Maltonsin

She dragged her way through the thick, grey, rancid muck. It sucked at her boots with each squelching step. Amara knew she only had twenty minutes, maybe thirty at most before the hypothermia set in.

Courtiers typically had difficult assignments, but this was ridiculous, Amara thought. The Northern wastes were abandoned. Everyone knew that. Still, she felt the creeping tell of eyes rise up her back. At least she wouldn’t die alone. Small mercies from Kith, the Northern goddess of wilds.

“Stop struggling. You’re messing up my fox traps,” A hoarse voice called out.

“There are no foxes up here. Just admit you’re waiting for me to freeze to death before pawing through my pockets.”

“You don’t see snow foxes, but they see you. So stop stomping through my traps and walk towards my voice. The game trail is over here.”

“As well as a sharp dagger I imagine,” Amara muttered. Her numb fingers fumbled for the razor within her tattered jacket. “Do I get a name or do I just call you ‘kind forest spirit?’” That got a rumbling laugh in response.

“You can call me Finnic if you want. But most people call me Finn.” Amara stepped into the small alcove of trees where the voice was coming from to find a tall, lean ranger peering at her from under a heavy coat of furs with amber eyes. They tracked every movement, but crinkled at the edges with humor instead of concern.

“Seems like an uncomfortable spot to set up an ambush.”

“If it were, I’d have brought more layers and less instructions to guide you to the keep. Lord Malton is awaiting your arrival.”

“He knows why I’m here?”

“My lord knows of the ill tidings you carry. He hopes to alleviate them. Maybe even strike a bargain if you’re amenable.”

“Alleviate.. amenable? You’re one of his son’s, aren’t you?” Amara received a bright smile at that. “But you play around in the freezing cold and hunt for lost courtiers. Are you the bastard I’ve heard about?” The smile soured at the edges before returning.

“Esquire Finnic Maltonsin, at your service,” he said with a flourish as he dipped into a deep bow. He stated his dishonored name with pride— Amara wanted to ask more— but needed another layer before her brain froze.

“Let’s get on with it, my lord,” she said pointing towards his barely noticeable game trail.

Seating for Three

I had invited the demons to the dinner table. That was where I learned the source of my power.

Hope is said to be a destructive force— I was inclined to believe it as I sat across beelzebub and shoggoth. Both entities of staggering power and reputed evil— and yet— and yet— they sat across from me.

A young man with two open chairs to his table.

I had not the powers of whispered legends, nor some hulking physique.

I possessed a keen curiosity and fervent heart.

I had been warned by Father Collins that the enemies of man would consume me whole.

Instead I offered them side salads and fatty cuts of beef.

I am not ignorant to think that they couldn’t dispatch me. Or that love was an impenetrable field.

But the power of respect shone through the night as I listened to their tales.

Once the morning sun crept above the horizon, I turned to find empty seats at my table, along with a mentionably foul after smell. Still, I sat amongst demonic lords, and questioned why others had not done the same.

I sought no power or favors. I offered my meager food and open ears.

What I heard could have cracked the surface of the earth— for the weight it did have.

And yet

And yet

And yet

I mourned their lonely souls.

They would not remember my face. For hardly anyone ever does. I walk with gentle steps through an increasingly rowdy & raucous world.

But you may find me on the edge of sweet slumber.

You may find me in the corner while you read. Or when you step outside to take a breath that you’ve held in— as to not warm the ice around your heart.

Don’t fear the shadows of night

I’ll keep an eye on the world whilst you sleep.

Embrace

She traced the lines of my face with her shaking hand. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” she said as I closed my worn travel bag. “We were supposed to have more time than this.”

“What about us having this at all? Is that not a gift?” She shook her head. A curtain of tawny brown hair covering her face. I knew tears wouldn’t be far behind.

“It’s not enough, Henry. I told you I’d follow you anywhere, so why are you leaving me behind?” I moved to the bed and got down on a knee. My hand brushed her hair out of the way, letting me see reddened eyes.

“You’ll be right here with me,” I said tapping my heart. But I can’t have you out there beside me. There’s too much that can go wrong. I was a fool in the first place for letting you come this far. A hard slap caught me across the face.

“You say that like I had no decision in the matter. You didn’t let me come anywhere with you. I decided too. Just like I’m deciding right now.”

“Ella, don’t. Please. Don’t do this. I can only tell you to leave so many times,” my head sagged. “I can’t lose you too.”

“You say all that and you would lose me right now. For what? For pride? For some storybook ending where you get to go be the hero and I wither in your wake?” She took a step towards me. “I don’t think so, Henry Caldwell,” she kissed me. Setting my body on fire and wiping my mind of worry, “When you face down sorcerers, you need to come prepared with a little magic of your own,” she said opening her palm to let the emerald fire atop it light the room.

“It was a good try,” I said giving her a light kiss on her nose. “Do you know the route to Dalamdul?”

She gave me a wry grin, “Do you mean my birth place? I might know the way.”

Toes

“Simone, I swear to God, I will rip your pinky’s off if you keep touching me.”

“Jesus Christ, Gio, chill out a little, huh?”

Gio snapped the oven’s gas line into place. “Chill out? I’m over here trying to relight this stove and you’re putting your nasty toes on my back. Which, why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

Simone wiggles his dirty toes in his worn Birkenstocks “Why would I wear shoes when I’ve got these? Give up the shoe prisons, Gio. Embrace the air!” Gio drags a hand across his face.

