I’m on my way down my last stop of the night. 2:45 am, Easton Boulevard. Last shift isn’t so bad as a bus driver, except in this part of town. This next stop goes past the red light district, and I hate driving through this late at night. It saddens me to see the girls, caked in makeup, soulless eyes, teetering at the edges of the sidewalks. As I drive through, my mind fairly empty, no patients on the bus, something catches my eye. I push the brakes, hard, and my whole body twists around. There she stands, on the corner of the street. Blonde hair, the ends dipped in purple. And then she turns around, and there’s a tattoo on her collarbone, and her face is worn, and the illusion is shattered. But I can’t get that brief moment out of my head. I deliberate for a second; I know that I should just keep going. Then I say, out loud, screw it. And I reverse the bus back up to the street. The doors shudder open and I step outside to the girl, who spins towards me in a very suggestive manner. Can you hula hoop, I ask. The truth was that Sandi rarely said no to a client. It didn’t matter how absurd or demeaning their requests were, she needed the money, for the track marks criss crossing her arms and between her toes. But this situation was a really new level of weird. Never before had a bus driver stopped while driving, and never had anyone asked her to hula hoop. Maybe this guy had a sexual thing for hula hoops. It was weird, certainly, but it wasn’t that bad. 50 for an hour, she said. Okay, I can pay that, he said back, and the gold band around his finger glinted in the street light. But I don’t want any sex. I just want you to hula hoop for an hour. She looked at him. What an absurdly strange request. Get on the bus, he said, holding out a ten dollar bill. The rest is in my wallet. She got on the bus. I don’t know what I was thinking, picking up a prostitute in my work bus. I look at her, and try to guess her age. She looks like she’s in her mid thirties, but prostitutes always look older than they are. Maybe in her twenties. I’m expecting her to get off at the next stop, the final stop, where I draw the bus into the empty street corner and pull open the doors. But she doesn’t move, fidgeting in the seat directly behind me. I could kill you, I say. Do you really trust me this much? No, she sighs, and her bloodshot eyes meet mine. I need the money. I don’t trust you, but I need the money. I don’t ask for what. Instead, we pull up to the bus yard, and I park and punch out while she sits quietly on the curb. We walk to my car, and she moves to sit in the passenger seat, and I stop her. Sorry, my wife sits here. She seems to understand. The car arrived at just past 3am, to a small suburban yard on the outskirts of town, where a tired bus driver and a prostitute, dressed to the nines, tumbled out of the little car. The bus driver went in, and returned thirteen minutes later with a glass of water, a hula hoop, and his wife, whose hair was already in rollers and who appeared to be somewhat disgruntled by the appearance of a prostitute in their front lawn. Sandi used the time for a smoke, but stuck on where to put the finished cigarette with no ashtray, settled on digging it into the ground with a glittery-heel clad foot. The bus driver handed Sandi the hoop. Awkwardly, she began to spin it around her waist. About five minutes of silent spinning went on, before the wife broke the stillness. Ohmygod, she said. You’re right. Just ask her to turn around. So Sandi turned around and continued spinning, and from behind her she could hear muffled sniffling. I guess it doesn’t make sense, to ask a prostitute to come spin a hula hoop in your front lawn at 3am. But it makes my heart a little less heavy, and even though my wife was resistant to the idea, even she is crying now. Would you like a snack, dear? She asks, and the prostitute spins around again. I still need my 50 at the end of this, she says, eyes cutting into me. Of course, my wife says, and brings her a plate of crackers and cheese. The prostitute, still spinning, devours them. You look just like our daughter, I say helpfully, trying to make the situation a little better. I don’t think I’m succeeding. Bring her out then, the prostitute says back. Let’s take some pictures. My wife obeys her, rises to her feet and comes back out with an album of pictures. She pulls one from the glazed pages. Our girl, on her nineteenth birthday, barefoot on the lawn, spinning in a hula hoop. The prostitute’s eyes meet mine when she sees the picture. I get it, she says. My son.. He should’ve been two today. I’m sorry, my wife says, tears filling her eyes. She spins, and she turns around, and as she does, I notice her trying to do something with her feet. Sort of lifting them. Then I realize she’s trying to replicate the girl in the pictures, kicking off the sparkly shoes. Morning began to dawn, bright and clear, around 6am. As the sun rose, the man and his wife sat on the front steps of their house and watched a prostitute with two left feet and a broken heart dance with a hula hoop on their front lawn. As the clock struck 6:30, the woman with the album went back into the house and pulled out her rollers, and her husband loaded the prostitute and a bundle of hundred dollar bills into the car, and drove back slowly towards the red light district. I’m sorry for your loss, the prostitute said as she collected the money and disentangled her long legs from the backseat. I’m sorry too, the bus driver replied, watching her. I’m sorry for both of us. With that, the car pulled away from the curb, and the bus driver only glanced back from the sunrise for an instant, to watch the prostitute with the collarbone turn around and briefly, become his daughter.


The Pegasus sky is the color of Tim Burton dreams, the texture of crunchy nightmares. This makes me happy. A trio of dragons fly by, and I stare at the girl astride the smallest of the three. She doesn’t acknowledge me. This also makes me happy. The two angels that accompany me are snorting cocaine and imploring me to “do my duty.” This makes me unhappy. I stare at the computer screen, unsure of where to go next. I have a main theme: redemption. Which may or may not be the right theme. The angels symbolize something or other. Maybe I need some sort of motif. I hear they’re all the rage right now. The sky could be a metaphor for something important, like desires or regrets or some shit like that. Metaphors are important. Ask any English teacher. Lydia doesn’t understand the title. Good. That’s the point (I tell myself). I want the reader to see what they want to see (I continue to tell myself). I sure as hell don’t have any idea what it means. I just like the title. I have no idea where to go from here, but I’m in love with the opening paragraph. The possibilities are endless. I’m giving myself several built-in Dei ex machina to work with. A cheap trick, I know, but needs must. I write, but I’m not a real writer any longer. Lydia disagrees, but she’s my wife and she loves me, so she feels justified in lying to me to make me feel better. I don’t mind that - most of the time. I mean, it’s evidence of love. Isn’t it? Has to be. She also lets me drink whiskey on the front porch while I write, not caring what the neighbors think. More evidence of love. Spare my feelings but not my liver. My daughter calls it enabling. Semantics. We don’t agree to disagree. We just disagree. I start again, despite my love for the title and the first paragraph. I’m thinking a love story might be a good second novel. Everyone likes romances, right? ************** I fell in love with “The Pegasus Sky,” and, by proxy, with its author. When I finally met her, I was taken aback. The novel, irreverent and funny, contrasted starkly with the author. She wore a severe countenance, and she was all sharp angles and hardness. I imagined that having sex with her would be like fucking a folding lawn chair. She drank champagne demurely, as if she wanted the world to know that she wasn’t an alcoholic like her father. She dressed demurely as well, just to let everyone know that she wasn’t a slut like her mother. Everything about her screamed irreproachable and unapproachable, an unassailable vessel that would never set sail beyond the pages of her writings. And then she smiled at me. A decade of living dangerously began with a flash of white teeth and curved lips. Well...no. Not happening. I’m barely able to understand why my wife stays with me, let alone creating a love story - however tenuous - between fictional characters. I’m thinking of that original first paragraph, the one that was over a decade in the making. The fantasy genre seems doable (I like dragons), but I can’t see my way through it. Like this pitiful love tale, there just doesn’t seem to be any real fodder. I blame my knowledge of literature and my job (which I don’t consider to be a career) for this because it’s easier than blaming myself. Teaching at a private university deep in the heart of Texas has taken away much of my writing time. I know it’s a bullshit excuse but I use it anyway. The fact is, I’m blocked. I know all the terms. Deus ex machina. Roman á clef . Synecdoche. Dénouement . Can’t say that it helps me much, except when marking papers. I throw out a few of these terms and the students think I’m a genius. They never argue over a grade. I was the same way when I was a student. The thing is, I start obsessing over everything. The terms - and there seems to be a billion of them - are always nagging at me. Am I using allegory? Do I have a proper inciting incident? What about dissonance, consonance, assonance. All of the ance s. And I used the word fuck in the previous paragraph, and that’s a no-no, unless you’re J.D. Salinger or Chuck Palahniuk. Real writers. I lean back and sigh. I light a cigarette. T.S. Elliot and Hunter S. Thompson smoked when they wrote. So did William S. Burroughs, but he usually smoked weed laced with opium. Why am I thinking of authors that use their middle initials, and why is that initial S? My middle initial is R. Lydia’s middle initial is S. Maybe she should be writing my second book. I watch the neighbors go by, walking their dogs - or the dogs walking the neighbors, I’m not sure which - chatting amicably and parting as if they are lifelong friends. Hell, maybe they are. The neighborhood is devoid of kids right now because of school, but full of babies and their mothers, still pudgy from the pregnancy. Lydia knows which ones will never get their girlish figures back and which ones will hit the gym and deprive themselves of carbs so they can fit into their high school jeans again. She’s never wrong about these types of things. I tell myself I’m not procrastinating, but I know I am. A real writer would just get down to it. I bet Stephen King doesn’t sit on his front porch and hypothesize about his neighbors’ fat asses and irritating pets. Ok. WWJDD. What would Joan Didion do? Play it as it Lays? Slouch towards Bethlehem? LOLOL Good one, right? I put out my cigarette and get back to it. Horror sounds good. The title is terrific, one of my best, so I’m not giving up on that. Yeah, horror would fit the title. ************** I smell his fetid breath, feel his sweaty hands running over my body. The room is dark, but not so dark that I can’t make out the silhouette of the man who had chained me to a cold steel table. He whispers something about a Pegasus sky. It makes no sense, and I’m too terrified to care. I scream and scream, but my kidnaper just laughs. That’s when I spot the chainsaw. I’m fucked. First-person POV. That works, but she’s gotta live, right? If I go third-person omniscient, she can die horribly and then...then I have to find a different hero. What kind of hero? A gritty, street-wise woman? Tough cop? Nerdy psychological man (or woman. Shit. Another decision to make.) who sees deeply into the manifold evils of the human heart? It’s all very trite. Maybe I can get that author woman from the previous paragraph and somehow use her. I like her! My mind wanders again. Maybe I can incorporate dragons, the author woman, and a psychology nerd into one tale. Sure. And maybe Lydia will suddenly learn to cook some decent shrimp and grits. I shouldn’t complain. She’s from Minnesota, so shrimp and grits aren’t treated with the proper respect in that part of the country. She’s a hell of a graphic designer, though. She did the design for my book; that’s how I met her. She was so cute and so