Dunk

“I finally dunked today! It was incredible. Never felt anything like it. The raw thrill… the rush of being alive.”

“Steve, you dunked on a children’s eight foot hoop at an elementary school.”

“Still… it was mid-game!”

“Against third graders.”

“They knew I had too much sauce. They didn’t want any of it.”

“Why did I marry you? My mother told me she knew a nice insurance agent with bad knees. Wouldn’t have to deal with this “Air Steve” nonsense.”

“It’s gonna catch on. Once I get into a regular flow of the tibalis raises, it’s over for these hoes.”

“What hoes? We’ve dated since sophomore year of high school. When have you EVER seen ‘these hoes’?”

“I mean…”

“Don’t you dare say Vegas. Those women were registered sex workers. It’s not the same.”

“You’ve ruined this worse than adding vegan hot dogs to Kraft Mac & Cheese.”

“I’m making sure you stay alive past forty five years old.”

Bar Side

“What’s with the water?” A tangy man behind the bar asked. His parrot shirt screamed louder than Billy Idol on the jukebox.

“Don’t want to muddle my thoughts. I’m going to stay angry for this.”

The barman looked sideways at his regular. In his five years tending the bar, he had never seen Winston order anything but Maker’s Mark on ice. “Why is that?”

Winston waited a beat before answering, “I ever tell you what I do for a living?” The jukebox switched onto Marty Robbins. His slow, rolling baritone filled the room.

“Can’t say you have, partner. What fills your day?”

“I’m a mortician,” he said taking a swig, “Not exactly bar talk. Hell, not usually any sorta talk.” The bar man kept his silence. “There was a case the other day. Never seen anything like it in fifteen years on the job.”

The bar man grabbed the bottle of Maker’s and filled Winston’s glass. He couldn’t fit new cubes in the glass with his grip on the glass.

“What happened?”

“Fighting dogs broke loose from a nearby pit. They caught a kid at the end of an apartment complex. Nowhere to go. Solid concrete walls around him. That’s what the officer told me.”

“Jesus…” Winston kept giving small nods

“There was nothing left, Leo. I swear to god, there was nothing left. They told me he was eight years old. It was just… meat.”

“Eight years old?” Leo’s voice broke. Marty song in the back spoke of a lost Texan love.

“Eight years old, Leo. Someone’s gotta pay for a thing like that.”

Wooded Ferns

The cabin smelled like a place left to live other lives. Bent playing cards and waterlogged board games held the last memories of forgotten childhoods. A creaking argyle chair sat sentry in front of a wood stove. Crocheted blue rugs created islands across the wood floor.

On a massive oak table sat an ancient leather bound book— inside held the entries of each trip to the cabin. Loose leaves of paper were tied into the book with yellowed twine.

Old books watched from the high shelves. Long unread stories of hard-boiled detectives and western excursions. Countless lives passed underneath them without the musty tomes shifting their stations.

Lost Lake

Dried blood browned the small lines of my palm. I smeared a small cut on my chin absolutely as I stared at the screen. All I could think of was where Molly had gone this time. My hair greased with frustration from the countless times I ran my fingers through it.

She replicated Houdini without flair— closer to a cryptid than a magician. Loving her felt cursed— eyes wide like a fae touched fool & no one to stop me following the road to ruin.

Her father resembled a broken blood hound the last time I saw him. Eyes permanently cast with worry and broken blood vessels. An absent minded hand held over a sour stomach. It ages a body, endless despair.

During her brief visits back to normalcy— you could see the weight of the disappearances hang off Molly’s thin shoulders like anchors. She resembled a parakeet trying to hold a cage up— all it left was a crushed mess of feathers.

I don’t know what hurt worse— her being gone— or right in front of me struggling. Refusing any and everyone’s help. A drowning swimmer refusing to take hold of a lifeline. It scared me to think of whatever Molly was trying to keep from pulling us into.

How deep were the waters she waded through out of sight from the world?

Long nights

The spider silk creep of fear as you sat before the TV as it split into a white and black storm. The static shouting louder than the movie you weren’t supposed to have on. 3 AM and the only soul awake in the house is you.