“Mom should have stopped having kids after Vinnie. Both you and Carmella are a nightmare.” Simone opens his mouth in mock shock.

“And I suppose you think you’re the golden boy? ‘Oh, Gio, he can fix anything!’ Is that how you think mama talks about you? Marone! You have such an ego….”

Gio lifts his eyes back up from the stove to glare at Simone. You can tell the brothers apart by the crooked break in the middle of Gio’s nose. Otherwise, the brothers look like duplicate raven-haired harbingers of mischief. Their sharp eyes often provided cutting looks to one another, but god forbid someone else try to insult them.

“It’s not ego if it’s true. Now give me that wrench beside you. I want to get out of here before Franklin comes back to moan about how his gravy recipe is almost perfected.”

“We don’t need any more of that. You’d think the old man believed his sauce was made from moly flowers.”

“Moly flowers? Seriously? You been reading the Odyssey lately?”

“What else am I supposed to read after you and Vinnie stole all the good comics? You know I don’t like going to Central Library. There’s something about the hallways in there— they aren’t normal,” Simone said.

Stray Path

The cicadas filled the air as I walked away from the ocean. It was early enough that I could head into town without everything being closed down. I’d have to take the shortcut I’d learned of the other day.

At first I had thought it was an abandoned road— that was only half right as I passed a graveyard, temple, and two lived in houses. Otherwise, the land was quiet on the human front.

The forest along the path to town is too thick with bamboo for someone to walk in. But that didn’t stop the man that stride onto the path before me.

I stopped. The man kept his head down. His gloved right hand on the sword that ran across his body.

“What are you doing walking through my forest?” The man asked.

“I’m trying to get to town,” I said trying not to cry.

“There is no town. There’s only forest out here. So, I’ll ask again. Why are you in my forest?”

My head spun as I wanted to tell the man that we were three hundred yards away from the beginning of town. That the port stretched from here all the way to Mine.

But my lips wouldn’t move. Neither would my legs.

A ring of metal sounded as he withdrew a long blade and leveled it at me.

“You’re not supposed to be on this land.”

“Are you a sleeping or resting god?” the words sprang from my mouth without thought.

“I had slept for centuries— but this,” he spread his hands towards the decaying road. “Is not right. Things are not in harmony as they should be. I will change that.”

Atop a Wish

It didn’t feel wicked when they started. It had felt like soft rain while banana bread baked in the oven. The scent of moist dough and a sprinkle of cinnamon caught Jamie’s attention. She hadn’t known magic would be so beautiful.

The two girls, Jamie and Vanessa, stood at the top of the hallow. Their hands were covered in dry dirt with small streaks of sweat cutting through. The hole before them was barely noticeable in the dimming twilight.

“Did we do it right?” Jamie asked Vanessa. Vanessa looked through an old leather book and pursed her lips.

“I think so. We have to do one more thing though.”

Jamie stared off in the distance. She could see a fawn chewing on new growth at the bottom of the hill, “What?”

Vanessa punched a small blade into Jamie’s back, “This.”

Jamie staggered a couple steps before pitching forward onto the hole they had covered. Dark blood ran rivers down her side and onto the earth.

Vanessa stepped towards Jamie and couched down. “I’m sorry, but it’s the only way to be sure. Better safe than sorry.” She stood back up and walked down the hill.

By morning no body would be resting there, nor, would the world remember anyone by the name of Vanessa Hawthorne.

In the years to come, the town would come to call the small mountain Beacon Hill— for the unusually luminescent tree that stood at the top. On stormy nights, it looked almost like it was trying to pull itself from the ground as it swayed in the wind. But come morning, it was solid as ever.

Strange fruit would grace the tree once every three years— the small, pitted yellow orbs had a sour tang to them. Anyone who ate one without giving proper respect to the tree fell victim to a week of nightmares. The respectful found themselves on a similar length cloud of bliss.

A group of wise women took to the hill and arranged weekly rituals within its luminescent reach. The shadows transformed them into a spinning wheel of maiden & crone. They did not share what they learned from under the bright eves. They did not find it wise to share the words of prophecy.

Run

She tossed me from her sprinter van with a wicked grin and said

“Let’s see how human you really are.” Raised her revolver and pointed it at my chest.

“Wait, wait!”

“I’ve waited long enough, demon. Your days of preying on innocent woman are over!”

“Innocent? You’re pointing a fucking gun at me!”

She smiled again and tightened her finger on the trigger.

“Pray to your gods, heathen.”

A muted click sounded, and I opened my eyes to a twisted face. She threw the empty gun at me, but I scrambled to the side and tore off into the dark forest.

She screamed behind me.

“You can’t run from God!”

Just from you, you crazy bitch I laughed as I gulped down tears.

***

I had met Jana in a basement bar in the middle of downtown. We were both wearing boots and black jeans. I thought coincidence would once again work in my favor.

People want to be understood— they want to be seen.

So after my nervous caffeine-induced babbling, I finally calmed down enough to lob a hypothetical about Jana involving her worst picture involving a sunburn and a leftover ham sandwich. I wasn’t supposed to be right.