enamored of my novel. Said it was the best book she had ever read this side of Bleak House . She’s got a thing for plain-looking, underdog heroines. Dickens does underdogs well. The brilliant fucker. There I go again. The no-no word. Maybe if I stop thinking it, I’ll stop writing it. The thing is, I used it 231 times in The First American Angel . My editor/agent counted. Actually, I think he used a word processing feature to find out how many times I used the no-no word. That gave him plenty of time to harangue me about writing another book. He’s retired now, but the fucker would be happy to know that I’m working on it. Shit! Will no one rid me of this turbulent word? A real horror story should contain some sort of supernatural element. A killer that won’t die. A ritual that imbues otherworldly powers upon the evildoer. I mean, it may be trite and all, but people buy that shit, right? Why, I have no idea. It isn’t real literature. Proust and his recollection of madeleines is real writing, but no one reads him any longer. Everyone wants to read about hipster vampires and pretty-boy werewolves. Ughh! Or wizards at school. Or some woman solving murders in her spare time, between baking whatever bakers bake. The First American Angel made me rich. Well, rich-ish. Lydia and I got married, bought a house in a decent area of San Antonio, and immediately produced a child. Lydia was certain that it happened in the kitchen. I believe her because I made shrimp and grits for us that particular night. There’s real magic in shellfish and dried dent corn. Lydia wanted to name our daughter Desdemona. I plumped for Madison. We compromised and named her Desdemona. Everyone calls her Des. Des left for college last month. She told Lydia to “kick dad in the nuts every day until he gets another book published.” I think my daughter loves me, but she’s starting to sound like my new agent. Don’t get me wrong. I write stuff. Articles for literary magazines. I do book reviews for several newspapers. Reader’s Digest publishes me twice a year. But that isn’t genuine writing. The First American Angel was real writing, and I was a real writer. Full stop. I have Gabriel García Márquez to thank for my inspiration. Magical realism and all that. The Buendía family. Allegorical tale of man’s origin. I mean, 100 Years of Solitude had it all. But where do you go after writing your magnum opus ? Maybe I need to go Southern Gothic. Flannery O’Connor and Carson McCullers made it respectable, all that post-Civil War depression and violence. Wise Blood never got the credit it deserved. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter has been forgotten. Maybe it’s time to revive this genre, shake it up, give it a nip and a tuck, get it a little black dress and take it out for a night on the town. Uglier girls have made it to the ball, right? ************** Jenny hauled the last bucket of water for the day back to the house. She needed it for her baby and her dead mother. She would finish digging the grave tomorrow, before it got too hot and before mamma started to stink. Pegasus Sky gurgled happily, not caring that she lay next to a dead woman. Jenny fed her baby and cleaned her mother before laying down to sleep next to them. She wouldn’t be hearing her mother snore any longer, or hear her cry out for her husband. The war hadn’t taken him, but the pneumonia had. Jenny had dug that grave as well. As long as she didn’t have to dig a hole for Pegasus, she’d be fine. I need some grotesque to come along and insert himself into Jenny’s life. Evil grotesque or Godly grotesque? I need some Catholic undertones. That should be easy. I teach at a fucking Catholic university, right? You should see the campus. Mother Mary all over the place, smiling beatifically at you as you pass. I wonder what the good mother thought of Flannery and Carson. I don’t think I can do southern gothic. I’ve written one paragraph and I already want to slit my wrists. That’s sacrilegious. The Brothers on campus would be shocked if they heard me voice that particular thought. I like the Brothers. They day drink, and all four of them have a two-pack-a-day habit. All of them offer solid, practical advice about teaching, though they hadn’t taught in decades. Best of all, they’re liberal with sharing their whiskey with me. It’s expensive stuff, too. I’m thinking maybe I’m like the Brothers. I did my thing with that one novel. Maybe I should just drink good whiskey, smoke two packs a day, and sit around doing a whole lot of nothing. They seem pretty happy. However. However, I’m not. Happy, that is. I’m anxious and skittish and unsettled. I’ve been this way for twenty years. Now I’m desperate. I owe it to Lydia and Des to write another book. I just don’t know how. I make a deal with the devil. Ok, that’s a little too dramatic. I make a deal with Des. ************** I left the mountain after grandpa died, taking little with me, for there was little to take. I would go on to kill seventy-three men, all bad. I would return to the mountain in due time, the prodigal son who wasn’t a son at all but a daughter. This is how it all happened. I look at Des and shake my head. “How the hell am I supposed to work with that?” She gives me that look. The one her mother gives me when she’s exasperated with me but doesn’t want to unleash a verbal assault on my ass. “You just do it. We made a deal.” I scratch my beard. Lydia doesn’t like my beard, but Des thinks it makes me look professorial. “And stop drinking my whiskey. You’re not even twenty-one yet.” Des defies me. She pours out two fingers and mixes it with carbonated water. Lightweight. “Get to it, old man.” So I do. I left during a Pegasus sky. That’s a term only us mountain people know. When eagles are flying closer to the ground than normal, it means they spotted a small rabbit or a rattlesnake. Since it was midday, it had to be a rattlesnake. Step careful and step quiet, grandpa used to say. I shove the computer back to Des. She reads it and nods. “You’ve been obsessing over this stupid phrase for years and now, suddenly, you explain it. What gives?” I don’t know what to say to her, so I shrug. Ok, I do know how to explain it, but I won’t. Denial of one’s faults is part of the human condition. I could tell her that but she’d eye-roll me, just like her mother does. “Oh! I get it! There’s always a way to spot evil if you know the signs. Since this bad-ass chick is gonna kill all these men, she must know what to look for. That’s kind of brilliant.” “Yep.” No need to brag. I can do that later. I have these rules that grandpa taught me. Rule #11 says that when you kill, you kill quick and you kill sure. Now, I only killed rabbit and deer and squirrel and rattlesnake before I went down the mountain, but that son-of-a-bitch Russel treated me real bad so he had to be killed. “Where the hell are you going with this?” I had to ask, right? “You write your paragraphs and I’ll write mine.” She takes another sip of whiskey, just to piss me off. She succeeded. “What did he do that was so bad?” “Maybe he raped her.” Des says this matter of factly, which saddens me. It’s a reality in her world, this sort of shit. I wish I could protect her, but I can’t. Not from everything. We trade more paragraphs, arguing about each other’s work along the way. Thrust and parry. Remark and retort. Lydia watches us and smiles. Why is she so happy about Des and me arguing? The woman is clearly insane. It had to happen eventually, living with me. It took me a few months to get it, but I got it. Keeping it to myself, though. ************** Pegasus Sky became a runaway best seller. Des used the pen name Olivia du Mugne because she admired the works of Daphne du Maurier. I argued for Lillith Longtree. Something reminiscent of the old west, and very American. We compromised and used the name Olivia du Mugne. The novel made her rich. Not just rich-ish, but fuck-you rich. Ironically, we never used the word fuck in Pegasus Sky . We now write novels together, using that stupid pen name and churning out books that people snap up by the millions. We argue about every paragraph. She usually wins. I’m not a real writer, after all, and she’s my daughter. So it goes.


This is the opening of a short story I’m submitting to magazines for publication. I would love critique, feedback or just to be blasted. I will post the rest if you guys like it.... “Runner” Three am. Sleep hid from her, peeking around the corner, sniggering as Ally Nash kicked the covers. She rolled over. Alone. Eighteen months and his half of the bed was still empty. Rob was a light sleeper in his day. Maybe he’d have gotten up and talked to her through her insomnia. Or they would have made love. She missed him and hated him. Hated being alone. Hated him for what he did. Ally looked at her running shorts and U of M hoodie, slung over the side of her laundry hamper, and knew they could soak up one more sweat. Her panties and socks were fresh from the drawer, smelling like fabric softener. Just enough to offset the day-old musk. She got dressed and swallowed a cup of water, popped in her earbuds, stepped into her shoes and walked out the door. The air felt right, a satisfying burn, deep in her lungs. Her heart thanked her for giving it a reason to be. Her knee, on the other hand, grumbled for a day off. No. Motion is the lotion. She picked up the pace and drug the gummy joint through the paces until it relented. Ally’s stride came back and her cross country coach's voice echoed from deep in her brainstem. Three steps, in breath, four steps, out breath... in your nose, out your mouth... pick up the pace! The endorphins trickled into her blood and her mind floated just above her own skull. That was the real runners high. That ancient survival mechanism, adapted to running down animals in the plains of Africa. There was no worry there. No regret. No anxiety. No fiancé with locked apps on his phone. Up there she didn’t have to live with herself. The self who couldn’t ignore her gut any longer. The girl who told herself; you’re just being paranoid, he’s a good guy, nothing is going on, don’t be like your mother. Don’t push him away. Give him his space. He’s at the gym. Out with his friends. Don’t follow him. Ally! Don’t do it. Please. Don’t look- Enough! Thank god she never gave up on running. It saved her life in high school. When dad moved out and her mom’s drinking took a turn. Ally found peace in the rhythm of her feet and the floating of her mind. Running got her medals, ribbons, articles in the newspaper, a scholarship to the U and brought her together with Rob. Rob. The bastard with a majestic stride. Perfect. Fluid. Natural. He set the pace for their college team, Captain Rob. Three hour practices followed by sex in the shower. He picked Ally over a dozen other girls and they quickly became inseparable. The happiest days of her life. SNAP! Razor-sharp teeth flashed in the dark. Ally’s heart tumbled out of rhythm and fear snatched her out of reminiscing. She leapt off the blacktop and into the road. A snarling black lab yanked at the end of its chain, barking at what it believed was an intruder to its property. Oh my god! Ally clutched her chest and sighed, relieved it was just a halfwit mutt and not some ancient demon of the shadows. Once she reigned in her pulse and verified she hadn’t wet herself, Ally Nash looped back to the sidewalk and made a mental note to avoid the dog next time she ran in the dark. The nature preserve was a mile from her front door. Her favorite trail loop gave her seven miles to work her pace and get all the sweat she needed to get through another day. As she turned away from the road, facing into the woods, Ally stopped and checked the time. Four AM. At least an hour until the sun even started to glow. She’d never run that loop in the dark. It should be empty, Ally reckoned. Nothing to worry about. Besides, if the boogeyman happened to be in there, there’s almost no chance he could run six minute miles. One thought gave her pause. Her neighbor had posted a security camera photo of a canine they thought was a wolf. Most of the amateur nature experts on Facebook decided it was a German shepherd that should have had its collar on. A few men, Area Fifty One types, believed the ears and muzzle looked like they could belong to a coyote. One commenter noted that a pair of wolves had escaped a nature preserve twenty miles to the North on the night of a vicious rainstorm and were still being pursued by the DNR.