Nestled in the end room like a dormouse during winter. The held breath as you tiptoed to the bathroom sleep far from your eyes. Stained wood creaked under your feet as the old house breathed in and out through the night— a deep sleep that you hoped it would not wake from.

The levered joists of a ragged futon mewed as you settled back into your bundle of blankets. The TV quiet now— you try to match the inaudible inhale and exhale of the house— but it does not breath as you do.

You catch the final verse of an old lullaby as you sink further into the blankets and long awaited rest.

In the morning you’ll be washed of the midnight secrets— the echoes of the story will linger until the sun greets your face— and then not again until next quiet eve.

Raven Wing of Future

Ad Astra etched deep in the ship’s metal. Our destiny deeper yet within the stars. A young boy stood at the edge of the fence looks at the takeoff complete. Red and orange flames shoot off the bottom of the launch boosters. The crowds cheers are silenced by the roar of the world changing engine. Hope departs from the planet— the crowd shuffles away. The boy stays put— small hands clenched on the fence. He wonders when he’ll leave. If he’ll leave. He wonders about the distant swirl of milk-stained stars in the weave of warm shadows.

***

The howl of frigid winds met Magnus’ ears. First steps through the heart of darkness and onto a new world. The boy that had stood dreaming at the edge of the known worlds now stood a man. A man that represented the last of the galaxy reconnaissance team. Gods & mortals fools alike. The crush of fate pressed tight to Magnus like a heartbroken lover during the final night.

It took five years of drifting through darkness to arrive at the coordinates. A small dot on the map dictated the path of Magnus’ life. The snowbanks before him now stood as foreign mountains that reminded him of his childhood. The frost began to creep across his faceplate. He opened his codex to begin recording the planet before him.

Magnus had three days to complete his expedition before he had to enter stasis. The follow up team would find him alone in a new world. A gentle sleep as the world unfolded around his ship like petals blooming.

Fear grappled with wonder as the frost crunched under his boots. A persimmon colored light shone from a dwarf sun overhead. The yellow rays of the original galaxy sun were long gone.

Buy Me a Coffee at ko-fi.com

Malton Court

The evening flowed with Ser Egan on the heels of Alaric Wilusz. The jumped-up knight followed the boy from a trade deal gone wrong just outside the realm. Alaric rushed towards Malton keep for the protection his uncle offered. Bernd Wilusz served as the leader of the king’s guard. He wouldn’t let Ser Egan cut Alaric down— justified or otherwise.

Ser Egan hailed from an old but undistinguished family. Most of his kin were rangers— making the task of returning safely to Malton walls a danger for Alaric. Ser Egan didn’t like that the young Wilusz saw through his extortion deal with the pirates on the southern coast. He offered three more gold to the pirates (a pittance for him) and wrest Egan’s economic dream away from him.

Stoneybrook

A camera crew stood on the porch of a craftsman home that belonged on the cover of the “Home & Living” magazine. Charlene Addison was being interviewed by a documentarian, Slaven Kranjic about the state of prosperity in the east side of Stoneybrook.

“It’s a wonderful place to grow up. There’s a bike train that a teacher from school has organized. Over two hundred kids bike through the neighborhoods together to get to school. Not only are they environmentally conscious, but their active start to the day helps fuel their academic ambitions,” Charlene said.

Autumn had hit the town of Stoneybrook in full blast. A sweeping range of yellows, oranges, and reds dominated the color scheme throughout the town. The rustle of leaves and satisfying crunch underfoot was married by the brisk, cinnamon and clove filled air that wafted through Main Street. Blackbird bakery was locally famous for their morning buns. Slaven slowly chewed on one, lost in the minutiae of flavor, as Charlene kept on her spiel about the wonders of the Northeast and Stoneybrook.

“What about the incident eleven years ago? Do the townspeople feel safe in Stoneybrook knowing their was once a massive abduction event?”

Charlene froze. Her movements became lagged like a midnight YouTube video after torrenting too many movies.