The shock on her face was quickly replaced by an impish delight. She gave me that wicked grin as she listed all the things she hated in the world— batting her sea-gray eyes at me like I mind object.

I gave the occasional wry smile and nodded.

We got up to leave the bar, and she asked if I wanted to have some wine with her. She hadn’t mentioned it was inside her traveling van. I climbed inside a silver Mercedes sprinter and sat with her on a special form raised mattress as she lit her fairy lights and opened a bottle of Chianti.

She kept going on about a beautiful Italian man that she still loved. I asked her how long it had been since they’d been together. She said three years.

I waded through murky waters but knew salvation wasn’t what you found inside that cabin.

We began to kiss, and I let one hand unhook her bra.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“Schoolyard trick. Failed magicians make great lovers.”

“Lovers?” She arched a pencil-thin eyebrow.

“I’ll show you later,” I rested my right hand on her sternum. Stretching my thumb and pinky towards her pink nipples. “I’m not going to have sex with you tonight.”

She grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me like she was trying to steal my soul. Her impatient moans were coupled with a gentle bounce of her legs against mine. She pulled up to look me in the eyes.

“You made me so fucking wet.”

I left her van and walked back through dark city streets to my apartment. She called me in the morning asking if I wanted to get breakfast. I said yes and walked with her to a grimy knock-off Irish pub.

The bartender scrutinized my ID, and Jana laughed. She pinched my cheek and gave me a wide smile.

“I bet you get that all the time. You look so young. I thought you were lying about your age. It’s your smile— it’s so bright. How long did you have braces?”

“Never. Just won the genetic lottery.”

“I bet you did. She said rubbing my thigh. You’re also Scandinavian and you know what they say about that.”

“That lutefisk is a foul dish and we don’t know how to express our emotions?”

“That Scandinavians are hung like horses.” She winked and took a big gulp of her Bloody Mary. “Fuck, I needed that.”

We let the scant conversation in the bar circle around us as we eased our hangovers.

“I used to be called ‘Mojoita’ when I lived in Seville. I don’t think I have a drinking problem, I’d just get bored in the mornings, so I’d have a couple drinks.”

Over the next, we bounced around the town drinking and fucking. She’d ask me what I thought about God.

“It doesn’t make sense. You have the same energy as my pastors, but you’re not a Christian.”

I told her we exist in a realm of infinite possibilities— that matter is neither created nor destroyed. That the unknown is a constant gift for the mundaneness of petty life.

“It only matters what my relationship is like to Christ.”

“So being a good person doesn’t matter?”

“Good doesn’t matter if I’m good with Christ.” I stared at her and saw the strands of madness congeal into a dark entity. “That’s how I also know that I can’t be with someone that isn’t a Christian.”

I continued to wade into deep water as I replied, “I don’t believe— but I’m open to being wrong.” She relaxed her stance and told me that she wanted to take me to her church. She wanted me to meet her pastor, that had the same magnetic energy that she felt in me.

She pressed her waif-thin body against mine in the front row of a local punk rock show and told me in half-forgotten Italian, “Ti voglio bene.” We walked back to her van and fucked as the cars beside us struggled to fit into the spots without scraping the sides. She kept her moon-bright eyes locked on me.

“I can only have sex face to face. It feels wrong otherwise.” She told me this before locking her legs around me. I tried to pull back, but she squeezed her legs and giggled. I slumped against her in dismay.

“Why would you do that?” She wasn’t on birth control, and I wasn’t in possession of intelligence.

“I thought it would feel better if you finished inside me.” She said in a Barbie girl voice. I shook my head, and we headed inside the dive bar we were parked outside of.

“What does ‘Ti voglio bene’ mean?” I asked, sipping on a vodka tonic as she drank another americano. Its sickly sweet amaro wafted up from the glass.

“Who knows?” She said, using the Barbie voice again. I’d later google it to learn it meant “I love you/ I care for you.”

Even for me, hearing love within a week was a speed run. If that wasn’t a sign that the end was near, I didn’t know what was.

I had given us another week in my mind, but I had also already said yes to a trip to Vegas with her family. Her parents had a timeshare on the strip, and Jana wanted me to join them. She told me about her plans to return to Seville and how I needed to raise twenty thousand dollars by the time she left if I wanted to join her. That’s how she brought up living together— asking what my peculiarities were at home and how I felt about sharing a space with someone.

Portions of this felt like masochism as I ventured further into a web of instability.

“I don’t think you can be happy and make real art,” she said, sitting on the counter and drinking another americano. We’d just returned from the liquor store to get her amaro. Cake was playing on the home speakers, and she picked at the stir fry I had just made.

“I disagree. I think the tortured artist trope is a horrible example for young artists, or anyone to fall into. I think happy people, or at least content ones, are more productive than the terribly depressed. Besides, it’s more likely a happy artist will live longer than a sad one.” Each word I said brought a darker shade to her face. She coiled like a snake as she waited for me to finish.

“You’re wrong. Those aren’t real artists. I just don’t think you understand how it’s made. Or how the stuff that actually matters is made,” she said, letting it hang between us. The slow baritone of the Cake frontman crooned about the irony of late-stage capitalism and faux art appreciation. A moment I enjoyed as I stood across from the daughter of a wealthy family and fellow sneering fan.