This is a short snipit of a book of mine. My book is set withing fantasy even if you don't see it that much here. All content here is mine. Thanks for reading! *** The moon was full in the sky tonight, casting beautiful rays of light into the room. Nityas skin was in full display to the night sky. I smiled up at her from where I layed back on the bed. My own skin chilling in the night air. Nitya trailed a hand along the planes of my body, with her gaze lost in thought. I studied her face for several long moments. Watching the moonlight play off her features. Such a beautiful woman. “You know you can ask me about them.” My voice cut the silence and seemed to startle nitya out of her thoughts. Her head quickly turned to look me in the eye. “My scars, you can ask.” I spoke again and Nitya seemed to realize where her hand had been trailing. Her fingertips slowly moved to touch the long faded scar on my right side. Old as it was, you could still make it out against my skin. “What was this from? It's old, isn't it." Nitya asked, quitely and tentivally. Almost like she wasn't sure she wanted the answer. “It was my first scar. A kid lost control of their balance. Flung their sword everywhere and ended up hitting me in the chaos. It's what caused elspeth to realize that my magic wasn't normal.” I spoke remembering how odd that day seemed to stand out in my mind. “I don't see how getting yourself cut down showed you that.” Nitya said, a tone of mockery in her voice and it made me smile. I reached my own hand, previously tucked behind my head over to nityas arm. Letting it trail down to her leg, resting it there. “It wasn't being cut down, it was how my magic reacted to it. It lashed out, pretty severely. I lost myself in its power for a bit.” I whispered, letting the severity of what happened finally wash over me. An accident I hadn't every really thought of much tell that moment. Nitya seemed to realize the same, trailing her hand over to a new scar. “What about this one.” Her hand rested over my thigh, two inches worth of scarred skin. I smiled, chuckling at the memory. “One of my old teammates. We where sparring with live weapons, like we weren't supposed to be doing.” I said wrinkling my nose at nitya while smiling. “Oh of course not, what self serving person would want to be safe.” Nitya spoke giggling. I was shaking my head at her comment. “Hush you. Anyways, we got carried away. I had gotten her cornered and had my arms around her holding down her arms. Well next thing I know i'm on the floor in pain and her daggers in my leg.” I started laughing and nitya was chuckling with me. “Man we got chewed out so bad for that. Elspeth was so pissed and 75 still won't let me live it down.” Nitya was smiling down at me and I couldn't help but remember to breathe. She looked so good smiling like that. “Oh I bet. I'm gonna have to remember that one.” Nitya giggled, bringing her hand up trail along my forehead, brushing the stray hair away and touching lightly and small and faded scar. “What's this one?” I hummed, closing my eyes in content at nityas fingers going into my hair. “I got really sick one time. I was mostly delirious and tried to get to someone, I fell down and hit my head against the coffee table outside my rooms. Scared elspeth and the team pretty badly.” I ran my hand down Nityas leg, taking it up and coming to brush her cheek. The backs of my knuckles brushed along her skin and she leaned into it softly. “What about these?” Nitya asked while trailing her other hand down my arm. The striking almost shimmering scars standing out against the skin behind it. “You already know that story.” I spoke tilting my head to watch as nityas expression softened. “Tell me again.” Nitya said, trailing a fingertip along the complicated patterns. “They're the marks of power I shouldn't have. An old man who listened to the gods gave his life so I could protect myself better. They're the marks that damned me, and they're the marks that saved me.” I spoke, a tinge of anger lilting my voice as I stared up at the scars. Nitya smoothed a hand down my arm. Moving it up and reaching to my collarbone. “And this one?” I dropped my arm to the bed as she asked tracing the little bird pressed there. “That I got soon after my thirteenth birthday. My devotion to the goddess of knowledge Ona.” Nitya smiled and slowly moved her hand away. The hand on my stomach seeming to protect the scar under it. “And what about this one?” Nitya said, emotion filling her tone of voice and face. I smiled wide levering myself up onto my elbow. Coming close to her face I hung there before speaking. “I got that one protecting you my love. You healed me bravely even though I could feel the shaking in your hands and the panic in your voice. That one, I think is my favorite scar.” my eyes felt crinkled at the edge and I couldn't keep the grin off my face. Nitya bursted into giggles, having to turn her face away from me. Covering her mouth with a hand before she was able to calm herself. “You are far to much of a sap.” nitya said warmly, the look in her eyes fond as she leaned over to kiss me. I ran a hand up through her hair. Wrapping my arms around her to hold onto this little piece of beauty. Nitya wrapped her own arms around me, holding on just as tight. We smiled at each other as we pulled away. Our magic wrapping around the two of us as we watched the other. I giggled and twisted, causing nitya to yelp as she falls underneath me. I snuggled down on top of her. Yawning largely as we lay there. Nityas held onto me and i stayed firmly where I was. There was a whisper of magic as the covers came falling over us. The warm cocoon of magic and love, slowed everything around us down. Narrowing our world to just the two of us. “I love you, Nitya.” I whispered, feeling like i was proclaiming it to the whole world. In a way i was. “I love you, Rogue.” came the reply full of emotion. Nitya tightened her arms around me for a moment before shifting just slightly. Making our position infinitely more comfortable. All i could help but think how lucky I was. Having survived this long, having been given such an amazing person to love. Someone who showed me how to be more than my training. Someone who I love with my whole being. As we drifted off, with the moonlight surrounding us, with our love forming a barrier between us and the world. I knew nothing could harm us that night.


Slowly stirring her coffee, Celine looked over her friend's shoulder and through the window. Across the street was the unimaginatively named “Celine's Antiques.” A small door set in a honey-colored stone wall next to a bow-window disguised the store's true size. While only 12 feet wide the uneven oak floors went back a long way, back to the massive black desk where Celine spent much of her time. “So, resolutions this year?” Celine turned her attention back to Lorna. “Mmm, I don't know. I should think about it shouldn't I?” “Did you make any last year? I don't remember.” Lifting the white coffee cup from its white saucer, Celine leaned back in her chair. “Well yes, I did.” Lorna gazed directly at her old college roommate. “Well? How did they turn out?” Celine took a sip, looking back at Lorna across the froth. “Pretty well actually.” At that Lorna leaned forward, tucking a length of glossy chocolate-brown hair behind one ear. Dark chocolate that is, not the pale milk kind. Celine looked around the coffee shop. Other than two teenage wannabe baristas behind the counter they had the place to themselves. A small town in the English Cotswolds, Tetbury was usually quiet on Tuesday afternoons, and especially so in January. Celine leaned in towards Lorna. “Well I made three.” Lorna's thin eyebrows climbed a little higher up her forehead as she waited. “I told you about “After All That,” Celine continued. “Well that was the first. I said I'd write a novel and there it is, done. Coming out in April.” Now it was Lorna's turn to sit back in her chair and sip some coffee. “I think that's just amazing. I can’t wait to read it. But how did you find the time when you had the shop to run and you were dating Elliot?” Celine put her cup back on its saucer. “Well I had...” She hesitated before continuing, “No, it wasn't easy, but I was very determined.” “That's true. Well you always have been of course. You wouldn't have got the job with O'Connor otherwise.” “You know, I loved working there but I don't miss it at all.” This was true. Long hours in airports and hotels, the phone buzzing almost constantly, a laptop her only companion. Consulting paid well but demanded total commitment. Lots of income but little time in which to spend it, as Celine would tell her mother. There had been times when she’d quite envied Lorna with her dependable husband and two annoyingly cute kids. Lorna wondered if Celine was steering the conversation in a different direction. You can't share a room with someone for three years without becoming attuned to every nuance and emotion, no matter how well hidden. “So, your first resolution was to write a novel and you did it. But what about the other two?” Celine flashed her big toothy smile. “You met one of them last night, Elliot.” “Elliott was your New Year resolution?” “Well not him exactly, but I resolved to meet someone I really want to be with, and so I did.” Lorna laughed a little. “Your Mum's nagging finally paid off eh?' Celine grimaced a little. There was an element of truth in this. More than once Mum had suggested she should find herself a nice man. Celine would explain that her schedule left no time for dating, which inevitably prompted a minor burst of hurrumphing. Then, when her mother lay in the hospital, her urging became more serious. “Find a nice man Celine,” she'd say, “Life's so much better when you share it with someone else.” Sensing that maybe she'd stepped into a sensitive area, Lorna began to backpedal. “He seems lovely, kind and respectful and smart, but not too smart.” Celine nodded at this, “I got lucky when he came into the shop. I wasn't expecting it but one day there he was, looking for a desk and, well you know the rest.” “That shop's been good for you in so many ways. You're so much more relaxed now, you look happier, healthier. I'm really glad it's working out for you.” “Thank you. Well it was tough at first, you know that. Mom's money let me buy the place but it wasn't going to last long. I’ll be honest, I was struggling, and then, well I guess I just had a little luck.” “Luck?” “Uh huh.” Celine wasn't about to go into detail. She would never relate the story of how she summoned up the courage to go down into the dark, damp cellar and poke around hoping to find something she could sell. No, that story would never be shared. “So? What about the third resolution?” “Mm well, I resolved to make a success of the shop, and I did.” While Lorna stared at her old friend, trying to make sense of this Celine looked out through the window again. Her eyes were fixed on her little shop, unobtrusive in a line of bigger stores with fancier doors and more elaborate window displays. It was all very well saying, “Buy low, sell high,” or “Maximize revenue generation,” as she'd typed into so many PowerPoint presentations during her consulting career, but antique selling was a competitive business. You needed a constant stream of desirable objects to sell, and that didn't happen by accident. Without contacts and sources, it was impossible to stock the shop with things people wanted to buy, especially at prices that would yield a profit. Lorna broke the silence, “But how? I mean I know you understand business, but you must have changed something. I mean when we met up last January you said it was struggling.” Celine nodded. It was true, the last twelve months had seen dramatic changes. She'd gone from owner of a struggling antiques store destined for a life of spinsterhood to successful author and businesswoman with an attractive, supportive partner. It was as if ... well Lorna was never going to understand, so best to say nothing. Lorna spoke again, “I mean, we all make resolutions, but they don't really achieve anything. I can never keep mine more than a few weeks. What's your