A young boy watched the fall of two titans and wiped away yellow crumbs from his mouth. His fingers itching for his own chance at destiny. 

The Last Sign of Molly Lake

She smelled like cherry licorice and ozone. I’d never seen someone get struck by lightning before. People say it happens fast but that doesn’t explain it. It’s like a hammer from God— a torrent of blinding light and heat. Blink and it’s gone. I blinked and she was gone.

Molly Lake was my first crush. And I’m still working through it. At this rate I’ll hit retirement before I get to the second one. I wish I could say it was because we grew up on the same street or that we were the only kids born in ‘92, but that’s not the reason. It took time for most people, but eventually you’d understand that the universe gave something extra to Molly. Magic? Fate? Whatever soulfire poured into her— it didn’t match the rest of us. It shines brighter.

Destiny seemed to play with her the way kids play with a new pet. Extra love and attention. There wasn’t a single wish she had that went ungranted. But she never wished for big things— only for small moments to find a spark of joy in. 

She’d crinkle a brow at the grey skies and wish that some sun would come. Twenty minutes later there’d be a hole in the sky shining with a gift just for her. 

Later she’d muse about wanting to see flowers— only for wildflowers to sprout out of season. 

No else believed it was *real* magic. But I knew better. She didn’t play by the same rules as the rest of us, and I wanted to find out why. 

The first time Molly went missing we were in the seventh grade. The entire city of Missoula was tore apart during the search for her. Canvass efforts saw entire neighborhoods taking to the streets to knock on doors in an attempt to find her. 

This went on for fourteen days. And then suddenly she returned. In the middle of Higgins street during lunch break at the schools. Molly Lake stood in the street as if she wandered out of time— unable to say where she’d been or who with.

This happened three more times before we graduated high school. 

Some people hated her for the attention it got. Others were confused. I remained curious. Desperately so. I wanted to know where she left to and why she couldn’t remember. 

And I wondered why she never took me with her. 

We would spend school day afternoons in her basement. She had all the best games growing up since her mom helped make the artwork for game companies. Cadoo, Candyland, Apples to Apples? You name it, they had it. Her mom, Francine, tried to stop Molly from spending her allowance on candy or Big Dipper ice cream, but it would have been easier to carve the tops off a mountain. 

We’d play through a game as she devoured a pack of watermelon sour patch kids or skittles. After a couple stomachaches, I decide to not join her dietary regime. You wouldn’t think eating candy is a character trait, but she made it one. She did that with everything. 


By the time we got to high school, Molly had become a local legend. She had a cultish following among the conspiracy theorists and Reddit detectives. Unlike her own father, who was an actual detective with Missoula PD. Jonathan Lake couldn’t have been more different from his daughter. His steel grey crew cut stood opposite of her wild, red, mop of hair. He looked like a man that would order a gag restraint for a pun. Molly would be the one to deliver it. A sunrise bright smile cresting the horizon of his dour attitude. 

The first disappearance his panic spurred the search. He proved relentless as he searched every factory, old house, and empty fields for her. But with each following one, he’d tense his whole body and go about his regular schedule until she returned. 

Maybe he knew something I didn’t. Or he became the worlds most proficient stoic. 

Neither he’d ever tell me. He didn’t share feelings on principle. 

Stubborn Fate

"Either fate will be kind, or you'll have to be stubborn," Marty said. Smoke rolled off his cigar as he sat overlooking the pier. He was a thin man, bound together with vices like dried glue. You never hope to rely on a man like that, but when they're your only family in a big city, you make do.

"Hey," he snapped his fingers. "I'm still talking to you. Get your head out of your ass. These are things you need to know."

"What? I'm just starting a couple of classes at the community college. It's not a big deal." Daniel said.

"Not a big deal? No one in our family has ever made it past the tenth grade. Now you're starting college, and it's 'not a big deal'? Don't hand me that bullshit."

"Can't you leave it alone?" The young man fidgeted on the cold bench. To the passers-by, he looked like the premium price version of Marty.

"Leave it alone? Kid, I'm proud of you. The brains our family's blessed with ain't so great for the pencils and textbooks. So for you to be standing in front of me now as a premier college student? It warms my fucking heart."

"You could have gone to college. Dad always said you were the smartest person in our family."

"Your dad doesn't know how the world works. That's why you're here with me, and why I never sat in a classroom past fifteen years old. He doesn't understand that when you sacrifice something, you ain't getting it back." Marty flicked the cigar. "Don't let this go. Community college or university, it's an opportunity. You've earned your shot, and now you gotta take it."

"Thanks, Marty." The morning fog rolled in off the lake. It swallowed the pair on the bench before greedily stretching towards the city.