The rest of the night passed in a haze. She idly brought up her old Italian love and how she still had over six thousand photos of him on her phone. I sleepily nodded and began wondering out I’d manage to walk away from this.

A week before the Vegas trip, she called on short notice about going camping. Knowing her van was a glamping dream, I figured one last adventure wasn’t out of the cards before I stepped into the wind. So, I packed a small bag and got into the van within the hour. We drove out to the coastal forest, out past Tillamook, and looked for a spot to park for the night.

She had been quieter than usual. No sharp jabs or diatribes about the failings of Phoebe Bridger.

“What’s up?”

“What do you mean? I’m my fine, dandy, normal self,” she said, clutching the steering wheel.

“Are you there?” I said before she slammed on the brakes.

“Am I?! Oh, wouldn’t the non-believer like to know!”

I turned to her slowly. “Jana…”

“Don’t fucking ‘Jana’ me!”

I began to regret getting into the van. Right after regretting meeting her for those initial drinks and continuing this well after knowing I shouldn’t. Had a cup full of tea leaves shouting, ‘Get the hell out!’ but the libido was stronger than reason.

“Let’s park the van, have a drink, and talk about this.”

“So what, you can tell me you think there’s some happy go lucky ‘Creative Spirit’ and that everyone should be nice to one another?”

“I don’t think that’s how I worded it, but being nicer wouldn’t be the worst problem, right?”

“I want you to get out of my van.”

“Jana, we’re in the middle of nowhere. Let’s just turn around, go back to town, and we can call it. Shit, you can even just drop me at the closest town.”

“No,” she said, pulling out a gun. “I want you get out of my van right now.”

I put my hands up slowly. “Woah, woah, woah. There’s no need for that.”

“I know what you really are. Does your family know? Do you friends?”

“Do they know what?” I said, trying to angle away from the barrel.

“That you’re a serial killer.” The confusion hit me along with the fear. I wasn’t going to leave this forest alive if I sat in this van any longer. I softly unclicked the seatbelt and turned to face her fully. Her hand wasn’t shaking, but she was giving me a small grin as if this were all part of a game. “When I was younger, I always secretly wanted to date a serial killer.”

I put my hand on the handle and put a hand up to her, “We don’t have to do this, Jana.”

She moved towards me and pushed the gun into my chest, “Go ahead on open the door.” I did, and she gave me a push.

***

It was an hour to sunrise as I ran through the forest. I had scuffed knees and a face full of pine sap from running into a tree. My long-rusted boy scout skills were kicking back in with the adrenaline. Jana couldn’t keep up with me on foot, but I didn’t trust her to not show up on some dead-end road, gun in hand.

My most honest regret as I kept charging through the ever-lightening forest was knowing I’d reached the end of a wildly unabashed roadhead from a person that swore they hated doing it. But kept offering each time I settled into the driver’s seat after they begged off driving because of a stomach ache. There were more important things to consider instead of the dueling sides of amaro, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what they were.

Veltex

She was beautiful in a government sanctioned, sanitary sort of way.

Her pearlescent smile shined like a prison spotlight and blinded the students as they tried to take a seat in the old auditorium.

The speaker, Ruth Langston, had come from Veltex Chemicals to give a presentation about exciting career opportunities for those who weren’t interested in college.

Of course she didn’t say college— she said university with an exaggerated dismissal. As if lauded halls of learning couldn’t compare to the  mandatory petroleum funded safety courses that Veltex employees were subject to completing yearly.

“The salary is competitive, the housing is subsidized, and on fridays we offer blue lobster in the dining hall. Yes, the one in two million blue lobster. Veltex has that and so much more to offer!” She said with a magician’s hand flourish. The auditorium stayed silent as she stared out into the crowd like a stiff smile that broke as soon as the first sounds of applause started.

Her hand strayed from an ominous red button under the podium and the hidden corporate muscle stayed in position. She had done it again, Langston with another home run, she thought to herself as the students filtered out of the auditorium, stopping to sign the email sheet and take a flyer and five dollar fried chicken coupon from a local Veltex subsidiary, Frankie’s Freaky Fast Fried (F)Chicken.

Only a decade earlier, Ruth had been one of the mindless drones before her today as she spoke. An equally charismatic & beautiful woman told her of a brighter world. Of endless opportunity and blue lobster. Of Veltex and the quest for industrial triumph.

It hadn’t been easy scaling the corporate ladder— the skeletons in her closet alone could frighten a novice necromancer. But Ruth Langston hadn’t been taught to quit, nor, had she been taught any particularly strong morals. After her promotion into educational marketing, Ruth found herself on the fast track to an executive suite and casual alcoholism. Her decanter overfloweth with fifty year old Glenfiddich and political favors. The favors being the easier of the two to obtain.

Elevator

“You’ve got the shoulders of a trout.”

“And you’ve got the mouth of a goat do you really want to start this?”

The two bellhops glared at one another before readjusting to let an elderly man into the elevator.

Deep Sand

I had had a dream about a boy lost to the desert. Time & sand had swallowed his village while and barred them from the rest of the world.

He grew under the gaze of the local blacksmith, and while not soft, he cared for the boy who showed sparks of genius. The boy would tinker on small inventions— his mind consumed with possibilities for possibilities sake.

Hours, minutes, days, they swirled together in a sandy haze as I watched the boys progress from over his shoulder. As if I had become some favorite familiar, guarding him from the troubles of the world.