secret? What did you do differently?” Celine stared out across the street for a long time before replying. “Well, I guess it was more three wishes than three resolutions. I wished for three things, and I got them.” Lorna frowned now. “What aren't you telling me?” Celine closed her eyes for a moment, long enough to remember how she'd rummaged through the big wooden chest she'd found in the cellar. There'd been some old lace tablecloths in it, interesting for some people yet of no real value. Then, as she straightened up and looked at the chest again, she'd noticed how the base of the inside seemed much closer than the stone floor outside. The only light came from a dim bulb at the top of the stairs so it was hard to make out details. Leaning down again, Celine rapped her knuckles on the bottom. It rang hollow. She tried again in a different place, and a third time. Each time she knocked against the bottom of the chest the same result, as if there was a compartment concealed below the wooden panel. In the gloom it was difficult to see how the bottom of the chest was configured, so she moved across from left to right, tapping and pushing. And then a panel moved, sliding forward underneath its neighbor. As it moved an object was revealed, brass-colored but it took Celine a few moments to put a name to its form. A lamp, she realized, it was an old oil lamp. Lifting it out, her first thought was that it must be a theatrical prop, but that didn't make much sense. It was heavy, much heavier than she expected. If it was just a prop, why go to the trouble of hiding it away? Turning towards the light for a better view, Celine saw what looked like a line of characters running circumferentially around the lamp just above its base. The metal was tarnished so she rubbed her fingers over the letters. A blinding flash filled the dark cellar. Celine's first thought was that the electrical box had exploded. Then as a sulphurous odor reached her nostrils she became more certain there had been an electrical fault. Her eyes were still recovering from the flash; there were blue spots in her direct line of sight so she tried looking obliquely towards the light, or where the light was. She couldn't see it now, there was something between her and the base of the cellar steps. Not something, someone. Celine shrieked and stepped back, grabbing the lamp by the spout, ready to swing it like a club or cudgel. Then the figure spoke. “Be not afraid.” His voice was a deep baritone and he spoke slowly. “Get out of my shop.” Celine tried to make her voice strong and confident. “I've got a weapon.” Her eyes were recovering now and she could make out the silhouette of a large man, wide, muscular shoulders and something on his head. “I will not harm you. I am here to serve you.” “GET ... OUT ... OF ... MY ... SHOP! NOW!” “You have released me. For that I must grant you three wishes.” She could see better now, and in the gloom she realized the man was shirtless. The thing on his head was a turban, from his waist down he wore some kind of elaborately patterned harem pants. Celine opened her eyes and saw Lorna staring directly at her. “Well?” said Lorna. It was ridiculous. Celine knew she could never explain. Heck, she wasn't even sure she understood it herself. Had she started describing how a Genii had appeared in the cellar of her store Lorna would be calling for medical assistance in minutes. No, best to keep it simple. “I guess sometimes,” she paused before continuing, “When we're in a really low place, well maybe that can spark something, you know. And I was in a bad place the last time you saw me, but I resolved to change things, and I did.” Lorna shock her head quietly. “Well the change in you is just amazing. If that's what resolutions can do, I'm making some tonight.” Celine nodded in agreement. What else could she say?


The Sepia creased wrapper was left torn on the floor of her bedroom. She was measuring her pulses when the ringing clock flustered a gasp out of her breath, which was already stolen. The wood was glistening, the shadow enlarging. with every second her thoughts were left out of time. There was no warning through the windows. Just the haze of the morning lightening the paper, darkening her inside. But she knew there was a part of covering she had forgiven regarding the possibility. She’d left as a witness of her pain that she can pull with herself on the days left over for drawing blunders because the part untorn read a name. A name she didn’t need to see because she can feel it. A name who owned money for the benefaction she didn’t know where to set down. The bed was left affected when she pulls herself off. She betrayed the time-lapse for a moment and quickly decides to throw the packaging away, as far as she could throw, as deep as she could hide it to not see it again. For the souvenir, she caressed the name and thereby noticed for the first time the quotes written beneath. She distrained the paper. It says, “The things disintegrated with time are more valuable when they are broken.” “How can it be?” she shrieks between the silence. Her voices gave the essence of hatred she had been in the whole night, but she didn’t notice. Instantly, she had no answers in return, she slammed her eyes shut. But it did was more when she saw her tears raining on the written texts. She sunk on the floor, fisting her hands. She couldn’t stop herself. The emotions were a lot cascading in every way credible. Her eyes were locked on her hand, blurred to see the expressions she imagined with a face. She turned the wrapper back. “Flowers to my Lily, ” it said. She sniffed and wiped her cheek to confirm it again. Guilt streamed on her face. Instantly, She left the shealth flying down like a feather and rushed out of her room. Her chest was levering her down, yet she made it to the end table, loaded with a huge bouquet of peonies. Her favorite. Last night, the knot of flowers was surrendered with her name on it, handed to her by a guy in Prussian blue uniform with a ‘Deliverer’ written on his back with a number which reminded her regression of not picking up the phone yesterday. That was the time when her anger was peaking to its hard limits. She wanted to prove to herself that someone can deserve such hostility. Her destination was certain but it was the way wrong, that held her onto making him believe they were running with no assistance. The call didn’t come back. In her defense, she just needed the last quiver. One last call to lessen the entropy. She took the bouquet in her hands, touching least. Terrified that her soreness would somehow kill them. The vase was sitting next to it, but she hurtled toward her door and shot out. The wild winds touched her lips and her senses quickened the scrutiny of the salt and irritation on her face. She couldn’t throw the flowers, they didn’t belong in the garbage pail, and neither in the destination to be seen every time. The flowers hold every shade of the relationship. The moment of confections, the nanoseconds when his smile was magnificent, when she made a mistake only for him to fix it when his breath was the freshest air around. The times of hesitation when the mistakes weren’t assigned to anyone, and the decisions disappointing her because they never took them. She knew the time when ingenuous of her endeavor she was trying to stop them from being. But finally, she knew that his silence was to tell her that he’s noticing that. That she didn’t know what that was. She didn’t care. Well, You take everything you want , she remembered his words, came out with pride in his tone, but now she doubts her abilities. She doubts that she was the one to devour this time. Standing outside, she imagined the time he was opening the gate, groaning with his rusted iron. He was walking towards her yet he ignores her and knocked on the door instead. He passed through her and the door opened like she was already there twiddling her thumb. She welcomed him with a huge smile and he hugged her. But she didn’t feel his body. It was the same checked shirt, same brown messed hair, already blushing lips and transparent blue eyes in which she can see her old. His arms were wrapped around her but his warmth was swept away by the wind. When she concentrated hard, he was finally nowhere. She knew it but it broke a part of her. The grass of her lawn was not green anymore as she looked down. And her house wasn’t decorated anymore as she saw in his eyes. Colors were fading away as long as her vision was possible. The peonies were still in her hand. There was a desolation in her nerves that the wind was warning her to hold them tight or she would lose them too. That’s what I want , she lied to her subconscious, and marched out of her garden, out of her house. Her feet halted on the edge of the road, and she threw the gift far. The plastic band holding them together showed a white flag. The flowers were left scattered on the road like fifty candles in the darkness. It took away her tears and hope grew more inspiring. It was the only place he should be. Not inside her house expressing neither he could be hidden in a box, she would never open. She turned back to her house convincing herself because at the time she wasn’t left out of her insensitivities. And that was the proposal for the rest of the day. She sat on pause on her window, from where the flowers were visible but it never happened. She didn’t see his shadow, he didn’t come to her street like she wanted him to. Strangers stared at the withers turning into dust as the day went, but no stranger was him. The sun hid in disappointment. It wasn’t the day for beams and sparkle to touch Lily. Her only friend appeared to be the dark knight telling her that it’s the end. THE END


. When I was a child, I knew of a strange old tale connected with my town, where, during the War, there had been a quartermaster’s office. As I was told it, there was a courier whose job it was to ride a set of heavy leather bound ledgers from the town to the front lines thirty or so kilometres away. The ledger contained information concerning rations, ammunition, horses and various other supplies as well as casualty lists from the front. Although the fellow had some formal title, everyone simply referred to him as the Ledgerman. Every Monday morning, regular as clockwork, the Ledgerman would retrieve the books from the quartermaster, carefully place them in his saddlebags, and ride off to the front. The road was easy enough to travel, and it was all through a quiet track of farmland. The men at the checkpoints knew him well, and did not bother to stop him and ask for papers. Having arrived at the front-lines, he would hand over the books to whomever the commander was (the holder of the position changed quite regularly) and waited for the logs to be updated. He would then strap the books back onto his horse, and return to town, usually by six o’clock in the evening. As the months rolled on, the Ledgerman grew to enjoy his job increasingly, as he was paid well and there was hardly any chance of danger. Although he would never admit it, quietly, he had began to hope that the war wouldn’t conclude as soon as the newspapers continually claimed it would. As the autumn months arrived, a final offensive pushed the front lines several miles further along the frontier than before, and as the quartermaster explained, the Ledgerman would have to travel a longer route to run the books to the advanced lines. The forest he would have to cross had not been travelled by anyone since the offensive, and there would be no checkpoints or guards. It had been a sight of heavy foresting, but when the War rolled through, it had taken the woodsmen and foresters with it, so the trees had been left to grow unhindered. He set off that morning as he usually did except somewhat more contented that he would be paid a little extra for the additional hours it would take to make the journey. Having passed the old earthworks, he approached the forest beyond where lay the vanguard. The trees were quite sparse and broken trunks and stumps studded the whole place. There had been a heavy barrage of artillery, and it was clear that much of it had been