Neon

“Deep in his cups at the faded back of a red neon lit bar, a man set about devising an equation to solve humanity’s problems.” A young man said as he scribbled the words in a Fox print notebook. The lines held little truth, but much reassurance as the young man struggled to sort out how he got within touching distance of thirty years old and still lived at home. 

“Unfortunately for both the man and humanity, his attention slipped once Angelica Hughes walked through the front door.” 

“Shoot,” he slashed through the lines. “Nobody is going to like that.” 

His right hand covered in ink kept smearing the upper part of his pages. It wouldn’t be until years later that he would realize this was because he wrote like a left hander, subconsciously copying his father. And not the only copy either. 

Pale

A pale creature crawls through the vents of my house at night. No one in my family believes me. But I’ve seen it. It hides in the room behind my closet. Behind an old double door that an architect must have envisioned a second story storage room. Under the eaves and my unease it scuttles through the dusty passages of the house everyone else has forgotten about.

The beat of my heart shakes my bed as I lie awake at night. That creature inspires a fear so large it would make my heartbeat show up on a Richter scale. I try not to think about it. But it’s like saying “Pink Elephant,” and not imaging it. It’s stuck in my brain like a mammoth trapped in tar. I am stuck in this bed. A small box of books holds the closet door shut and I pray to all the pantheons that no foul strength is tested against my hardback collection of Ray Bradbury.

I don’t think it wants to hurt me. It would have done it by now. I hear the way it’s gaunt body slithers through the walls. How overgrown nails tap against the wood floors as it slinks through my waking nightmare. It would have hurt me by now, I tell myself. The anticipation is making my hair fall out. I spend my mornings staring into the haggard face of a frightened sixteen year old. Once in a while I catch a flash of pale white as it moves past the vents. My breath catches and my joints lock in place. I try to shake the spell of playing dead— having no wish to share traits with an opossum. But nature knows there’s a predator in the house— and it is not me.

My friends ask why we never hang out anymore. I don’t know how to lie, so I mumble that I’m too tired for sleepovers. We used to hang out all the time at your old house they say. Things change. I don’t want them to see the creature. I don’t want the creature to see them. I don’t think the box of books would hold the closet door if it wanted to say hi.

Rabble

“You’ve got the gumption of a blind mime and the charm of a rabid monkey.”

“You make me sound like I’m the Tasmanian devil.”

“You might not be from Tasmania, but devils would welcome you with open arms. Or a pinch on the ass. I don’t know how devil greetings go.”

“You sound like a knockoff hard boiled detective. You’re a soft boiled Jacques Cousteau.”

“Did you mean Inspector Clouseau?”

”You know I hate it when you correct me in that tone.”

”And you know I’m not French. Or an Activist. Or even a detective!”

“And I’m not Tasmanian. Feels like we’re debating the price of black holes.”

“?”

“Shit that has nothing to do with us.”

Dark Shepard

It started with the stilling of the trees. The forests began to become too quiet. Hunters would move underneath the canopies— cautious and confused as the monsters that claimed refuge in the woods had disappeared.
Then the bridges became safe to cross without offerings to the beasts beneath. The swamps followed— the misty lights that lured travelers in were nowhere to be found.
Until they were.
A horde of monsters had gathered at the edge of the realm. The kingdom raised the armies & young men prepared to die.
And yet— the horde did not move. The shadows cast by the horrid shapes that the dark of night oft covered did not face the people of the realm. It faced away— towards the Spine Mountains that created the crescent shape of the land.
The King Namlin ordered his armies to pin the monsters to the mountains. They marched double time to the killing grounds— only to find a cloaked man standing before the horde.
“There is no fight to be found here,” He said staring down a glittering, but ragged army. “These creatures are not yours to take.”

The soldiers stared in disbelief. A man leading monsters? How had he not been eaten?Their general scoffed at the man’s words.
“We do not make deals with Devils. Stand aside and we will deliver you to safety.”

A horn of war blasted and the many feet of a tired army surged towards the man and his monsters.
“I wish it did not have to come to this.” The man said. His hands tightened on the staff he leaned against. A great clap split the air and where there were would-be heroes, lay greasy marks and the scent of ozone. Only the general and his staff stood untouched.
“Tell your king he has no more business in the north of the realm.”

Red Wedding

She cackled like Leslie Mann, and it was at that moment that I understood why Judd Apatow only has eyes for her.

It started with an interest in my MacDonald family name and a round of thirteen tequila shots for the skate house.

"Your family's Scottish?"

Part of it is. Enough for my eyes to water when I hear the pipes and my mouth to do the same when I smell fish & chips.

"So is mine. Do you watch Game of Thrones?"

Sudden transition, but I played along. Yes, yes, I did.

"Do you know the Red Wedding?"