When the boy was half grown, half yet a man, but still foolish as all youth are, he set about hunting a sand wyrm. An insidious beast that lurks beneath the depths of the deep sand waiting for large game to tread above. The boy, Igo, knew this and believed himself invulnerable armed with his intellect. He’d later come to learn that it was arrogance. Something that the wyrm killed amongst other things.

Black Dog

Above the road on the hill where the cemetery stood in Ebisuura, a black dog stalked through the aisles of forgotten graves. The man in the car, who saw it for a split second before turning back to the road, let out a small curse. The dog had followed him to the island.

The local residents hadn’t heard of the legend surrounding Black Dogs. They had other creatures to worry about. Until the man arrived— and the dog followed.

People had heard about the new English teacher arriving in town. There was nothing outwardly notable about the man from his predecessor. Average in height and looks, the townspeople figured he was another American on the island to teach the kids some English games and drink delicious sake. Both of which were true. Unfortunately, the being that followed the man had its own plans.

Years back amongst the trenches, the man had heard a shrill war cry. It cut through the din— and each man knew that the four black dogs of war had been loosed. They cared not for sides— only fatal completion. What had seemed a childhood fairytales became a waking nightmare as the spectral hounds ripped apart the men in Graham’s unit. It was only the arrival of a new day that saw the dogs disappear into a haze.

Graham had been running since that day— careful to avoid any conflict sites or even small scale disputes. After his arrival on the island, he thought he’d finally be safe. A sleepy, backwater island— how he was wrong.

Coracan Cantina

A billboard showed the vulpine face of Coracan’s most famous courtesan. A face that Aleran Rotaski knew well. It was the face he saw in his dreams. The face that drew him halfway across the galaxy and into constant trouble, Hinata Faim.

It was that same face that led him to an underused supply room where they kept their coupling a secret. Or had.

The door burst open just as Aleran had thrust himself inside her. Hinata screamed as three security guards ripped Aleran off of her. They took turns sending their boots into his stomach before another man entered the room with a satisfied smile.

“Aleran Rotaski, what a pleasure. The snake of Imhara found his way to my venue. I’m giddy as a ballroom debutante that you would honor us so. Although it seems you’ve already honored another here.” The man said with a leisurely gaze at Hinata’s naked body. “But, I must insist that you follow the rules that all our patrons have agreed upon. Otherwise, some might take exception to the unlawful sampling of services.” His smile turned cold as he handed Aleran a printed slip.

Aleran looked at the numbers on the paper in confusion. “What the hell do I owe you 30,000 credits for?”

“Miss Faim is still on the clock. Even if she decided to pursue her work in a … creative environment within my club. That’s the appropriate amount, I believe, for a galaxy-wide wish being fulfilled.” The man gave a wan smile before turning to leave the room. “Do try the front door next time. I’ll leave your name on my reserved list.” The guards hauled Hinata off the floor and gave Aleran one more kick before leaving him with blue balls and a red balance sheet. Aleran could only look as Hinata was dragged away. So much for being a badass, he thought as he lay on the floor.

The trick to being an infamous bounty hunter is to complete jobs that no one else wants— or believes themselves capable of doing. Aleran had a knack for sniping jobs like these from other seasoned professionals— hence the infamous tag. The Rotaski name became synonymous with thievery and lack of honor, but it didn’t stop the jobs from pouring in. Nor did it seem to stop the amorous offerings. Honor, Aleran believed, was a fool’s argument for vain nobility. He’d rather take the credits, whether they came in flesh or platinum form.

Aleran had originally met Hinata on a long trek from the Wenex Quadrant towards Coracan five years ago. He had hardly a credit to his name, but his prowess with his blaster was only short of his staggering self-belief. He believed himself a charming man— and his first interaction with Hinata landed him two sharp jabs to the nose and a satisfying kick to the peaches. Satisfying for Hinata, it must be said. Hinata had been scouted by the man that ran the Coracan Cantina. His name was Dario LeFleur, no doubt a self-styled affection. Dario had steadily built the Cantina into a quasi-arms base, with the attraction being some of the most beautiful beings in the galaxy under his yoke. He took a special interest in Hinata after seeing her perform a traditional dance during the middle of a sanctioned pit fight in the Wenex Prime gardens. She possessed a magnetism that made stomachs churn with desire and unhealthy fear.

Aleran had just secured his first big bounty when he decided to reacquaint himself with Hinata. He wasn’t surprised to find that she’d become the top billing at LeFleur’s Cantina. But he was surprised to find himself barred from the premises. When he pushed for answers— he was told that only premium bounty hunters were allowed in the club. The owner, they said, feared lower-level fare would be prone to mistakes in judgment and inability to cover inevitable damages.

It took Aleran eight months to finish enough jobs to be let into the first tier of the Cantina. Better than being barred but still three tiers away from Hinata. He’d later tell her this as they ate street food in Coracan. She laughed at him for his persistence— especially after he reminded her of their first meeting.

“You’re a fool, Aleran. No one climbs the tiers to have me go eat with them.”

“I did. Look at us now. Two sticks of meat and no indecent attacks. I’d say it was a good plan.”

“What is it you actually want?”

“Besides the fastest ship in the galaxy and a titanium cup? I’d like to keep seeing you without climbing the tiers.”