destroyed. As he passed through, he noted that a set of baleful chevaux de frise had been made, which ran off into the increasingly dense wood. As he travailed further, he saw a large number of dead horses lying on either side of the path. His own horse was perturbed by the sight, and started into the wood after a moment. With some difficulty, he navigated it back to the road, but only after noticing an increasing number of bodies. After what seemed longer than it was, he emerged, greeted by the shattered remnants of outbuildings belonging to what must have been a grand estate. Amongst them were some tents and entrenchments garrisoned by a small number of haggard-looking men. Having dismounted, the Ledgerman was approached by a young officer who introduced himself as the new commander. He took the logs without a second glance at their keeper, but the Ledgerman, who did not usually award himself such liberties, felt obligated to make a hurried inquiry about the dead horses in the forest. The young officer explained that the advance had been broken by a disorganised cavalry charge, which was eventually driven back with much effort. He said that the Ledgerman need not worry about any stragglers, as the barrage made survival within the forest highly improbable. Nevertheless, he asked the rider if he would rather stay the night at camp, as dusk would be falling shortly. The Ledgerman did not find the prospect of staying amongst the dishevelled soldiers appealing in the least, and so nervously waited for the commander to fill in all of the necessary information. The officer had only finished writing up all of the casualty lists as the sun set behind the distant treeline. The Ledgerman, who had thrown the books into the saddlebags in a fashion unbefitting his conscientious self, had departed as quickly as he could, wishing to avoid the sight of the horses on the road. He quickened his pace as he entered the forest, and as he continued, he seemed to hear a whinny or cry from somewhere off in the distance. As the trunks became less sparse, he detected upon the ground ahead of him, an unmistakable pair of hoof marks trodden into the muddy path. They were facing in the direction he was going, and he felt certain that he had not noticed any such marks on the way there and that they surely couldn’t be from his own horse. The night was not very dark, as the moon was full, but this did more to unnerve than comfort him. His sight was good enough to make out the shape of the road very clearly ahead of him and the nearby trees, but not good enough to see beyond the dark edges of the encroaching woodland. The Ledgerman’s progress was impeded by the nervousness of his horse, which would start and stop suddenly, bray, and then anxiously continue. Every now and again, he would turn and look whence he had come to make sure there was nobody following him. This went on for a few hours, by which time the Ledgerman had put himself, though not by much degree, at ease. *It’s simply my fancy*, he thought to himself, *Like the commander said, there could not have been any survivors*. Such thoughts occupied his mind for some time, and he hoped that the wood would soon clear. However, as he turned a tight bend, he froze. In the centre of the road a short distance off was, or what had once been, a horse. It truly was a horrifying spectacle. Its emaciated body was contorted in a terrible manner, its hide hanging off, revealing the rotting and torn muscle beneath. Its tangled mane was made out in two knots, where shaking hands had clutched at it in terror before they had been torn free. The cyclopean head turned up on a heavy neck, revealing a socket and one forlorn and yellow eye. A pair of bony nostrils blew a heavy gust of steam as it looked upon the Ledgerman. Whether the cry issued was from his horse or the creature, the poor fellow could not discern. Either way, his mount bolted into the wood, and soon after, he was knocked off by a stray bough. As he scrambled to his feet he dared not look behind him lest he see the beast chasing after him. Soon he had crossed the bloodied chevaux de frise, and he dearly hoped his horse hadn’t killed itself upon them. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction his mount had flown, and within a span of twenty minutes, he had cleared the treeline. Exhausted, he collapsed in an overgrown barley field. He spent a sleepless night in a shallow ditch attempting and failing to put the terrible image out of his mind. In the morning, he wandered a mile or so before he found his horse grazing by a copse. He led it, for he was still trembling too much to try to mount it, back to town, where he handed in the ledgers as well as a notice of resignation and some false explanation. The Ledgerman left my town on the frontier after his experience and nobody has heard any more from him. The forest was cut down after the War following some very odd government accounts. Many years later there were found a great number of horse skeletons.


The man put the wine glasses away. He put them away in the one windowed cabinet in the kitchen. They were fine wine glasses, hand crafted and pleasing to look at through the cabinet window. It seemed to him that there was a space for each wine glass in among the other fine glass objects in the cabinet. Though, as he took each wine glass from the mat on which it had finished drying and placed it in the windowed cabinet, the wine glasses did not look as if they would all fit in the space together. But they had fit in that space before and so would fit again, this is what he told himself. There were twelve wine glasses drying on the mat when he came downstairs to put them away; now there were two wine glasses on the mat. As he took up the remaining wine glasses he could not help but notice how large his hands were, he was a post-pubescent male, and yet he seemed to have grown miraculously if only by inches since the last time he looked at his hands. He knew what people said about people with big hands and he smiled. He strode over to the cabinet and placed one of the remaining wine glasses inside. Gazing through the cabinet window he realized that the final wine glass would not fit inside. He had to try anyways, this was how he was. There was no defined space for the final wine glass and so he really had to force it into the cabinet. The other wine glasses behaved irregularly as he forced this last one in; they began to bounce around. Despite the bouncing, the last wine glass found its way into the cabinet after a period of time he could not measure. As he shut the cabinet door it came open again. He slammed the cabinet door closed and it shut most of the way. This was good enough for him. He felt he had been doing this for far too long. The man went upstairs. He could not stop thinking about the cabinet, slightly open thanks to his boneheaded placement of the final wine glass. He did not want the wine glass to think that the cabinet door being slightly ajar was the wine glass’s fault. He went downstairs. He took out the misplaced wine glass and set it on the drying mat; he took out a second wine glass and set it upon the drying mat; in doing this he impressed upon himself the idea that he was not chasing perfection; he would leave perfection to the perfectionists, this was an obvious observation. He looked at the two wine glasses on the drying mat and allowed that, if a person were to see these wine glasses, they could work out where the wine glasses should be placed and would come upon the dilemma with which he was currently faced. He decided to take a third wine glass out and a fourth and so on until there were eleven wine glasses on the mat and one in the windowed cabinet. The man stared at the fridge in the kitchen. He opened the fridge and bathed in its glow; his eye was caught by a bottle full of red liquid. On the front of the bottle he read: *Cabernet Sauvignon.* And on the back: *This is copy. This copy is written, like newsprint, to be easily comprehendible. This copy will tell you that, should you decide to drink the Cabernet Sauvignon in this bottle you will taste ‘hints of chocolate and coffee’. This is a lie, but you will tell your drinking partners you taste these hints. No matter if they taste the hints of coffee and chocolate or not they will tell you the same. You will have fun agreeing with each other and believe you have come closer to one another in this moment. If you are alone you may lie to yourself and make believe that you have tasted these hints as well, this lie will justify your purchase. Go ahead, drink.* He agreed with what he read. The man put the wine in the remaining wine glass which he took from the windowed cabinet. He drank. He kept drinking. He drank a lot more. He finished the bottle. He did not remember what happened next. He was walking around the kitchen moaning. His head hurt. He went to sleep. He woke up and there was a pain in his right eye. The man decided to visit the optometrist. The optometrist was booked up until next week. He thought: damn, and went home. He sat down inside his house and thought about the pain in his right eye. He needed to fix this. He went back to the optometrist and made an appointment with a secretary. He did not know why he had not done this before. He blamed the wine he drank. It was Tuesday. The man went back the following Wednesday, the pain had become worse but not so much worse that he was considering anything drastic, but almost. He talked to the optometrist. The optometrist was concerned. He put him through some tests. Can you read the first line and so on. Can you read this small bible text and so on. Can you see with a spoon over and so on. He did not perform well in these tests. The optometrist poured eye drops in his eyes, they stung. The man went into the waiting room to wait for the drops to work. He felt his eyes become bigger in his head, he felt that this was not what was supposed to happen. He returned to the optometrist’s office. The optometrist looked into his eyes. His face felt flush. The optometrist’s face contorted again and again. The man felt this was not a good sign. Your eyes are supposed to dilate, but not like that, the optometrist said. He thought: oh, shit, in his head and then exclaimed it aloud. Well, said the optometrist, don’t be frightened, I haven’t seen this happen before but I’m sure I can figure something out. The optometrist left his office to deliberate. The optometrist was gone for what felt to the the man like hours, though he knew this to be impossible, nearly. The man had an -ism of some sort. The optometrist gave him a prescription. The man purchased expensive eye glasses for money and went home cursing in his head or aloud, he was not sure. The fucking glasses would arrive at his door the next day, after the payment was processed. The man was told not to strain his eyes for a few hours. Unable to watch television his attention was drawn toward other stuff. His bathroom wall seemed interesting when he was pissing but he felt he could not stare too long at it for fear of any strain. After he finished up in the bathroom he went to wash his hands in the kitchen sink because the bathroom sink was ‘flimsy’. Someone had said this to him once when over at his ‘place’. As he was washing his hands he found himself gazing at the stained wine glass and empty bottle and set about cleaning them both. The wine glass was easy to clean, a quick rinse. The bottle, on the other hand, required concentration, as the bottle was filled with water and emptied *ad infinitum*. The remaining red droplets were all turned clear after the vigorous cleansing of the bottle. The man felt pleased. He thought about walking to the liquor store and getting some money for the bottle. He did not capitalize on this thought and instead found himself wishing for a way to cram the clean wine glass into the windowed cabinet along with the others which were sitting on the drying mat. He began puzzling over ways to do this while still remembering that he was not seeking perfection of any sort, at least not yet. The man did not want to look back while dying and, realizing that he had left the wine