“What do you mean ‘feel safe’? Stoneybrook is the safest place you can be. Stoneybrook is home,” she said as her eyes became obsidian pools. She cocked her head at Slaven and repeated the question. Slaven thought her pupils had broken somehow. He was wrong. Just like the information on the abduction of Stoneybrook was wrong.

Caramel Macho Macchiato

“It’s me! I am the goddamn rat of sunshine that this place needs. I’m going to drink my shitty blend stick mocha coffees and eat stale biscuits with wild abandon before I let a piece of shit industrial complex building suck the hot ham holiday leftover magic out of me.”

“Daryl, please. It’s the open shift. I’m too hungover for you to be doing this.”

“I’m gonna shine!!!”

“Fucking kill me,” Carl groaned as he accidentally knocked his novelty Boba Fett coffee mug off the counter.

“I’ll be a lizard in the hot sun to this dull rock. A joyous flag flapping in the wind. I’ll be-“ a croissant smacked Daryl on the nose.

“I’m begging you. From the bottom of my balls. Please. Please. Shut the fuck up.”

“WELCOME TO BIG JIM’S JAVA PALACE,” Daryl screamed at the empty lobby. Four a.m. had never been so dead. Carl and Daryl were isolated barista’s in a sea of commerce. The street outside flowed with rowdy businessman returning from expensive sushi and karaoke, unaware or uncaring for the massive markup they were saddled with.

Carl dreamed of a quick death via the steam wand somehow blowing off and instantly shooting through his eye socket and out the back like a rotten tomato.

Daryl had the veggie tales theme song playing full blast in his own mind. Some people were beyond saving.

The Pines

“The question isn’t how, the question is when.” A cold wind howled across the ground as the police commissioner stood at the podium. The ruddy faced man clamped his bear-mitt hands the microphone. “Whatever came out of the forest is going to come back,” he paused and looked out at the crowd. They stood frozen like mannequins. “We need to get ready.”

“What are you going to do about it?” A man screamed. The frozen mannequins woke up. The crowd became a frenzied pack as the calls for a plan grew louder.

“People, please! We need to calm down.” A glass bottles shattered against the brick wall behind the commissioner.

“Fuck you! That thing took my boy!” A man with a raven’s nest for a beard bellowed. A woman clung to his arm like a drowned rat. Other parents in the crowd took up outburst as a rallying cry.

“We want our kids back! We want our kids back!”

It had been three weeks since the creature burst from the forest and snagged the Henderson’s boy. Another five children went missing that night. A torn arm had been found in the forest. It seemed like a macabre addition for a realistic doll. All the parents shared the same fear— it could be any of theirs.

Pencils

I woke to the sound of pencils dropping on the floor. I shifted onto my side and rubbed my eyes before I froze. I didn’t own pencils. I’m a writer that only uses pens. Not only that— I hardly use anything but my phone notes these days.

The pencils rolled across the floor. Beads of sweat slowed as the dripped down the back of my neck.

Someone cleared their throat— I couldn’t move. I wanted to cry, but knew I needed to turn and face whoever was in the room. If I died, I’d do it facing them.

A molasses age later I found myself looking at a old man dressed in tweed. The middle of his torso seemed hazy as I stared at him in disbelief. He leveled flat, black eyes at me.

“Arthur, have you been studying?” He said in a stern voice. The room felt like it collapsed into a crawl space. It was only me & him.

“…I’m not Arthur,” I manage to whisper.

“You should have been studying. I told you you needed to study,” he said bending down to pick up translucent pencils.

Rooster Cry

If you leave before the rooster crows it’s bad luck. There’s a dark journey that’s guided by the reflection of the moon. The plodding steps of the mules provide the closest sounds of the shifting night into morning. A patch of bad air brings spirits near the path.

The shadow of a little person runs through the underbrush. They jump from tree to tree— until they can hang from a branch over the path. They possess disfigured faces with red eyes. The type that make your bowels turn to water. Their skin seems aged and grey— but pulled tight so it has a waxy shine. You can’t run. Because you’ll lose the fragile web of protection that keeps them from harming you.

