Hacky Sack Weekend

There is a three day weekend and a three day typhoon inbound. For someone that has been instant coffee exhausted all week, this might just be perfect. I am going to stay in my apartment and live through another set of typhoons, but this time they won’t be as big.

About once a month I have a night where I don’t sleep at all. I’m not sure what gets my mind going, but without fail I seem to make it through the night without catching any real sleep. It makes the daily feel very mundane. Which is hilarious when you consider that I’m living in a completely different culture and the totality of my day is spent operating in a different language than English.

When I get home and finally relax I end up laughing. Because it’s only been a month and a half, but there’s already feels very normal. It feels normal to only understand about 50% of what is going on in the conversations around me. It feels normal to constantly be learning new traditions and holidays and what have you.

I’m grateful for the odd mix of incredible & mundane. it shows me that no matter where you are in the world or in your life – when you fall into a regular pattern, everything becomes part of a new status quo. And that in itself underlines how important perspective is.

Every day where I go into a different one of my seven schools I’m jumping in with both feet into these little microcosm of life. I feel lucky to get to interact with all the people that I do and even though I don’t always know the full extent of what’s being said I understand the gist.

I’m not particularly eloquent or graceful especially when I’m tired. But I do tend to relax emotionally. I’m looking forward to it otherwise could be seen as both an emergency and a huge inconvenience. I’m looking forward to it because it’s the only option that feels right.

We can either lean into things in this life or we can try to lean out but until we leave the mortal plane our feet are on the same track.

Jetfoil

Next week will be the first time I leave the island of Tsushima. in many ways it will feel like the first full foray into a wider life in Japan. Living on the island is comfortable. It’s very small. And while it is beautiful in ways that make me stop and stare at the scenery, it is still far away from the crowds of mainland Japan.

Ironic to think that I don’t feel fully independent even though I’m sitting here in my apartment halfway across the world from Portland. But I think taking a trip to Fukuoka crack open that misconception. In a greater way it will remind me that if I have the time or if I can make the time I can go wherever I want in this country.

I made my reservations for Downtown. The area is called Tenjin and It’s not far away from the port that I get into. It’ll be a transition going from seen maybe five people on the road at a time to who knows how many.

I’m looking forward having no idea what I wanna do there. It’s a week away and I literally have no plans. I can’t think of a better set up.

Old Tricks

“When boxing up the wizards, remember to separate their hats and staffs first. Those go in a separate container. If they learned you crushed their precious items, they’d rain hell down upon you. Got it?”

“Ehhh... can an intern do this?”

A Brief Reprieve

Today is a placeholder type of day. I’ve got two separate dream pieces I’ve started after some unexpectedly intense dreams last night. One involving a cafe robbery sequence and the other involving a home invasion. Neither were very conducive to sound sleep.

So— I thought I’d reflect on the best parts of the day. I got to play soccer with some of my elementary students at lunch. I can look out from the school windows to see misty mountains looming over the school. They make me think of the Pacific Northwest, but the bevy of butterflies, geckos, and giant insects make me consider that I really am in a subtropical area.

When I walk past students in the hall— I can hear them whisper my name with their excited giggles. That’s if they don’t rush right up to me to say “Hello!” before standing stock still and then running off again.

Tomorrow is another new school— it’ll be the fourth one I’ve been to so far. I have three others that I’ll eventually visit. It’s been interesting to see the formality and teaching styles differ between the schools. They’ve all been uniformly pleasant and I can’t say there’s been a bad moment. The closest would be the long sections of time I’m sequestered in the staff room— reading over my Japanese textbook and scribbling barely legible notes.

I feel more contemplative than I did before I moved halfway across the world. Part of that is the free time I have. Not having a huge social group yet means times where I’d be at a restaurant, bar, soccer game, movie, etc, I’m at home or walking around town.

It gives me time to reflect on how I’ve gotten here. It’s made me look at my core habits— and how some of the ones that look the hardest are the ones that have the easiest entries.

I ride my exercise bike about five days a week. I consider it to be my “lazy” way to get fit. I watch movies while I ride. Or I call a friend. Or I’m reading a book or writing one of my 365 pieces. And of course, sometimes I am just riding. But more often than not I’m keeping my legs moving while involving my brain in something else. It’s infinitely harder for me to go to the gym. Here or back in the states. The social nature of it made me uncomfortable— I’ve never been big into lifting or know most of the machines, so the barrier of entry seemed tall. Whereas having an exercise bike and free weights at my own apartment? Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

The same goes for writing. I used to have stricter methods or rules I had for myself. But now? The only thing that matters is that I complete one single sentence and post it. That’s it. Usually, I’m doing it right from my phone. I’ll have productive flurries— but most of the time I’m just spitballing “why’s” and pretty descriptions. If you do it enough days in a row— with a low entry bar (I’m talking so low you could roll over the bar) it becomes a regular habit.