glasses out on a drying mat, just die. The man tried one more time to place the wine glasses in the windowed cabinet. He grasped the wine glasses, always in his right hand, and forced them inside the cabinet, the glasses took to bouncing once more. He withdrew from the cabinet, final glass in hand, and cursed and cursed and cursed himself, his wine glasses, his place, his -ism and the glasses he needed which would perhaps fix it. He worked himself into such a rage that he confusedly slammed his right hand down on his kitchen counter. The man had been holding the wine glass by its neck and in slamming it down had shattered its base in such a way that it nearly dissolved. The man panicked, for these were expensive wine glasses that cost money. The man had not noticed the glass skittering at speed across the floor after shattering and stopping where it had stopped on the floor. He did not believe the glass had truly dissolved, he was not stupid. The blood had not had a chance to coagulate. It was still spurting in huge quantities from beneath him after his first step. The man slid across the kitchen floor as he was in a rush to find a pair of slippers to cover his bare feet. In sliding, the glass on the kitchen floor made contact with his feet repeatedly, slicing the soft skin on which he stepped. The glass had spread farther across the floor than the man anticipated, perhaps due to the glass’s quality. The man’s slippers were located down some stairs not far outside of his kitchen. By the time the man had painfully descended these stairs his feet were bleeding like an animals’. The man put on his slippers and his feet slid around inside them. He made slow movements to attain his vacuum and hauled it to the kitchen where he plugged it into an outlet. The vacuum cord was very long like a snake is long and the man seemed aware of this as he started the vacuum. The blood thickened while the man was vacuuming, his feet seemed to come apart from the slippers with each step he took while cleaning. It became harder and harder to move as the blood got harder and harder beneath him. Minutes later the man’s feet were more stuck to the floor than not. The man found his feet numbed and was unable to tell, based on the quantity of glass, how much he had really vacuumed. The anaconda-cord had come to rest, in the man’s cleaning, right in front of his slipper-covered feet. The man’s next step, laboured and slow, placed his slippered left foot just underneath the vacuum cord. As he vacuumed some surrounding glass he took another step which placed his right foot over the cord. The man then began to step with his left foot and, as the skin stuck to the blood at the bottom of the slipper separated, he felt weighed down and fell forward onto the kitchen floor. The man became as a piece of meat. The butcher the floor, the cleaver the glass. The man had fallen onto what seemed to him to be the epicentre, where shards of varying size had exploded out from the shattered base. His head had landed squarely in an area with no glass so that his skull felt the full impact of the fall, leaving a dent in the tile, a sort of bowl which the contents of his head filled. All around him the glass attached to his body, so that as he rolled around limp and dumb, blind and trying to assess himself physically, he was in a sort of pain he had not yet experienced. The glass behaved in a certain way as the man rolled around on the floor, going out from its center and coming back countless times. The glass carved and sliced and ripped and tore away at every facet of his body. His throat was torn open and his vocal cords made a sound which had never been produced or heard by the man. The man was very soft spoken anyway. The glass took to his legs, his stomach, his arms, his clothing was in disrepair, shredded to bits. In the end, nearly unfeeling, his body settled, back side down, so that his head rested facing upwards, staring at the ceiling, Unable to move or make a sound of any kind, the man’s blood soaked the tile of his personal abattoir and slowly overflowed the bowl which his head had made, spilling out and covering much of his kitchen floor. The days passed and, on Friday, there was a knock at the man’s door. It was the optometrist. He had good news, he had not diagnosed the man properly, his eyes had become bigger in his head not because of any -ism, but because the eye drops were defective, his vision was completely fine, the man did not need any expensive glasses. The optometrist had brought some Merlot over, to celebrate. \ Thanks for reading, and thanks for any feedback.


Failed Relations christianhinrichsen4@gmail.com Off the Coast of Zoredo The trireme of Saze Abdul lays afloat at the port city of Brazer. Saze and his crew begin to unload their exotic spices and supplies necessary for their next series of travels. A group of men and women in red ABA robes approach by a man in a dark red ABA robe. The guards are armed with large scimitars and pole-arms. “Captain Selim Abdul. I have a warrant for your arrest on smuggling and conspiring against Pasha Fakir.” directs the man in dark red robes. “Arrest by the Pasha, what in Hades are you talking about. I am a legitimate smuggler and citizen of brazen. Besides the Pasha is my grand-Uncle.” “I am sorry to inform you but the Magistrate has issued this warrant against you. Please come with us or we will have to make it hard.” As the red-robed guards step ahead with manacles in their hands. Saze looks over to his sister Serena. “Serena, contact Magistrate Zahim, maybe she can straighten this out.” Serena wearing a dark sea-foam ABA robe acknowledges her brother. After being taken into custody by the city watch. “I will notify her brother. Our Uncle has a lot to explain.” Two hours later. Serena is joined by an older Arabian woman who wears a white robe and looks to be both a priest and solicitor. The two stand in the lobby of the Administration building as several others sit and await their trial before the magistrate board.. A red-robed guard signals Serena and Magistrate Zahim to enter the courtroom. The courtroom appears more like a Pasha's sitting room but a limited number of harem wives present. A stone fountain with a mermaid squirts water from one side of the fountain to the other. Saze is brought before an older magistrate as Zahim steps forward and serves as counsel to Saze. The older man in dark ABA robes looks over at Saze while smoking in a Hashish bottle. “Captain Saze Abdul what brings you to my council room. What are you being charged with if I may ask? Magistrate Zahim always a pleasure to see you from the Abdul House.” “Magistrate Jamar, this seems to be a misunderstanding here. Captain Abdul has always been a legitimate smuggler here in Brazen. Why all of a sudden is he being charged with smuggling and conspiring against the Pasha?” “I would like to review the facts before you charge him with a high crime against our Pasha.” “What I am told Magistrate, the Captain here is carrying illegal arms to the Effereti army to the south of here. Which is a high crime, magistrate.” Saze about disputes the case but is silent by Zahim. “Captain, silence why we speak.” comments directly the older woman. “i understand Allie but right now the evidence has been found by the Pasha's guards and Vizier”. “Vizier Jericho is a fox in disguise. He is always trying to pin someone in the Abdul household. So this case is not correct.” “Allie, we know each other and I will allow you 72 hours to find the evidence to disclaim this warrant. However, the good Captain needs to stay here in prison until this gets straightened out.” The older magistrate turns to the guard. “ Next case Captain.” Standing in the hallway, Zahim and Serena discuss their next plan to prove Saze innocent. “Serena take your most trusted friends and start to look for anything aboard ship or along the docks pertaining to Saze and his crime. I will have to do some digging in the Pasha's palace and I am afraid I am not going to find what I find by Zeke.” “I will head back to the ship and get the people I trust to do some digging for facts to prove Saze is not against the Pasha.” On those words the two ladies exit the courthouse and begin their investigation to prove Saze innocent of his charges. Investigation A-foot. The crew began its help in clearing Saze and his charges. Serena, Bali, and Dorian approach the Salty Effereti a scum of the earth dive but the trio knew someone who was noted to help them out when needed. Seated in the back a heavy man with a belly as big as Santa Claus is enjoying his company of both men and women with his famous hearty laugh. “Aye saw the blue dragon's eyes and dare him to challenge me in a game of wit. The blue dragon took the offer and Aye of course won.” Rufus Khan spots Serena and the others “If you excuse me I have other matters at hand. SERENA ABDUL what has your ding a ling brother done this time Love.” Serena smiles at the hearty man and owner of the dive in the hole pub. Taking a seat across from him.” I need some information, Rufus. It seems my Uncle has a problem with Saze this time it is serious.” “Yes I heard, the good pasha believes that Saze was selling arms to the Effereti pasha in the City of Desert Fires. I figured you would be coming for information and of course since you are like a grand-daughter to me I have asked around.” “What is your price, Rogue Master?” Comments an irritable centaur know as Dorian. “ No price for my adopt grand-daughter horse-man and pleas I like to remain diplomatic here in my pub.” “Dorian step outside so I may talk with him. Rufus forgive him he is upset that his brother in arms is guilty of something he has nothing to do.” on those words Dorian gallops outside to look around at some hagglers in the market dock area. “Where was Aye lass or yes Aye remember.” “My sources tell me that the real traitor at hand is rumored to be feeding false information to the Pasha. Though Aye does not know who it is all. Aye, do know it is someone up there. Be careful Lass and I will have my Homonuculus spies search the city for any additional information. Aye, do hope that my adopted grandson is cleared of such matters.” “Igor, let the spies loose and tell them to report back as soon as possible.” “Aye master.” comments a small winged monkey statute as he leaves the bar-room. “Come have dinner with me Serena tell me of your travels.” Signals Rufus to a passing bar- wench for dinner of dates and lamb kabobs. Three hours later. Serena receives a message from Rufus through Igor who hands her a parchment of information. My desert butterfly it has come to my attention that people behind your brother's crimes are moving out tonight in the desert caravan with a giant slug rather than camels. Head south to borough 17 outside of the city and you will find the ones responsible. Be safe my desert butterfly Rufus. After reading the message, Serena wakes up Dorian and Bali and the three of them head for the designated target found by Rufus. Borough 17 As the early morning sunrises up Serena and her team advance quickly on the back of Dorian to apprehend the people responsible for her brother's crimes. Armed with their most used weapons the trio hides in the sand dunes outside of Borough 17. keeping warm with their desert camouflage armor of leather and hide. Sipping a canteen between the three of them they wait for the caravan using slugs as it mounts. Monitoring the surrounding desert-land, Bali holds his spyglass and signals his friends of the advancing caravan being pulled by two large sand slugs. “Here they come, gang. What do you guys want to do?” Serena signals Dorian to move closer to another sand dune. “ I know we need to use something more to slow them down. I have an idea,” comments Serena reaching down she pulls up a handful of sand and begins to mumbles ancient words. She blows the sand in the direction of the advancing caravan. The sand stirs as it gets closer and forms a sandstorm before the caravan. A Tie-fling scout yells loudly to the others in the caravan.. “SANDSTORM TAKE COVER!” Anger is spotted as a Tie-fling in the dark covers his face from the blowing sandstorm. Bali spots the Tie-fling known as Vizier Jericho. 