*Spoiler* The episode where the Lannisters execute Rob Stark and his bride at the Frey's castle? Yes. Not a big fan.

"Well, the actual story is based on an event called the Black Wedding."

Is that so?

"Yup. It's where my family, the Stewards, slaughtered your family, the MacDonald’s."

Huh.

"Do you live close by?" Apparently there were reparations to be sorted.

I said yes, knowing that for most people a thirty minute walk in the Montanan winter didn’t qualify as close. I said yes the way stock brokers go over the margins in order to hook the white whale. If you don’t gamble after the first lucky strikes, why are you up to bat?

I nodded to my friend on our exit- barely aware I was only wearing a button up. My jacket left in a truck further than the five minute walk to go get it. Any failed momentum and the house of cards would come tumbling down. She offered me her extra jacket and we power walked through the falling snow. Copper light cast over the packed white ground and I hoped the tequila shots would keep us warm for the journey.

I offered her the horrendous whiskey that sat in my freezer as I rubbed my hands together. Desperate to have working fingers instead of icicles. I walked into my bedroom to find her topless and working on the bottoms. I forgot the whiskey.

She straddled me and stopped to ask me if anyone ever told me “no”. I said “Yes. All the time.”

“I don’t believe. You’ve got the charisma of a cult leader. I bet you could have anything you want.”

I had what I wanted in that moment— but knew I’d be greedy for more. She looked at me and cocked her head. “You know, you’re so pretty that you could be retarded and still get laid.”

I’ve seen more punches pulled in a title fight than this girl gives out in a night. When was the last time I had heard something so unfiltered and honest? Standing at a solid five feet tall and with the physique of her former ballet days was the incarnate of fire.

I tried not to blatantly stare at her afterwards, but you can’t pull a card up from the table once you’ve already played it. She had sharp Disney villain lines; I've seen knives that have carved up half as many hearts. Dark auburn hair wrapped it up— leaving me in the presence of a dark queen that wandered off the set of a forgotten fable.

In the morning we stared at each other for a second too long— trying to tease each other’s name out of an alcohol soaked memory. Success on the first try for both sides. Her name slid across my mind and I had trouble holding it— or even believing it actually belonged to her.

A week later I cradled an elongated oval mug with tan detox tea as I sat on her mattress. I don't know what toxin I needed to get rid of, but I hoped it wasn't her.

She told me she didn’t want to share any personal details. That it kept the mystery alive. Realizing there wouldn’t more to our encounters tasted like ashes.

A Molotov cocktail night followed by the slow burn of disappointment. And then as a phoenix being reborn— a story that would serve as a reminder to the unexpected excitements in life.

Black Night

“You live in a world with bad men, and I’m among the worst.” The blade flicked out and sliced through a tendon. The young man fell to the ground. “I understand why you want to play the hero.” Another swing took the other leg. “But the position’s filled.” The cloaked man stood over the kneeling, bloodied one. “It’s a shame. In another life, I would have cheered for you with the rest of the crowds.” A quick flick of the wrist and his head separated from his body. The man left standing sighed and wiped the blood off his blade. Too many young fools and too few challenges. 

Rowan hated cutting through the Kingdom’s young hopes one at a time, but that was their own fault. The king had meant to be replaced years ago- and was. But few knew that truth. Fewer tried to act on it. 

Rowan Tarnahill— last remaining son of an ancient house and current most wanted man in the kingdom. Reduced to standing in a field covered needlessly split blood. He’d like to think his grandfather, Adraic,  would have been proud. The Tarnahill line was a long line of bastards and would-be kings.

Rowan had been many things in his short life so far. An orphan, a favored grandchild, a bright star for the kingdom, last hope of a dying line, and a ruthless killer. 

It was the last that needed most explaining. But with all great stories and their mysteries-- you have to start at the beginning. 

Lunch Break Bonding

Dave had worked at Centro logistics for over fifteen years. During that time he’d been married, divorced, briefly questioning, and despondent. But never had he spilled his guts the way Gary did at lunch time.

“I’ll tell you a little secret, Dave. I eat so much hot sauce, just to give myself a reason to have twenty minutes to myself in the morning. Nobody wants to be around a middle aged man crying on the toilet.” He paused to shake some more habanero sauce on his hot dog. Gary tilted his em head in concern. “Those tears are worth the peace, my friend.”

”Sometimes I worry about you, my friend.”
Gary grabbed onto the glass bottle as Dave’s hand neared it.
“Nothing to worry about. Just my own slice of heaven. Albeit a little hot.”
“You say things that make me worried about the state of society.”
Gary laughed at that and winked at Dave. “It’s not the apocalypse yet. That’ll be next week when I get the ghost peppers.”