I no longer torture myself on whether or not I’m a writer. Instead, I just write what I want to and see how that shakes out.

So, before I go. I ask you— what is something you want to do but keep procrastinating? How can you lower the entry level?

As I once scrawled on a onesie for my soon-to-be born godson and shamelessly stole from a greater mind than myself: “You have to be brave before you can be good.” - Brian K. Vaughn.

Frisson

The sonorous keys of the organ vibrate through my soul. I hear lines of artistic magic and fly upon its swell— as if I were gifted wings to accompany the words that float through my mind.

Stairwell

Unripened green plantain colored spiders decorate the staircase. They’ve grown to the size of a child’s palm— hanging on thin tendrils in the landing nooks. I pass slowly beneath as I make my way to the ground floor.

I’m in the midst of the great adventure I always told myself I would go on. I’m on a lush subtropical island off the coast of Japan. A place I would have never expected nor counted out. There’s a surreal aspect to walking across the same land as Kublai Khan’s Mongol forces. Surreal to look out at ocean patches were the last vestiges of the Russian Empire were broken by an unheralded Japanese navy.

There are small shrines hidden behind dense foliage along the roadsides. Temples that have stood for hundreds of years. It feels that everywhere on this island is packed with vital parts of history.

The clouds move quick overhead. They’ve got a metropolis pace to them that doesn’t fit the languid island activity below. The sunlight is caught and magnified by small portals of white silk— there seems to be a thousand varieties of green and blue that stretch out across the 270sq miles of interspersed land and water. Archipelago fits the landscape better than island—- little sections knit together by narrow roads and a bevy of bridges.

Autumn Mishmash

A charcoaled sweetness on the wind. The festival air is different as autumn arrives under a glowing moon.

The chittering of the bugs has changed pitch. The ruffle of latent storms whispers in my ears as I walk along the darkened path home.

An old man in striped pajamas ushers a street cat to his home with shaky hands. I smile and keep walking. At the next corner there’s a black cat standing sentry. It has a pink collar with a bright silver bell. It shies away as I pass. It stops when I murmur a gentle greeting.

The water in the canal— a brackish mix of river and sea— gurgles like the old men I work with at the washroom sink after lunch. It seems louder with nightfall— I wonder if the spirits of other old men gargle in other ports to let you know they’re still around. They’ve just changed forms.

I’m on a quest to get a pack of cheap beer after I meditated my way through an eighty minute session on my exercise bike. I’ve been hitting a thousand active calories— wondering if I can see a difference. I feel one on the days I’m not sleep deprived.

My favorite part outside of it being a common place for me to write stories (which I think is delightfully ludicrous) is way the deluge of sweat feels like an achievement. Being drenched is my favorite part— it makes me feel like I’ve earned a merit badge for taking care of my body.

Even more— it’s the mental reset. The continual refinement of what I think is possible. It’s persistence— something I’m well acquainted with. You can stop— but if you really want what you’re after, you can’t quit.

So I find myself strolling through the slightly busy streets of a Friday night in Izuhara. I ghost among them as I return to my spot on the hill with minimal interaction. I even see my friends at the billiards bar as I walk by. I’m grateful I can say a sentence like that so quickly into living here. I keep walking— knowing that the night is quickly fading for me.

By the time I return home the poetry of the evening has faded. I can no longer hear it’s song— it has delicate wings— never hovering in the same spot for long. My words return to a grumbled mash as I finally sit down.

What will this evening hold for you?

Something about Carmine Tangerines

There’s a small island off the west coast of India that’s said to have carmine colored tangerines. Malachi Grennich didn’t know why he had to have one, but after someone told him about them at a grime filled back alley drag show, he knew he had to go.

Malachi put his two weeks notice in at his job and left the next day. His dreams were filled with carmine as he slept walked through the three layovers, four flights, and five taxi’s he had to take to get to the island of Saraswati.

He stepped onto a dusty street surrounded by a lush jungle. He woke up from a walking dream to find a different world. The lies that spoke from the orchards before him captured fractions of a forgotten cataclysm that humans knew not the name of.