'hello Vizier, doing some bad stuff against your Pasha. I think not.“ Bali turns to Serena and Dorian. “Your instincts were right Serena it's that wicked old Jerichowho caused trouble for our boss.” “Time to play watch and get that traitor.” Comments Dorian as he loads up his longbow with a larger arrow he has in his arrow basket. Serena acknowledges and lowers her veil and signals the others to do as well. Bali and Dorian adjust their goggles and veil. The party advances the caravan in the cover of the blowing sandstorm. Jericho yells at his men. “Cover them weapons, the Effereti Pasha wants them in good shape and not ruddy and sandy.” Jericho looks like a wicked version of the Arabian Swordsmen who attacked in the classic Raiders of the Lost Ark.” holding his large scimitar in case of trouble from anyone. Several reptile men start to build a barrier around the one caravan. A voice is heard from the blowing sandstorm. “VIZIER JERICHO...YOU HAVE VIOLATED AGAINST THE PASHA. SURRENDER OR DIE JERICHO.” Serena uses a special spell to amplify her voice. The purple reptile men look about scared at the voice within the sandstorm.”The S-sandstorm is ALIVE..PREPARE S-SELVES.” Jericho mumbles to himself “Fools Hold Your GROUND!” Jericho looks out to the surrounding sandstorm.”WHOEVER YOU ARE WE CAN MAKE A DEAL TO WORK THIS OUT!” “WAS THAT WHAT YOU DID TO SAZE ABDUL!” Jericho draws his sword and looks through the blinding sandstorm. “Saze? So You know him?” “PERHAPS! TRAITOR! Dorian charges Jericho knocking him down. Releasing his larger arrow on the reptile men still stunned from Serena's spell. The arrow flies and releases a large net on the reptile men. Jericho gets up but is pounced on by the small monkey man know as Bali who pulls out his two daggers. “I wouldn't do that Jericho. These blades have holy water on them. I hear it is kind of like acid on Tie-fling blood.” “Who in Hades are you?” Jericho attempts to push Bali off but is quickly subdued by another spell from Serena The spell grapples and pulls Jericho down by a group of desert thorn vines that rise out of the sand. “Hello Jericho!” The sand begins to settle down behind Serena as she holds a pair of manacles in her free hand. Dorian rides up dragging the reptile men behind him. Drawing his blade ready to strike down Jericho. “ Hold Dorian. We are not barbarians here in Zoredo.. he will be punished by the Pasha.” 'Bah.. you can try Woman...the pasha is involved as well.” “I find it hard to believe Jericho but we will find out soon enough. Dorian get the sand slugs and let's show the magistrate what we found out.” “ Aye Serena.” The party travels back to the city and is quickly surrounded by General Olaf of the Provost Marshals post. The caravan is taken before the magistrate. “ Magistrate...Serena has new evidence for your case against Saze Abdul.” comments the hawk-like man in leather armor holding a pole-arm as his weapon of choice. The magistrate looks out at Serena and her prisoners. “Desert lizards...Jericho what goes on here Vizier.” “These vermin attacked this caravan trying to deliver spices and good to the south of here magistrate. ARREST THEM!”. The magistrate escorted down by two more hawk-like guards approaches the merchant wagons. The sand slugs seem to be oblivious to what is going on with the humans. Escorted by Olaf, the Magistrate lifts the tarps off the merchant wagons. “What is this, General make an inventory of this stuff for evidence.” 'Yes, Magistrate. Guards get a quartermaster.” Comments Olaf as he begins to pull out black steel weapons from the lead wagon. “ My these are from the Dwarf guild from the east.” “You will not get away with this Woman. And why does it concern you to that pirate known as Saze?” angrily speaks Jericho. “Because Saze is my brother Vizier. Get him out of my sight before I change my mind on him. I know my friends would love to drip some blood from this traitor.” stirs Serena as vizier Jericho is quickly taken away bu another pair of General Olaf's men. “ Zoredo thanks, you Serena. I will make the proper inquiries to let Saze go” “Thank you magistrate but who knows how far up the ladder this conspiracy goes especially when the vizier claims that the Pasha is involved. Which I find hard to believe.” General Olaf steps forward and looks at the two noble merchants. “I can conduct a private inquiry if you wish magistrate.” The magistrate scratches his dark salt and pepper beard. “I will need to review the facts before I, make the decision of the Vizier General.“ “But one thing is for sure the quiet streets of the capital are holding a big secret that could damage us all.” says the Magistrate as he is escorted back to his barracks. “ Thanks again Serena Abdul, Saze will be free by dinner.” “Thank you, magistrate.” The End? .


Francis wrapped his fingers around a wrought-iron swirl and winced as he pushed, anticipating the scream that followed. He’d grown used to the shrill greeting, forced to accept it really. No amount of adjusting or lubricating the stubborn gate seemed to matter, and to be quite honest, Francis wasn’t entirely sure he could tell where on the gate the noise was coming from. So, in an effort not to think about it too hard, or perhaps with no effort at all, Francis explained away the gate’s unpleasant outcry as it simply “having a will of its own.” Of course Francis did not arrive at this conclusion on his own, having too many wits about him to arrive at such absurdity. In fact, it was the previous caretaker, the rather jolly fellow that Francis had followed through this graveyard on an early autumn night, who thought up the notion that the gate had a will of its own, and gifted it to Francis, who could now use it to explain away the seemingly unexplainable. Francis hung on every word the caretaker had said that night, as that was to be his first and last day of training. It was only late autumn now, but this season had been long for Francis, and he found himself dismayed at the realization that he’d only been working at the graveyard for just shy of a few months. It felt much, much longer; he dare not even say how much. “Well, here they are,” the caretaker had announced to Francis that first night, flourishing his arm for emphasis, a smile holding up his face. “It looks like he’s introducing people,” thought Francis, “living people.” He must have looked as unsure of how to react as he felt, because the caregiver laughed after looking his way. “You should get to know them,” he’d gone on in earnest. “Everyone thinks about who they want to be when they’re alive, but no one thinks about who they want to be when they’re dead,” he had said, either immediately or not long after. The wind whipped through the graveyard and slammed the gate closed behind Francis, forcing out a screech nearly a full octave higher than one that had welcomed him moments ago. Francis narrowed his eyelids and looked against the wind, surveying the graveyard. It looked the same as it had the previous night, and the night before that, and sounded the same too - the rustling of leaves, turned stale and brittle by October’s cool winds, the sound of the wind winding between headstones, ringing bells like wind chimes in the night. The tarnished bells attached atop each headstone tinkled delicately, promising the interned below the chance to escape should they have been buried, one would hope accidentally, before they were dead, providing welcome relief to those worried about falling victim to such an ugly fate. Francis found their disturbing nature easy to overlook given their cheerful sound, he’d explained over breakfast immediately upon finishing his first official night as the Oak Grove Cemetery Caretaker. “What good are the bells if the wind blows them all day and night?” His sister had laughed curiously. “I would hate to hear those, even now I can’t stand to think of it.” His mother had interjected, her hand gestured that she’d heard enough. “They’re just bells,” Francis had. answered. “They’re just bells,” Francis repeated to himself now. The wind carried his words away. He marched off toward the tool shed. Francis felt as though he were waking from a dream when he realized the clock tower attached to the neighboring church was announcing the time. He wasn’t sure if he’d counted 11 strikes or 12. He reached for his watch to find his breast pocket empty. He let his hand fall, remembering why he’d stopped bringing his watch with him. His watch was torturing him, Francis had concluded. Of course, it wasn’t torturing him on purpose, but it did no one any good to be so preoccupied with time. It would pass one way or the other. Staring at the watch, Francis found, only brought trouble. Sometimes the boredom would creep up on him in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes he would sit, watching the needle of his pocket watch tick away the seconds. Sometimes it would put him in a trance, and the time would slip by, morning arriving in no time at all. And sometimes, one second would take two. Sometimes three. Sometimes more. He would wait, breath baited, for the second hand to tick and find that when it finally did, he would have to gasp, lungs aching for air. He didn’t know exactly how long he could hold his breath, but he knew it was more than one second, or two. Or three. Francis’s cheeks stung from the unrelenting mist slung in from the coast. His rain gear was issued by his employer, and upon inspection Francis had supposed it was of an acceptable quality, but it didn’t matter. The wet air had its ways and when the sun peeped over the edge of the water and changed the beach below from black to blue, his clothes would be soaked anyway. The wind was tenacious, maneuvering ferociously, changing directions, drenching the few exposed parts of his body and leaking under the rainproof layers, sneaking past his coat and trousers and finally clinging to his cotton under layers, ensuring a grounding and pervasive chill, that sometimes wouldn’t leave ‘til noon. A freezing gust sent dust and rust colored leaves dancing into the spotlights of moonlight that fell between the bare and barely leaf-feathered oak branches. The gust brought with it fine mist, and Francis could feel the skin of his neck wick the moisture past the tightened collar of his hood, his treasonous body betraying him. He looked back down at his boots and walked. Francis had probably seen each headstone about 200 times now, some he’d seen more, if they were near the tool shed, or along the perimeter that he patrolled, or at the highest point of the yard, where Francis liked to stand and watch the town. Not watch, stare at. He thought about the caretaker’s advice to get to know the headstones. The people, maybe. Whatever he had meant, Francis thought he’d tried, but it was challenging, getting to know people with so little information. Nevertheless, Francis did develop a favorite headstone. Person. Peter White 1855-1876 “Fisherman” That was all there was to this headstone that Francis found himself in front of night after night. Francis was just a baby when this stranger was buried here. Some nights he found this headstone to be the saddest of them all, imagining this young man, the same age as himself, all alone, with no one to write anything more on his headstone than “fisherman.” He imagined Peter waking up to the cold at the bunkhouse, climbing into still-wet clothes and heading out into the cold and wind to the harbor, with no hot barley and no one to see him off, or care if he returns. Other nights, Francis smiled as he read the inscription, imagining a young man, not lonely but free, a fisherman who spent his days at sea, laughing with the other men,, the gulls, and the tide, spending his nights and hard earned pay on Wendover Street, drinking drafts and flirting with Ms. Taylor, who, even though she’s nearly old enough to be Francis’s mother, has made her appearance in most or all of Francis’s daydreams. Francis tried to imagine what she would have looked like to Peter, serving ale as dark and rich as her braided hair. The streaks of gray that decorated her braid didn’t bother Francis, but he sometimes wondered