You can’t stop in the jungle. You’ll hear small thuds from beneath your feet. As if there’s frenzied fists banging on the earth. From below the surface. The laughs follow you from above and the screams from below. The rhythm plays at your mind— something that’s long been lost to regular concerns such as food or water. Days slip by without conscious notice.

A rooster brays in the distance— a rooster brays in the distance. You forget what that means. Your bloodied feet leave a confused story behind you. A rooster brays in the distance— you start crying for the sun. The dense cover overhead keeps the rays out. You stay alone with the bloodied shadows and the faint shriek of waiting poultry. A giggle feels the air behind you. You know you’re never leaving home again.

Paint Splatter

She stepped out of the chaos of the dance floor like a beacon of peace. Her dark eyes found mine and gave an exaggerated wink before thumbing at the door. My heart raced a little quicker. Even after thirteen years of marriage, she still made me blush.

I was twenty five when I met Cleo. I was fresh off the win of my first paid comic illustrating gig and felt confident as an artist for the first time. I ran into her with half my paint supplies as I rushed to get a taxi. She wore a white cashmere sweater that I had accidentally transformed into a Jackson Pollack. She looked down and then back up and me. Then she burst out laughing and it sounded like summertime adventures mixed with Christmas carols.

My lizard brain did just enough to stammer an apology as she admired the new look of her outfit. I forgot the taxi and asked if I could buy her a new sweater and she said yes. I haven’t gone a week since then without seeing her.

During our wedding she revealed that she still had that paint smeared sweater tucked away as a memento of fate. She told myself and our friends and family that she never wore white because she always spilled— but having an artist spill paint over you just means you’re a canvas. And she didn’t mind serving as inspiration. I could have said that part. After Cleo, I never drew the same. Everything found an extra shade— a brighter hue. My editor remarked that it seemed like my repertoire expanded overnight. Enough late nights rebuked that statement, but I enjoyed the newfound belief from upper management.

“It’s time to go home, buddy boy,” Cleo said as she grabbed my arm. “Rose is gonna be upset if she’s left with the sitter any longer tonight.”

“Ten years old and she already shares your north-du-bullshit.”

“Damian, you can’t just make up phrases to try and compliment both your girls,” she laughed.

I gave her my best shit eating grin, “I can try.”

Chicken Hound

Riley Bajer looked like he tried to kick deer in the face. Not a weak tap either— he was the unmedicated ADHD double flying mule kick type of guy. I couldn’t ask for a better XO. He once took off at a dead sprint in the middle of Bangkok. Later that night we found him with a busted nose and split lip belting Shania Twain with a small Thai man who apparently had a vicious right hook and zero conniptions on stiffing foreigners during unsanctioned poker games.

Problem was that Riley was a chicken killing dog, and I had just inherited Tyson family farms. I was a loose captain— it’s good for moral on short to medium trips, but I wasn’t loose enough that I felt comfortable playing 50/50 with losing a $25 Million dollar job.

Riley had been a gun runner in his relative youth. He had a precious talent for attracting danger— and escaping it unscathed. The FARC had let him play soldier with them for six months before they decided he was too ready to spray and pray. Hard to fight for the cause when someone on your own team might accidentally turn your legs into spaghetti bolognese.

No one wants to ever kill their dog. But sometimes you have to do it. That’s what the contracting organization had said anyway.

“Terminate Mr.Bajer before the contract starts and you’ll fulfill the requirements for the job.”

What a load of horseshit. Anybody with a mean dog knows there’s nobody else you want in your corner when the world turns to shit.

I didn’t become a captain because I toss my crew away and I wasn’t going to start now.

I walked into the mess hall to find Riley sitting at the table. He looked up at me while chewing his latest curried concoction.

“What’s up, cap?”

“Bajer, there are some details on the new contract I need to go over with you.”

“Good details?”

“Bad. They’re asking me terminate you before we start the job.”

“Ha!” Riley barked and curry flew from his mouth. “You really pick jobs from the dumbest sons a bitches out there, cap.”

“You’re not worried?” I shifted as I looked over my personal wrecking ball. Half the man was scarred and pitted with memories of past battles.