Malachi walked into the waves of citrus and disappeared from memory.

A faint star shines of carmine as it hangs overhead the lonely fields outside of Saraswati. The only reminder that the taste of curiosity cannot be sated by earthly imaginations.

It’s Steve Morocco, Baby

“Son of a bitch, it’s Steve Morocco!” The city lights burn like lasers as the siren call is let loose.

“Steve Morocco!! Steve, please! Over here!”

“Fuck off, I saw him first!” A pack of tattooed dancers start swinging on each other. Their claws will be counted as deadly weapons by the penal system

“Have my babies!” A sweaty snap backed man yells over the fun of the frenzied crowd. The DJ looks around the club in horror. It’s every entertainer’s worst nightmare— the Party Crash King, Steve Morocco.

Steve Morocco, with his golden lions mane and kitschy velvet slippers. The old spice sweat soaked menthol cigarette aroma wafts off him like a CIA funded pheromone riot weapon. DnD nerds call it his AOE attack— the Morocco Mist— an inundating invisible spell that emanates off of him.

There’s a hazy sheen to Steve Morocco’s face. It’s impossible to recall it with certainty— only the unsettling whispers that you did something questionable under its spell. His eyes have been said to make cloistered nuns bear their breasts.

The legend of the night will be the appearance of the enigmatic figure that is Steve Morocco. Strangely, all video records are rendered useless. Instagram posts fall into half loaded limbo. Snapchats cause androids to incinerate and IPhones to Venmo their most recent ex $100.

For all the chaos— everyone wakes up the following morning (somehow safely at home without knowing how they got there) thinking the same thing.

Will I ever see him again?

Organic

Melanie loaded a crate of peaches into her haggard Subaru “I don’t know if he identified as organic.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me. What does that even mean? Does he identify as a robot? Is he the newest iteration of Tesla tech?”

“Listen, I just tried to leave the Farmer’s market as quickly as I could after that.”

“Does he have a back up camera? Does that ass go ‘beep, beep’?” Sauvi said aggressively swishing her hand back and forth like a 1950’s school paddle. Melanie rolled her eyes and kept packing the other fruits into the trunk. They needed to hurry up otherwise Miranda would those stupid pastel sticky notes with friendly things like “Hope your clock didn’t break!” Smiley face included.

“Are you finished?” Sauvi stopped mid-swish and turned to Melanie.

“I’ll die before I’m finished,” she said before vigorously jumping back into it.

Hinnamnor

Being on the precipice of a typhoon feels like being at the top of a roller coaster

I’m sitting here watching Mr.Nobody having just poured myself a glass of whiskey. It sounds better than it tastes. My stomach struggles to hold it with ease.

The winds have just started up and there’s this first feeling of fear. There’s a thrill to it. There’s a power in the storm— one that transcends normality.

I won’t be at school tomorrow— there’s a level four evacuation in place for the town. It’s below needing me to leave to the shelter, but it’s enough that I’m on edge.

***

I moved my futon into the kitchen— the power fought against the storm. Prevailing four times before this fifth shut off seems to have succeeded (for now).

My electric orange candle plays a fire like light around this darkened kitchen.

I’m listening to Angel Olsen’s voice as I write to my siblings.

I don’t feel that I’m half a world away from them— but as the eye of Hinnamnor approaches— I know that I am.

The wind howls outside. It creeps in through the unsealed cracks and bray like wild dogs in my living room. The rice paper doors shake as they hold firm against the energy.

Out of the front door I can hear the ten foot metal clothing pole rolling around. Maria said it’s been there for years. No one has bothered to pick it up.

I hope the drains stay clear— I did my Portlander duty and cleared them with a pair of disposable chopsticks and two sheets of old cardboard that I fashioned as scoops.

The power returns. The overhead light is first to flicker back into life before the gentle hum of the fridge greets me.

I think of drinking a cup of coffee before the power goes out again. It’s more for the comforting ritual than a desire to be awake.

I think of my progress in the last month. I arrived with fragile Japanese. A lacking confidence in my language ability, but confidence in interacting with people. My time coaching and teaching carried me through initial disconcerting encounters as I felt wholly ignorant of what was being said around me.

It swirled back into place as I let myself fail with enthusiasm.

The sunrise brings a quelled version of the typhoon as the eye has passed over Izuhara. The night bleeds together like a fever dream or debaucherous outing. I slept in shifts as the storm conjured images of wild banshees as it howled outside. My doors and windows shook until I thought I’d be looking outside in surprise like a canned sardine as the aluminum is peeled back.