“You can have two out of those three. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

“I don’t track people for money because it’s enough. I do it because I want to. I want all three. But I’d be fine with just having you.”

Little Day

The lightning struck with a vicious hunger. The peals of thunder that followed seemed to emanate from my chest. The news the next day gave warning of landslides as the meteorological map showed the entirety of the island experiencing “extreme” weather.

Meanwhile, I’ve sat in my tiny apartment reading and thinking of new storylines to pursue. I took a break to cook a steak while the rain came down in gauzy sheets.

I’ve spent more time shirtless in this apartment than the entirety of my experiences on beaches. The humidity makes your lungs chug along like a stubborn farm truck. The heat saps you of most ambition and energy— but enough mental aptitude to recognize that you should be doing something more than watching TV.

I doubt today will bring more sightings of my new Japanese marten friend that prowls the apartment shrubbery. Nor do I think that I’ll find myself on a long walk with a landslide, thunder, gale, and ocean break warnings in effect. I am often foolish, but as I age, I tend to heed the advisory regarding inclement weather. I don’t need to gamble my mortality for such low returns.

Thus, today becomes a “Little Day,” in which I’ll remain at home and dive into ink-pressed worlds. I’ll think of long past stories that I forgot in lieu of active adventures. The stories smile at you when you peek back into old, creased pages. I carry my journals with me both to have a creative platform on hand and to reacquaint myself with past versions and their clever thoughts.

Magnolia

I called it the Magnolia blues. Her absence chilled the house like an empty wood pile. The smeared ink notes spoke of a need for change. I’d flick through her leftover dresses that hung like scarecrows in our closet.

I’ve spent plenty of afternoons at the edge of town wandering through the high grass fields.

My silver Pentax took grainy visions— ones she used to attach pithy captions to. Her memory shone like a midnight flare in those moments

Her last words ghosted through my mind,

“It feels like an alien entity. I don’t want this, but I don’t know what to do.”

I didn’t believe in curses before I met her. Nor would I if I hadn’t seen the abyss reflected in her eyes. Hope would flicker like campfire sparks— only to be extinguished by relentless tendrils.

I thought of praying— but the idea of gaining attention from either side scared me. It hadn’t been real before. I had been confident that it was all fairytales and pixie dust. The stories that charlatans tell to sell crystals and read unimportant lines.

It didn’t matter in the end. Not for her. Not for the future of this dying town.

An Idle Task

An older man walked across the town square. His sharp, blue uniform at odds with his ruffled hair and deep worry lines. The younger men moved out of his way, but a woman headed straight towards him. Pauline Danworth.

“Shit,” Luther said under his breath. He served under commander Danworth before rising in the ranks himself. He owed the Danworth family, and after the battle at Linton, he had a bad feeling about why she was walking towards him.

“Luther! Pardon, Lord Allen. I only need a minute of your time.”

“Pauline, lovely to see you. How can I help you?”

“It’s about my son. No one has heard from him since Linton.”

“Pauline… I’m sorry but-“

“They haven’t found his body. They’ve recovered almost everyone else. But no one from his regiment.”

“The odds are slim. You know that we do not hold Linton. It’s dangerous for any men  to be there right now.”

“I have no right to ask this of you, but if I don’t I will regret it forever. Will you go save my boy?”

Luther clenched his fist and released it with a slow breath. “I will try. That is all I can promise. It’s been many years since I’ve been in the north. Things may not be as I left them.”

“It can burn for all I care. As long as Willem returns home, I care of nothing else.”

The Harpoon League

Harold Svenson had all the personality of a slimy mushroom. His lank, grey hair covered small black beady eyes and his demeanor was reminiscent of a habitual lemon biter. It wasn’t a stretch to call him the vilest man in all of Copenhagen. Except no one would say that. Not with him being the captain of the esteemed Harpoon League.

It’s commonly thought that after the majority of the civilized world learned where the Vikings hailed from that their influence and fear diminished permanently.

That would be a mistake. Certain members of exalted lineages took it upon themselves to create a league of fearsome reavers. Dedicated to honoring their bellicose past, albeit, under the guise of a successful trading company. Not that many were fooled by the subterfuge.

The Harpoon League was known for supplying the majority of the Western world’s whale fat. Before the introduction of electricity, those who dealt in whale fat possessed an unrivaled wealth. And married to wealth, is power. Marking those men as leaders; Harold being the foremost.

It was after the passing of Sir Francis Drake that the Harpoon League was able to finally surpass both English and Spanish privateers & pirates. They was said to be a special medallion that Harold wore that ensured safe passage through battle and flights of fancy.

Though the medallion marked him for safety, it transformed him into a tempting target. One that the most talented and foolhardy young buccaneers found themselves drawn to. Even among his own crew, Harold kept a cautious distance.

Even cautious men sleep. When night arrived during a passage across the English Channel, Harold woke to a cold blade pressed against his neck.

“Slow, or I’ll gut you like a pig,” A harsh voice said. Harold didn’t dare to move. The man above him took slow, heavy breaths. The darkened room felt heavy and Harold felt a rage build within him.

“You’ll be taking that knife from my throat, or I’ll lash you to the keel myself and let you brave my mercy,” Harold said.

The man gave a low chuckle and pricked Harold’s stubbled neck. A small stream of blood accompanied the pain.