“About you offing me? No, I would have only worried if they gave the job to Kilner with the same conditions. But you? Savior to the lost and damned? Get real.”

“Huh.”

“So what’s our game plan? Regular execution and special ops team to contain the threat?”

“Corporate seek and destroy? It’ll be something like that. They won’t see it coming.”

“I don’t know. They picked you specifically for this job. And wanted you to off me of all people on the crew. I’m betting they want you come after them. They probably know the infamous Captain Callan Adair takes his loyalty to the grave. So, they gave you a shovel to dig it.” I narrowed my eyes at the big man.

“It’s disconcerting when you start stringing sentences together like this. Might make the others think your violence isn’t mindless.”

“Mindless? You got me wrong, cap. It’s personal— that’s what worries the others,” he took another bite of food and chewed for a couple moments. “There’s a cost to it. The difference between me and the rest of the crew is that I don’t mind paying it.”

Slam City

It hadn’t felt impossible when Rex had started. In fact, dropping into the bowl felt like the easiest thing in the world. Once you lose your skateboard and smash face first into the cement, you prove that it is.

Rex woke up three weeks later in a head trauma recovery unit. A lemon puckered nurse gave him an exhausted look when she noticed he woke up. She walked over and hit a button on a machine to his side. The world went fuzzy again.

The next morning Rex woke up suspicious of whether what had happened yesterday was a dream or not. The nurse has been replaced— this one looked more like a Salisbury steak dipped in milk. Rex didn’t envy the man, but he was a little jealous of his ability to walk right now. The initial pins and needles let him know things weren’t the worst they could be, but without the ability to get out of bed on this own, they weren’t too peachy either.

Rex croaked at the new nurse “where am I?”

“Oh, shit. I didn’t realize you were back!” The man’s eyes bugged out for a second. “Don’t worry, bud. You’re in a safe place.”

“Where’s my board?”

“Your board? Oh, you’re the skateboard crash. Sorry, man. I don’t think the EMT’s grabbed it. Maybe your buddies got it for you?” Rex tried remembering where he went wrong. Too much weight on the back foot? The YouTube tutorial warned him of that.

“Can I-“ The nurse held up a hand to silence him. His eyes went flat. Rex felt a chill enter the room.

“Stop talking. You only have five minutes before the shift change and your chance of escaping this place disappears.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That other nurse? Callahan? She’s going to Angel of Mercy you.”

“What the hell… that’s insane! Why don’t you tell the police?”

“Because, Rex Hanson, I don’t exist here,” he said slowly turning see-through and vanishing. Rex’s stomach felt like rotten water. He ripped the IV out of his arm and flopped out of bed. The cold floor gave extra motivation to get out of the hospital. His muscles felt like he just escaped a three hour pool party. Straining from his core, he rose off the ground. He shuffled towards the door— he snatched a grey jean jacket pulled it tight around his hospital gown.

A cool, sterile breeze froze his exposed backside as he shuffled down a lemon meringue colored hallway. Rex focused on taking deep breaths and alternated between wanting to see the male nurse again and wondering if he was crazy now.

Fuck Thrasher and fuck Tony Hawk Pro Skater 4 Rex thought as he heard steps behind him. He just wanted another identity instead of being known as “Rigatoni Rex.” Stupid nickname. Stupid fucking boarding school. He wasn’t going to have his mortal chain yanked by a wannabe Nurse Rachet. He was going to escape this hellhole.

Standard Delivery

“I’m a heartless man at worst and a helpless man at best,” he crooned from a battered platinum microphone. His velvet suit suffered the fate of a low-budget tour, evidenced by late-night meals and long mornings with sharp elbows. The crowd looked on glazed and made lazy circles with their hips. Sweat dripped down his nose as his curly mop stuck to his crescent-scarred forehead.

Kennedy McDonald knew he had a lovely voice, but few other redeeming qualities. The Sligo-born musician made his mark covering better talents, but composition wasn’t in his wheelhouse. That was a skill left to dedicated individuals. Outside of draining pints and unsettling marriages, Kennedy wasn’t dedicated to much else.