I can’t yet see the port— I wonder how high the ocean has risen. My curiosity darts around the meager collection of island spots I know— wondering which have prevailed against the strongest storm on the planet.

This coming day will proceed in fits and starts as my body aches for sustained sleep— I wish it luck as I sip the coffee I made before I knew my electricity wouldn’t slip away again.

Ebbs

The clumped bulbs and vines of the seaweed resembled a corpse as it floated near the edge of the swimming line. If you looked up and hadn’t spotted the kale colored imposter, you’d think you were swimming in foul waters.

The more you smell the salt on the air and see the distant shimmers in open water, you begin to understand how tales of mischievous creatures were first composed.

You don’t feel alone as you bob on the surface of the ocean— no words need to be spoken to let you know that invisible eyes track your every move. That your every moment sends a ripple outward signaling your position. You drift along the top like a wayward traveler— more in common with those they cling to dinghy’s than meaningful pilots.

Depths

Writhing in the chaotic mess of the approaching storm was a seething mass of scales and wrath. The dark swells started in the depths of the ocean— out past the eyes of any sane mortals. The ocean turned a cobalt blue as energies massed into something sentient.

The townspeople burned roses to ward off the dark miasma that gathered beyond their shore. Strong gales whipped the ash into the dark waters— harmlessly settling on the surface before sinking. Forgotten in its purpose. Useless in its application.

Their desperate effigies couldn’t withstand the pulsing frequencies from the waking titan. Power begets power— and nothing shook the earth like the rising force from the depths.

Gerald

He had the face of someone afraid to have an opinion.

It’s easier to go with the group. Fit in.

That’s how Gerald Langley ended up in a basement performing a human sacrifice. Let it be a lesson to the other milquetoast children out there. Conformity is not the answer.

Now, there might be those that think me a cunt the size of a dirigible, but rest assured I’m a humble purveyor of this story. One in which an unlikely, spineless man, raises the long forgotten ghost of King Solomon and dooms the world.

But then again, how are you to understand that’s what doomed it? In this age of corporate saturation, economic downturn, and environmental catastrophe, it could simply be happenstance.

But it’s not.

Gerald Langley cursed the world the moment he pierced the heart of an overworked pizza boy who was too shocked to run when greeted by hooded figures at the door.

Shame, the pepperoni had just come out of the oven. And Finucci’s really does have the best crust.

Still, a single pizza boy and Gerald Langley’s clammy hands were all it took to doom the world.

Parking Stripes

Each time I step onto my balcony, my eye slides towards the parking lot. I’m waiting for the things that hide behind the old hospital. They creep between the apartment building and the hospital turned old folks home. It’s a land of forgotten lives. The type that twist in the shadows.

I consider myself lucky— I’ve only seen it once. It crawled between cars— slinking beyond the shine of the fluorescent lamps. It jumped between patches of darkness like sun spots for an unpracticed eclipse viewer. It’s thin, grey, mottled limbs seemed too thin to support it’s bloated torso.

The emergency evacuation chute is located between the two big parking lot spotlights— it’s designed to expel medical waste during peak operating hours. Or it was before the building switched functions— now, it’s where the creature creeps out from.

During the early mornings I look into the vacant rooms across the way while I sip my grainy instant coffee. Too cheap for premium Java, too broke to move. I keep watch— just in case I catch the creature crawling between rooms during the daylight.

I keep a journal of my meager sightings. Hoping that one day I will have more to tell— and safe enough that I can live to tell more.

No one will believe me until then. No one will know that I know of the things that move in the night. Of the dark things that believe themselves sight unseen.

Trick or Treat

“Big braaaaaiiiiinnnnnn! Come back! You said you’d go trick or treating with me!” Morgan called out as Sylvia walked away.

Sylvia heard Morgan put all of her one hundred and three pounds of junior varsity lacrosse frame to use and sprint down the hall after her.

“I wasn’t kidding, Syl. This could be our last year to trick or treat! I want some Mars bars before the Brinkley brothers ransack the neighborhood.“ Sylvia sighed and stopped walking.

“Fine,” she said with a groan. “But I’m choosing my own costume this year. I don’t want to wear another glam band outfit. I’m still finding glitter from last year…”

“Yes! Ahh! We’re going to have so much fun,” Morgan said as she jumped up and down. Sylvia wondered what it would take for Morgan to not move. She’d known her since they were five years old, and the years that passed weren’t the blur, it was Morgan running around.