“I think I’ll be keeping it here until you give me that medallion.”

“I’ll dangle it over your body once I pull that blade from your ass.” Harold said as he jerked away from the blade, braving a thin slash across his throat. He grabbed his own dagger from beneath his pillow and drove it into the man’s thigh.

The man screamed and stabbed at Harold, who twisted out of the way before retrieving his sword that lay upon the desk. “Last chance before I make you scream for Freya.”

The man let loose a bellow and dove at Harold, who let a contemptuous swing of his blade separate the man’s head from his body. Both landed with heavy thuds on the floor, quickly staining the dark wood.

Harold stared at the man in distaste, “Just fucking cleaned this floor.”

The news traveled quick of Harold’s assassination survival. The crew kept their eyes down as he viewed each one of them complicit in his ordeal. The next two days were spent in a grueling slog as he ordered them to the nearest port at double speed. Secret prayers were made for mercy, even by the ignorant amongst the crew. Especially by them. When the ship arrived at port, a reckoning would be upon them all.

Wynwood Manor

Finding the bones of a small bird in a carved out bible should’ve been the sign to leave the house. Instead, we kept digging through forgotten rooms— hoping to find something worth taking.

The curse of all young thieves is undiscerning greed. Each opportunity seems to possess life altering riches without lasting danger. That’s how Lawerence and I found ourselves inside the manor. We were on the edge of darkness and each minutes spent in that house brought us closer to it.

The Wynwood manor was said to be vacated after a family disagreement. They failed to mention the following family they replaced them. Lawrence and I had only been working together for a couple weeks at that point and we were both eager to gain the praise of our boss, Samantha. I can see now, that if we had waited a day longer everything would’ve been different.

A gentle knocking rose from the basement and echoed through the house. It began to build as Lawrence and I crept around the second floor. We soon gave up trying to hide the sounds of our footsteps. I tried to ask him what was happening but I was too scared to get the words out. I doubt Lawrence would’ve been able to respond anyway his eyes were wild with fear and I knew mine to be the same. My back had slicked with sweat And I prayed I would not have to face whatever was knocking.

It grew louder and louder as a house began to shake around us and with it came a wicked laugh. It had a dry rasp That would make calm minds think of shuffled papers. My legs stayed locked as I struggled to not let out a scream. I saw Lawerence’s hand run with blood as he bit down to keep quiet. Tears flowed from his eyes as he clenched them shut. I tried to pray, but the words escaped me.

Shaking, I placed an old golden stamp on the ground. I grabbed at Lawerence’s arm, “We have to get out of here.”

He shook his head back and forth. I grabbed him again.

“If you don’t open your eyes, we’re never going to get out of here.” I hissed. He peeked an eye open and looked over my shoulder. His face turned white and he dropped to the floor. I stood frozen in place— I couldn’t turn around to whatever stood in the doorway

I felt a hot breath on my neck as the laugh returned to my ear. A grip of iron caught my arm as I made to turn.

“Shh, shh, don’t cry out. You can still be brave if you stay silent.” The voice crooned as it’s fetid breath wafted towards me. “Join your friend in his sweet slumber and maybe you’ll be lucky to forget this wasn’t a dream.”

The iron grip pushed me to the floor. I didn’t try to fight it and quickly wrapped myself in a ball. Careful to keep my eyes shut. The last scraps of courage melted as a blank sleep snatched me from the nightmare.

In the morning I found myself alone in the room. The only sign of Lawerence were some drops of blood from his hand. I slowly got my feet and scanned the empty room. The sunshine felt like false safety, but I began to inch towards the doorway. My chest tightened as I strained to hear anything in the house, but it was a stale silence.

Once through the doorway I began to speed up as I made for the front door. I started down the wide staircase when I saw the door the manor stand wide open. Lawerence had already escaped— I lost control and broke into a sprint. The first step into the world paired with a boom as the door slammed behind me. I saw a flash of shadow and a twisted, grey face smiling from the second floor. It’s wicked laugh filled the air as I ran to the street. I ran until I couldn’t breathe— but even then the fear remained. As did the creature within the manor.

28

I am three years younger than Alexander the Great. Three years older than John Keats. However I haven’t conquered empires, nor do I write evocative poetry. Instead, I’m on a distant island in the pacific, trying to find a viable soccer field and writing short stories.

I feel more of a boy than a man on days where the wind croons a harsh melody.

I am two years from thirty years old. This is the infancy of my twenty eighth year. The twelfth day— followed soon by the twelfth night.

I am returning to bold dreams the way a stubborn worm bursts through hard packed dirt. A continuous wriggling of my being— simply because it is my nature to do so. To be inactive is a denial of myself.

For someone that crafts words with care upon the page. I have struggled to express the emotions that live within my chest. I can articulate the feelings— and where they might spring from. But to feel? That is a skill that has faded in the past two years. I feel akin to the scarecrow hanging in the field— stiff posture, but little substance.

Might it be that my feelings are an artificially dammed well. There is a depth and ferocity to them that is obscured by mindless activities. The shallow waters can still drown the careless as easily as the deep.

But I am grateful that in this next stage— I have not suddenly transformed into a foreign entity. I have not escaped across the world to become a different person. I possess the same core— and if you look upon me, you will recognize someone you have seen before. Although perhaps with more layers.