The final stop of his ill-fated Eastern European tour got to hear a butchered greeting in Hungarian before he decided Budapest wasn’t worth shedding more of his battered ego. He bid the crowd adieu after his set and stepped off the mini-stage into a sticky hallway.

“Great set, mi amor. You know I love hearing the wonderful things your tongue can do,” a regal woman purred. “Who did you steal your song from time?”

“Amara, I’m happy to see you stayed. I thought your husband might want you back in time for dinner,” he settled onto the leather couch and gave her a light kiss. He lit a menthol cigarette to refresh his breath before sinking into the couch and pulling her into a sweaty embrace. She made a face that pulled at the crow’s feet next to her almond eyes. Kennedy loved seeing that annoyed look— if he got a kiss, he knew he was safe for another week.

“That’s not an answer— that’s a deflection. Tell me, was it, Van Morrison? You know I love when you sing “Sweet Thing,” she said, batting her eyes.

“It was Paolo Nutini, some Scots-Italian bloke from nearby Fife. “Changed a couple of lines, but don’t reckon that altered the tune any. No Van Morrison for this crowd— it was nothing but a bunch of miserly fucks. Some arse nearly hit me with a can after I stumbled through “Between the Bars” didn’t take Hungarians for Elliot Smith fans.” Amara chuckled and took a bite of expensive-looking chocolate. Kennedy looked at them both hungrily.

“No.”

“But-”

“No,” she lazily swatted his nose. Her petulant stare turned into a grin. “You made me wait in this nasty room. I don’t like being the cleanest thing in a room.”

“Don’t you worry; I’ve got a clean room for you.”

“I won’t sleep in an AirBnb,” she said, leaning into his kiss. “Their sheets are never soft enough for my skin. look,” her hand pulled the neckline of her dress down, “It’s all red.”

Kennedy stared at her like she held real directions to Brú na Bóinne “Do you need me to kiss it better?”

“Wouldn’t you? Kennedy inhaled her scent— she smelled like fresh jasmine and old money. His silver lips ghosted over her neck, and she took a shuddering breath. He pressed against the small of her back and kissed her again.

“It’s a VRBO, much better than AirBnb.”

“Stop talking and call the taxi,” her voice breathless as he pressed their bodies together. He would have written a song about her secret rendezvous and the honey trickle seconds after they finished where she gave him that time-lapse grief smile. But he wasn't a writer. Outside of the stage and the brief moments in Amara’s arms, Kennedy wasn’t much of anything.

Springwater Slasher

Ray Valentine never dreamed of being a cop. Much less a homicide detective. It started with a palm reading on the porch of the neighborhood mystic at the base of Mount Tabor Park. She spoke of a darkness Ray would confront— one that would shock the world. Her words were the first tendrils of destiny that locked him onto the path he was on. Una, the woman, had told him this with a kind smile. she told him to keep a tender heart in the face of terrible horrors. It would be with love, not anger, that Valentine would save the world.

He remembered that sunny afternoon with a coppery tang in his mouth. He spit out a wad of congealed blood as he pulled himself off the rain stained cement. Fucking meth heads— must have brained me with a metal pipe… again, Ray thought. He had been chasing a scrap metal ring for weeks now. They were connected to three murders and Ray suspected half a dozen more unconfirmed crimes. They hid in the roaming homeless camps along bike paths. You had to wade through a sea of used syringes and broken couches to question the dirt covered faces. Before the recession hit, Ray had regularly tried to get his regular informants off the street and into safe apartments, but the offers were seldom accepted. The mandatory sobriety proved an near impossible task for the campers. He gave up— leaving his energies for solving the aftermaths and occasionally, miraculously heading it off before it happened.

The doughnut jokes were a cheap shot, Ray thought. There were few foods that could sit in a Crown Vic for hours as well as an old fashioned. Even other pastries, like danishes, had a tendency to wilt— giving it that sweaty glaze that makes you regret picking it up and unable to put down without a bite— as you’ve already soiled your heart with sugar slime.