“I also don’t want to go down San Rafael street. I know you like the creepy half-lit streets, but we’re not doing that this year. Only the good streets off of Knott.”

“Ugh, fine. But we’re totally gonna miss out on the candy bowls they leave on their porches.”

“Not worth it. Five dollars the Brinkley brothers will clear those out first.” The bell for fifth period rang— leaving Morgan and Sylvia late for math. Miss Kenten wasn’t going to be happy with them.

As the sun lowered over the city, Sylvia and Morgan got ready at Morgan’s house. They were in the attic, surrounded by old mirrors and open chests of theater costumes. Morgan came from a long line of thespian’s, making her insistence on athletics frustrating to her parents. Still, they were happy to let Morgan and Sylvia rifle through the old costumes in hope it convinced her to take a step closer to the stage.

Sylvia put on a dusty train inspectors uniform and rotated in front of the mirror. She grabbed a black cap off the ground and put it on.

“Now that’s an outfit! You look like your name could be Horace or Theodore,” Morgan said as she loosely held a purple leotard.

“I said no glam bands.”

“But-“

“I’m not suffering through another year of glitter. There’s plenty of other costumes.”

“Fine,” Morgan stuffed the leotard back into a chest and pulled out a nun’s frock. “What do you think?” She said waggling her eyebrows, “I could make a habit of this.” Sylvia let out a snort which prompted Morgan into a belly laugh. They were both on the ground crying with laughter as they struggled to gulp down air.

They eventually made it outside with their costumes and pillow cases for candy. The little kids accompanied by mom or dad had already started and finished before it got too dark. The streets were left to the slightly older kids who wandered without their parents.

The rain held off— letting the girls enjoy a surprisingly dry Portland Halloween. They thought it a sign of good fortune. Forgetting all the stories of pale moon nights in the city. They made a leisurely circuit around the Irvington neighborhood before they heard it. The gentle whimpers of a hurt animal.

They paused— waiting to see if it stayed put. They held their breath as a small, black, shaggy creature limped onto the sidewalk before them.

“Syl! It’s a little puppy— poor guy must have been attacked by a coyote or something,” Morgan said rushing to the creature. It made another small whimper before letting out a phlegmy growl. It’s hackles raised as Morgan jumped back from it.

Sylvia began inching backwards “I don’t think that’s a dog, Mo. We should just let it be.”

“But it’s not safe out here for it!”

“It’s not gonna be safe for us either if it keeps growling like that. I don’t think it wants us to touch it.”

The animal seemed to crackle and melt as it began to expand into a larger beast. The phlegmy growl became a full throated bass. It’s dark squinty eyes began to glow like rainy red neon.

“Mo…” Sylvia said grabbing for Morgan’s hand. “We have to go— NOW.”

The pair took off in a sprint as the beast behind them let out of wicked howl. The moonlight flashed between blank patches of sky as the trees covered most of the neighborhood. Ten blocks— they just had to make it ten blocks, Sylvia thought. They must have strayed far into the night, because the previously busy streets were empty as they ran.

Up ahead were three figures similar in height strolling down the middle of Thompson. They were laughing as they swung their bulky pillowcases at each other. They hadn’t heard the creature—

“RUN!!” Sylvia screamed at the trio. The shocked faces of Grant, Josh, & Alex Brinkley turned to take in the frantic sight of Sylvia and Mo sprinting down the street. The boys stopped and then watched the girls run past before hearing the scrabble of thick nails on pavement. The beast burst onto the street two blocks behind them and howled before resuming its chase.

“What the fu-“ Josh said before Mo ran back and wrenched him into a run.

“Just run!” Mo screamed at the brothers. All five of them ran together— they were only a block away from Morgan’s house. The beast sounded closer as they rounded the corner and had her home in sight. “To my house!” She didn’t have time to check if they agreed.

They flew up the old wooden steps and burst through the front door. Mo slammed the door shut and threw the locks. She took a deep, shuddering breath. The door was immediately met with a heavy force— it threw her to the ground, but the heavy oak door held. Sylvia and the Brinkley brothers looked behind Mo in horror. A claw had jammed through the door and broken off. It’s curled, black mass felt more menacing than the howl. They could hear the beast pad across the porch as it huffed.

“What the hell is that thing?” Grant asked as he got up from the floor. His usual cherubic face lined with worry.