Distant

I only pray when the frogs stop croaking at night. The foul silence that falls after their bombastic chorus makes my neck go cold with fear. There is something that lives outside in the fields beyond my farm. Something that takes sick delight in having been forgotten by everyone else in this god forsaken town. No one believed me when I mentioned the fields going silent in the night. Their eyes blanked as if to say “Harris, you sweet thing, this is why we don’t invite you to bingo,” as if I wanted to go anyway.

It hadn’t been difficult to get up and move out of the city after my job offered me the chance to work remote. I had dreamed of living in Hopsly since I vacationed here as a kid with my family. I knew it was a small town, but I hadn’t realized how insular it was. That was a mistake I tried to correct by frequenting the Red Elk, a bar good for cheap Miller High Life and the world’s dingiest dart board. Still, I had hoped to make at least one friend. That was partially fulfilled by my semi-regular drinking partner, Arthur Stanton, the local radio host. Arthur had gone off to LA to work in film, but fled back to Hopsly after an unfortunate incident involving an up and coming starlet and a mistaken laxative dose. Arthur had a melodic voice, but it frayed at the edges after a couple drinks, which was a now daily case.

“Have you heard anything about an escaped cougar or anything? I asked Arthur.

“Why are you asking me? I don’t know anything about wilderness stuff.”

“But you are in the news, right? Isn’t that the sort of thing that is broadcasted to the public, for like safety?”

“Harris, I play Fleetwood Mac and Woody Guthrie. The closest I come to delivering the news is when I have to mention the next George Strait concert. Why? You think there’s a cougar roaming around town? You gonna tell me her name?” Arthur gave a swarmy grin. He had a penchant for experienced woman.

“Ew, no. It’s nothing. Just thought there was an animal around my place the other night.”

“You’re out by Alconda Ridge, right? Could be an off-season bear rattling through. Would be a bit unlikely though.”

“Maybe… I couldn’t find any tracks for it. But it cut the frogs off dead silent. Really freaked me out.”

“I’ll tell you what, if you hear that again, you go ahead and give me a call at the station. I’ll see if I can make an announcement this one time.” I smiled and clinked my glass against his.

“I appreciate that. Hopefully it’s just nothing.”

***

I woke up to broken glass on the ground and myself splayed across it. I tried to turn to look around but my neck shrieked with pain. A small pool of blood had gathered next to where my head had laid. I started looking for my phone. I had to call Arthur— the town was in danger.

***

“You alright, Mister Connall? You took quite a nasty fall the other day. I’m glad to report that the stitches required were minimal and you should heal up without too much scarring.” A dour man in a white coat said as he scribbled as a clipboard.

“Scarring? Why would there be scarring?”

“Because of the glass, Mister Connall. It’s common to also have some disorientation after such a heavy collision. I would advise lessening the alcohol intake for the time being. Both for prudence and safety’s sake.”

“I was drinking?” The memories came back in a hazy fog. I had returned home, but something hadn’t been right. The door to my home had been open. I knew I had wanted to call Arthur immediately, but wasn’t sure I had.

“A fair amount, if the blood tests are correct” he gave a wry smile “And they always are.”

I rubbed my face, hoping to remember more from the night. “Did Arthur come by yet?”

“Our famous Mr. Stanton? Oh yes, he was here earlier this morning. He seemed frantic, but that’s the mark of a true friend, now isn’t it?”

“I guess? Can you call him back? I think I was supposed to talk to him.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible at this time. We need you to rest up before we can dismiss you from our care. It wouldn’t do to have you take another fall from preventable exhaustion.”

“Tomorrow then?” I asked, hoping he couldn’t hear the tightness in my chest. I couldn’t wait to talk to Arthur.

The doctor begin to fiddle with my IV as he pursed his lips “I’m sure we will revisit this tomorrow. For now, I’d like you to rest.”

The room began to grow fuzzy as I started fading. As the promise of sleep drifted near, I remembered a distant fear run through my body. I hoped my door would be closed when I returned home, although I couldn’t remember why.

With a gentle creep of rest— I heard a distant croaking and breathed easy.

Peaks

It was nearly impossible for the legions to summit the mountains of Akmanduth, but under the relentless guidance of commander Halern, they found the will to conquer long respected giants. The mountains had served as a traditional defense for the people of Aka. They had wistfully believed their safety secured because no one was mad enough to attempt an invasion from the west. It wasn’t foolish, but unlucky, that Rollow Halern set his eyes upon Akamanduth and denied the impossible.

Thirty thousand started the journey from Kellern, but only twenty five thousand remained after the scaling of the peaks. It was an abundance Halern hadn’t needed. He could have taken Aka with five thousand and a leisurely pace. But that wasn’t what King Praz asked of him. Praz had told him to take Aka within a fortnight, or to never return to Kellern. So, Halern winked at the god of luck, and spat at destiny before carving apart a mountain range.

The smell of horse shit clung even to the infantry as they marched into the verdant valley after Akmanduth. The people of Aka were famous for their equestrian skills and often believed to start riding before walking. It was no wonder that they worshiped the old god, Celebras, the centaur who had stolen the moon. Halern thought the story was a poorly crafted myth. The moon waned and waxed under its own accord— holding its spot in the sky due to its own magic, not something borrowed from a muddled creation that can’t wear pants.