Ray ate his chocolate round with impeccable form before staggering out of the shop. He was hazy on the past couple of hours— but the pocket receipt from a Zoomcare and the bandage around his head let him know he was semi-operational. He should have headed to the St. Vincent’s for a proper check-up, but he knew Carter McMurrary had to be nearby. Ray had combed through the entire Powell-Foster neighborhood, and that buck-tooth menace could clean the whole assault up for him and set him on the path for the Springwater Slasher. The vicious fucker, whoever this slasher was, sprang out of the bushes and attacked unsuspecting cyclists. Their spandex did little to protect them from his sharpened box cutter. It even had notches in the razor— mangling what should have been simple slashes. This was a statement piece. A declaration of malice. And one that the scrap metal ring should have a name for.

This piece of shit was two steps off of being the next “Tall Paul.” Paul had been a rampant rapist ignored by the rest of the east Portland precinct. Rent boys and male travelers alike had suffered for years because of the abnormally tall, gangly bastard. Ray wouldn’t have a repeat of that. No one had batted an eye when Paul turned up strangled in a back alley off of Division. Neither had Ray. He just wished it had happened sooner. Enough bouncers in the lower east side had asked him to arrest Paul. And Ray had. But there was never enough to hold him. The broken glass of justice kept slicing his hands and Paul left a bloody trail.

The brief flash of mainstream prosperity turned Portland’s quirks into parody as it leaned into the inane dribble until the world had moved onto a new media darling.

The lasting effects on the city were obvious—artisan pancake houses sat next to tent cities. A Michelin star restaurant could have an unhinged vagrant pissing on the its windows— knowing the police weren’t going to respond for forty five minutes— if ever. Not that Ray minded much. As long as they stayed away from the schools, people could piss on all the fancy restaurants they wanted.

Ray was grateful the riff raff had mostly avoided his usual haunts. His spot for fried chicken was safe. R&M stood as a blue collar haven in an increasingly gentrified city. It felt difficult to reconcile the contrasting identities and looked like a hob nob version of a Gotham city if it cared about clarified butter and Doc Marten boots.

Ray didn’t have any solutions or illusions that the city would return to any of it’s previous iterations. Forward— always forward. He took his own musing and applied it. Ray padded down the Spring Water trail with all the grace of a dowdy bloodhound. He knew the answers would be off in the wooded paths. He snapped on a pair of white forensic gloves and kicked away some empty PBR cans from the first trailed head. Time to find his perp before the evening came nipping at his heels.

The Parchment Dairy

The life of Matilda Crane bore little resemblance to the dreams she once had.

LIke an old bone left in the back of a fridge, she wasted away what precious youth she had left. The lack of daylight leached the color from her face. A ghoulish mask imposed atop a formerly familiar face. Her family couldn’t recognize her. Old friends would pass her on the street without notice during rare outings.

Matilda’s loft resembled a hovel— perched on top of a slanted townhouse in a crowded nook near Craven Cottage. Matilda only cared for the view— and the nests on the roof. If she ever lifted the dark cowl she wore, you’d notice her angry, yellow slotted irises. Matilda Crane— heir of an old name and an ancient magic, was an ornithomancer. Unlike her surname, she dealt in raptors. And may the lost gods have mercy upon you if she counted you as prey.

The protective pillars at Stonehenge were toppled by university hooligans on a binge dare. Their university, Islington, repaired the damage with discretion. Unfortunately, the protective barrier that had held since the time of Boudicca broke. It release magics back into the world— waiting to be woken in the blood of forgotten descendants. Matilda Crane was one such human.

While not common, certain families such as the Crane’s rose to prominence due influence gained by wielding arcane forces. Most were discrete in use and public knowledge, but others were inclined to wanton destruction. The enclave was quick to silence those actions— positing the actions as mundane buffoonery, not mystical malice.

Matilda’s family worked for the enclave as covert intelligence. It’s easy to hide from humans— harder to hide from winged beasts. Matilda, however, didn’t follow her family into the trade. Instead, she disappeared from high society in pursuit of the deep knowledge she believed her magics possessed. With the release of these magics from Stonehenge, she believed darker forces had been awoken— and she would be the one to find them.