“I don’t know. Syl and I thought it was a puppy at first. But I don’t know. It’s bad- whatever it is.”

“Mo, where are your parents?” Syl asked as she looked around the darkened house. The usual nighttime lamps weren’t on.

“I think they’re out at a party. My mom just opened her new play downtown. Should I call them? Do we call the cops? Animal control?”

“Does anyone have a cellphone on them?” Grant asked. The tallest and oldest Brinkley brother trying to use a calm voice.

“You don’t have one?” Mo said as she stared a second too long at Grant. The moment was broken as the door thudded again. The wood groaned, but continued to hold.

“No, I don’t have one. Our parents don’t believe in kids having phones. What about you? Isn’t there a landline?”

“A landline? This isn’t the sixties, Grant. Everyone has a cell phone now.”

“Then where’s yours?”

Mo patted her body down as Sylvia did the same thing, “I must have dropped it…”

Grant shook his head, “Never thought I’d die in the Wallstein house.” Alex and Josh exchanged terrified looks.

“Uh…” Alex raised his hand, “should we move away from the door?” Everyone turned at that to stare at their dwindling hope in wooden form. It shuddered again as the beast tried yet another time.

Sylvia looked at Mo and then looked up towards the attic. Mo nodded.

Entombed

Once the lantern was lit, I knew there would be no turning back. That small, defiant flame perched on the end of the oiled wick seemed to smile at me— as if it held the same sentience as myself. Nevertheless, it was time. One does not enter a dragon’s lair half-cocked. Ideally, one does not enter it at all. But a contract with a djinn is not to be trifled with.

I hadn’t always been a tomb raider— once, when I was still a young man, I had been the assistant to a famous court historian. Ramsey Islington had made his name after unearthing the Circle of the Sphinx in Mallorca. It had been a powerful summoning tool for a forgotten band of Iberians that controlled the eastern coast. I had tagged along as a favor to my uncle, Lord Kenwick. He had made it clear to professor Islington that I was to be made useful to the excavation but not put in harm’s way. Professor Islington failed on both accounts.

Uncovering the Circle of the Sphinx had made Professor Islington reckless. Desperate to prove that he had another great discovery in him, he threw himself into dangerous situations without mortal regard. Serving as his porter, I was compelled to join him. The dread beast that dwelled within the Sahara past Morroco should have been his final warning that he was, in fact, a mortal. Unfortunately, Islington pressed further into forgotten wharves within the desert. Late into the night, under a star-drenched sky, he confessed that he was searching for a lost river— one that had reportedly carried Mansa Musa’s famous treasure across the continent. I listened and nodded, as a young man is wont to do when listening to the unraveling of an older guardian. I knew the desert was keen to swallow us whole— two intrepid explorers that had no business ranging amongst pathways long closed.

Three days beyond our rations and down to a single cannister of water, Professor Islington found an oasis. The shimmering heat waves magnified the small patches of stubborn green growth. It took an entire day to reach the tantalizing sight— as if it kept tip-toeing backwards as we advanced on it. The desperation broke when we heard the trill of a bird— I don’t remember who started running first, but both the professor and I arrived at the muddy edge of the water in a wretched state. We drank the water as if it possessed the answers to life— in which, it did.

We spent a week at the oasis recouping our strength before planning to depart. The professor charted the stars and determined the shortest path back to humanity. Our path would see us head towards the famous university town of Timbuktu. But it wasn’t to be. Before the last night fell— I saw a bright glint among the weeds at the bottom of the spring. I pointed it out to the professor— and he agreed that we should recover whatever it was. He said even if it wasn’t immediately useful, it might eventually help fund the trip.

Wishful thinking.

We stripped down and dove into the water. It became shockingly cold as we closed in on the silver gleaming. I heard muffled whispers that didn’t belong to the water— I pulled my hand back from it, but the professor made contact and we were blown away from the object. A vortex within the water began to pull us towards the bottom— I struggled not to scream and swam for my life. It was no use— we were pulled towards a black maw before my memory blanked.

I woke up coughing water onto a dry stone floor. The air smelled of cinnamon and tar— my limbs felt leaden with exhaustion and I forgot to even look for the professor. Which was just as well because he was no one to be found once I found the energy to stand. I followed the disturbing scent towards a dim light coming from the end of the hallway connected to the small room I found myself in.

I turned the corner to find Professor Islington laying prostrate on the ground before a dark mass that stood in the shape of a man. I looked closer to see the writhing shadows were black scarabs climbing over each other on the godless mass. That too, was wrong.

“Please, please. Spare me— I still have so much to learn!” Islington begged. His voice caught when he heard my feet scuff the stone floor. “Take him instead! He will serve you far better than I ever could. He’s young— malleable. Please!” He wept as he shamelessly tried to sell me to the evil thing before us. It turned towards me— no eyes, nor mouth could be seen.

“This one is quick to betray you. Is he your master?” The monster’s voice sounded amused as it pondered my fate. I felt cold— colder than I had felt since arriving on the continent. I knew I was going to die in this catacomb.

“I’m his ward. He is not my master—” I managed to choke out. I heard a low, rhythmic rumble from the mass. I realized it was laughing at me. I stood there frozen. Unable to act— just waiting for whatever foul end awaited me.

“You have not dropped to your knees. Do you not know who I am?”

I summoned the courage to not shake while I answered, “I do not. Enlighten me.”

“You will not find the light with me— my name is Idder. The likes of which has not been heard for centuries— but once, my name was whispered with the same fear they give Taral.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to release from this tomb.”

“I don’t know how to do that. I don’t even know where we are.”

“All you have to say is ‘akhammake adassifatakhe ouyou’”

“akhamm-ake adassifa-takhe ou-you” I said stumbling over the words. The creature nodded and an invisible force wrapped itself around my body- squeezing tighter and tighter as I tried to say the phrase without pausing. I finally managed it “akhammake adassifatakhe ouyou,” and the force gave a final squeeze and released me. A black smoke flowed from my fingertips and the creature laughed.

“Good. Now, we will leave this one to take my place,” It said focusing on Professor Islington. He lay defeated on the floor- his urine pooled in a small puddle and the acidic smell jabbed at my nose.

“I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it. I would have never left you, my boy! Please!” His words fell on deaf ears as I watched the creature morph into a man. He looked ten years my senior— fit, but not laden with muscle. He grabbed my hand and gave a toothy smile before the black smoke returned. It flowed around us—blocking the tomb from view as the Professor began to howl like a wounded animal. His pleas fell away as a sharp wind whipped us away. The smoke dissipated and left us standing at the edge of the pond.

“Grab your things and be ready— we have a dragon to hunt.” The man who had been a monster said as the morning sun rose overhead. I pawed through the Professor’s belongings to find his correspondence book— inside it was empty. All the letters he had read to me from my uncle had been faked. I looked back to the pond, lowered the book, and walked over to the man.

Black smoke surrounded us before another sun ray laid its eyes on us. With that— the oasis was empty and the world bigger than it had ever been before.

Malton Keep

Finn led Amara through hidden paths amongst the forest. She admired his light steps and cautious demeanor as they crept past hosts of foul beasts that moved silently through the snow drifts. Amara tugged at the extra cloak around her as she wondered how much further they had.

A large, grey rock face jutted out past the tree line, answering Amara’s unspoken question. Underneath the face of the mountain were harsh, jagged lines that signaled the presence of humans. The stonework held none of the delicacies of Dwarven work nor the industry of Kobolds, but still, it suggested safety in the same vicious way that howls of a wolf promise unrest.

“Malton Keep, my lady,'“ Finn said with a flourish and a wink. His back straightened as he walked out of the forest towards the sentry post nestled over the giant oak gate. “I’ve returned with a courtier— she’s to speak to Lord Malton at once.” A silence greeted Finn as Amara looked for hidden spots among the walls. This keep had been built to sustain a lengthy siege. She wondered how often those arose in the North— and hoped not to find out. She had experienced enough of those under the command of King Relwelys.

“Amara… either the guards got into the mead or something isn’t right. We need to check the West gate.” Amara tightened her grip on the short sword at her side and followed Finn along the tree line towards the wall section that met the mountain. “Ho, there! Men of the keep, I come barring a courtier for the Lord,” Finn shouted at another abandoned guard post. His face tightened as he looked around for any signs of disturbance. He found none— the torches flickered in the wind along with the blue and gold banner depicting a snarling badger— the crest of house Malton.

“Finn, where are your guards? How long has it been since you’ve returned to the keep?”

“I’ve been out ranging for a week or two, nothing out of the normal for me. Father would never pull guards from the gate. Not even during celebrations. There’s something wrong— There aren’t any tracks at the gates. It had to come from inside. We’ll have to scale the walls.” Amara looked up at the tall slabs of rock in front of her.

“Is there another way in?”

“If there were, Malton keep wouldn’t be known as the impenetrable fortress of the North.”

“No one in the realm calls it that. Frankly, hardly anyone remembers the house of Malton these days. Let alone your ‘impenetrable’ keep,” Amara said. Finn shook his head before giving her another grin.

“We’ll see if I can change that before this is all done,” he said, unspooling the length of rope coiled inside his bag. He affixed a silver clamp to the end and sent it over the wall. It caught somewhere among the stone, and he gave it a couple of tugs to ensure it was taut. “Ladies first?”

“I’ll let the lordling go over the wall first. It is your home. You do want to ensure a proper welcome for honored guests, right?”

“Thought I’d at least try,” he said with a wink. He hoisted himself up the rope and quickly scaled the wall before pulling himself over the lip. He disappeared from view, leaving Amara alone in the open. A slow tickle worked its way up her spine as she felt eyes in the forest settle on her. She made sure not to move too quickly— can’t let a predator know you’re scared.

“Anytime, your lordship,” she called up the wall. Finn peeked over, but his face was pinched with fear. He looked down at Amara and then into the forest behind her. His eyes bugged open, and he hissed at her to start climbing. Amara jumped up and inched her way up the rope as the sound of heavy footsteps whipped across the snow. She saw Finn grab the rope and begin pulling, and she continued to climb— they met halfway as he snatched at her arms and dragged her over the wall. They collapsed in a pile, breathing heavily.

“This is not good. The beasts of Kith are roaming.”

“The beasts of Kith? Is that what was behind me? A fairytale monster?”

Finn grabbed Amara’s hands and looked into her eyes— eyes he noticed held the gold flecks of Vetari natives. Something he’d remember later. “It means she has stepped back onto the mortal plane. None of us are safe while her beasts roam. They’re looking for something—someone. You won’t be able to return until they are killed or depart. Whatever it is, it goes far beyond your message to my father. The king must know of the danger to the realm,” He let out a sigh, “Even though he won’t believe it. No one believes the old magic still exists.”

“And you do?” She asked as the snow fell around them.

“I don’t want to. But I’ve seen her. Kith walks amongst the mortal realm— and none are safe from her wrath.”

Dream Dust Inspiration

A dream walker is a dangerous enemy to have. More dangerous still to find yourself being observed without any warning.

In my dream I had arrived to a Flapper era styled houseboat on the Willamette with Donna. We were attending a party and were greeted by two hosts at the door.

The man greeted Donna and whisked her away. The woman whose face I can’t recall, but remembered at the time told me her name after I asked. All I heard was static after a “Kuh” sound.

She gave me a coy smile and said “Just like last time,” before winking and walking away.

It was as if the ice of a winter lake broke beneath me. I was plunged into a frigid consciousness— aware that this woman did not belong in my dream. Aware that I had had this dream before. But that she wasn’t aware i was dreaming that time. That she couldn’t be aware I was dreaming at that moment.

I’ve been looking for her ever since. I wonder if she slips by at the edge of my slumber. Leaving small clues for me to step over as I mistakenly look for something of large significance.

I feel like a big game Hunter hunting a house cat. Except the house cat is far more dangerous than a lion could ever be.

Dream Dust

As the wind blew through the trees, the old woman leaned against my shoulder and whispered into my ear, “Guard your heart against the Season of Mists.”

Twenty years on, and I still haven’t a clue of what she meant. I wish I did.

I wish I understood why the crows follow me in their packs as I walk home at night. Or why cats never dare cross my path. I want to know why Emma LaFrainge cried after kissing me after the winter dance. Why the embers of an old fire seem to speak to my heart without words I can hear.

What I want most is to understand how the essence of dreams seems to mold in my hands— cutting with ease as if I were some clawed beast. Joining desperate ends in functional form as I impersonate an amateur tailor. I want to know the name of the woman that walked through my dreams. The one that broke the fragile belief that I was alone within them. I would know her name— the Lady of Mist and Shadow. The Dream Walker.

When the late summer wind blows across the hills, it sweeps under my heart with a cosmic weight. I feel at once calm and wary— as I am aware that not only peaceful things ride atop the wind. There is silence beyond the sound of the breeze. An obfuscation of reality as little dapples of magic bend around my sight. She walks beyond these winds— her truth is hidden amongst gales and moonlight. I want to beg for certainty— but I know that is a dark request. She has granted lesser whims— but the truth remains out of reach.