what she looked like before them. Tonight, Francis imagined this second scenario, the happy scenario. The wind had let up significantly in the time since Francis had been staring at Peter's headstone. How long was that? He wasn’t sure, but it was probably long enough, he decided. Now that the wind had died down he might try to rake up the leaves and debris the wind shook into the yard. He began to step away, when the clock tower tolled dully. He waited, listening to see if the clock would strike again, prepared for 12 strokes instead of one. It didn’t. Francis sighed, grateful. He moved toward the tool shed, listening to the crunching, snapping of leaves and sticks as he went. The sound filled Francis’s ears, a visceral sound, each step deafeningly loud, conjuring violent images in Francis’ mind. Francis found a sick feeling brewing in his stomach as he listened. He slowed. One footstep crunched after the next, unease simmered. Something didn’t sound right. He eyed his feet suspiciously. He stopped. Moonlight bathed Francis where he stood, staring at the pool of it at his feet. He heard nothing. No wind, no rustling of the leaves in the trees, not a single bell in the graveyard rang. He wiggled his toes in his boots and listened to the twigs beneath them snap like bones. Francis felt a chill undulate from his neck to his fingertips and back. The bell tolled again. Was it two already? Francis listened, waiting for the second toll. Silence. “Fisherman” Francis read the word. He listened again for the second toll. When did he come back to the headstone? The night was still and so was Francis. He tried to regain control of his breathing, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. The smell of hops and sweat and gardenias filled his nose, settling inside him. His unease, and the memory of it, vanished. Thoughts of bells tolling or tinkling, of cold, lonely nights and naked oaks disappeared, replaced by the sound of the waves crashing on the shore and the warm breath on his neck. Francis dared not move, but stood there, breathing, swaying in the dark, unwilling to be removed from the fantasy that filled his senses. How long did it take for the scent of gardenias to grow faint, replaced with the briny aroma of the sea, dried seaweed and the sweat of men? The waves grew louder. Francis felt panic rising in him yet again. The delusion released its grip, Francis’s eyes snapped open. Why had the bell tolled one again? Francis thought about his pocket watch. Was it happening? It was one thing for it to happen with his pocket watch, but with the clock tower too? What had he been about to do? “Rake!” He exclaimed to no one. The bell tolled again. Francis turned and stared at the clock tower, looking as offended by the tower’s bizarre behavior as he felt. The moonlight landed on it in no particular way, and try as he might, Francis could find nothing to look at to satisfy his indignation. He turned back toward the headstone. “I’m going to rake this up now,” Francis declared. To his surprise, the wind had not yet returned and he hoped it wouldn’t until he was done. He gathered his sensibilities and took a determined step toward the tool shed. His foot met the earth with another stroke of the clock. Francis felt dirt beneath his fingertips and blades of grass on his lips. Was he laying down? He pushed, bringing himself up and tucked his knees beneath him. Peter’s headstone filled his vision. Francis moved slowly, cautiously. There was no explanation he could come up with for what was going on, but for once, he didn’t care. No, it didn’t have to make sense for him to believe it, he decided. So what if people thought him crazy! Maybe he was crazy, but it was better to be crazy than dead, or worse, he thought, unsure what would constitute worse. Francis made up his mind. Once on his feet, he turned toward the willful gate and sprinted with all his might. A bell sounded behind him. Not the dreaded tolling of the clock tower this time, but a different, more delicate sound, from a single bell perched atop a headstone. Not just any headstone, Francis reluctantly noticed, but Peter’s headstone. The bell jingled gently, but the sound met Francis’s ears like tidal waves, crashing over him and filling him panic. His mouth was dry as he peeled his tongue from its roof and let out a wail of sorts - a noise that could only be interpreted by anyone who heard it as a desperate cry for help. The clock tower tolled again. Francis stood, dazed, staring at the gravestone before him. Peter White Peter White. Peter. White. Francis thought. The name was so familiar. “Of course you know that name,” Francis said to himself. “You stare at it every night.” The bell jingled before him, a cheerful sound, thought Francis. It reminded him of something, a laugh. Her laugh. He could hear her laughing now, throwing her head back, the sound of bells rising from her throat. She was so close, touching him, her weight across his lap, her finger wrapped around a curl of his hair. He reached his arm around her waist and squeezed. She felt damp, and cold, and no matter how he squeezed, he could not feel her soft flesh give. Where she had been, Francis now caressed stone. “Fisherman” Francis felt sick. Vertigo overwhelmed him as he rose, stumbling, to his feet. He needed to get out. Once again the church bell tolled. Francis lay near the headstone, tears filling his eyes. He counted, taking stock of how many times he had tried to escape, of how many times the bell had tolled. He thought, trying to quiet the deafening sound of the bell atop Peter’s headstone and waves crashing along the shore. It didn’t matter how long he stared at the headstone, as soon as he stepped away or tried for the gate, the bell tolled. He’d even tried climbing the fence nearest him now, only to find himself back here, staring at the same headstone. His mind felt fractured, gripped with fear one second and overcome with joy the next, unable to keep these visions at bay. Thoughts of Ms. Taylor filled his mind, he could smell her, feel her, hear her laugh. They were so real, they felt more like memories than delusions. But they couldn’t be, Francis knew that. She’d never smiled at him like that, or wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his chest. He cursed his body, betraying him once again. Now was not the time. Francis closed his eyes and counted. Eleven. That’s how many strokes he’d heard. The bell above Peter’s headstone was ringing frantically now, a dizzying and disorienting sound. Francis covered his ears to try to think. The noise of the bell was not dampened. He clamped his hands tighter at the sides of his head, his jaw clenched. He could not quiet the noise. Francis tried to think, he needed silence! He opened his mouth and tried to scream but it was no use, he could not produce a sound louder than the bell. He rolled, hands still gripping the sides of his head, trying to find relief. He moved slowly, inching his way away, unable to concentrate on anything but the dryness in his mouth, the smell of gardenias in his nose, and the god-damned ringing of this bell. He inched away, cautiously, knowing that this would be the last stroke of midnight, dreading what that might mean. He had one more chance, before, well, he didn’t know before what. Dread filled him. A twig snapped beneath his writhing body. The bell struck twelve. Francis stood up and brushed himself off. He reached his hands into his pockets and pulled a knife from the left one, inspected it briefly, and muttered approvingly. He cut the cord attached to the bell atop Peter’s headstone. He reached his hands into his pockets again, the back ones this time, and procured a billfold. He opened it, studying the inside. “Thanks Francis,” he said, patting the crest of the headstone. Francis put his knife back in his pocket and made his way to the front gate. He swung it open noiselessly and closed it behind him. “Now,” he smiled. “Time for a drink.


# The Old North Wind Captain Frost was glad to have something warm that night as she raised the rum to her lips. A bitter wind had filled the sails of *Scorched Juniper*, pushing her southward. But the crafty captain had dug in her heels, tacking east and west looking for prey near the Portuguese colony of Brazil. A shout rained from the crow’s nest. “Ship off the port bow!” She pitched the rum and opened her spyglass: two masts, just over the horizon. “Christmas came early, boys!” she yelled. As *Juniper* closed in, her prey suddenly came to life. Had they been spotted? Looking through the spyglass, Frost was dumbfounded by the red, green, and blue lanterns hung from stem to stern. It was no signal code she’d seen before--and the captain knew “Help, pirates!” in fourteen languages. No matter. She spoke the universal language of cannon fire. Flames and thunder boomed from *Juniper’s* broadside for a moment, casting a volley into the night. Silence. Then, on the other ship, timber exploded. Their main mast splintered and fell into the sea. “Prepare for boarding!” she shouted and the crew returned a throaty cheer. Nothing looked right. No crew, no defenses. The bow had been festooned with long strands of holly. Instead of the usual odor of blood and smoke, the air smelled like nutmeg and cloves. And it might have been the excitement or the rum, but to Frost, the racks of cannonballs looked like glass. One teetered out of its broken hold and rolled to her boot. “Snow globes?” Her first mate shook another and stared at the glittery tableau inside with his one good eye. "Perchance they be rare? Made of gold and such?" She looked closer. Inside the sphere was the figure of a girl in a dinghy full of banana bunches. A tiny sign read, *All Hands on Deck*. Worthless wordplay. Behind her, something small and jingly jingled, just beyond the splintered mast and wrecked rigging. “Follow the bells,” she commanded. When they reached the aft deck they discovered the mizzen mast had been decorated like a Christmas tree. Festive baubles and ribbons hung from odd bits of green palm fronds and twigs, lashed high into a conic shape. The only things missing were the presents. That and the crew. “Come on out,” she yelled into the air. “Surrender and we’ll let you live.” A hatch cracked open and tiny hands pushed it aside. One, two, then ten short wiry figures emerged. Frost gritted her teeth. Nothing angered her more than child labor. “Where is your captain?” she asked softly. A little one pointed to the top of the mizzen mast. What had initially looked like a red ornament began to shake. “Yo ho ho!” a voice bellowed. A shadow slid down the rigging and a bearded man bedecked in red rose to face the children. “No sugar cookies for you until New Years!” He could have been Saint Nicholas, if one believed in such nonsense; Captain Frost did not. She held her sword to his side and gave him a sharp stick. “Give me one reason not to gut you right this second.” “I have to deliver these presents to the little boys and girls. Me and my little helpers,” he pleaded. “Haven’t you ever heard of Santa’s workship?” Seeing how she was unmoved, the man gestured for a little sailor to step forward. “Peppermint? Can you lift your hat? Show the nice pirates your ears.” A pixie-like girl with a green-striped cap pulled it off and the raiders gasped. Her ears were pointed. Frost could not understand such cruelty. “You... you docked her ears?” “She was born that way! She’s an elf! This one’s been making dolls for over a century. Isn’t that right? Tell her who I am.” Hat in hand, the little one looked at her little compatriots, back to him, and them again. She hugged Frost’s legs. “He’s been naughty.” Frost stared daggers at Santa. “Get the plank.” Tiny cheers erupted from the elves. “You’ll never get away with this!” he roared as his little shipmates prodded him further down the plank. “People keep telling me that,” Frost said before cutting the rope lashes. “One day I’ll listen.” The children were remarkably adept at repairs and carpentry, fixing the mast almost as if by magic. Perhaps the man really was Santa, if one believed in such things; Frost did not. Of course the privateer took all the loot she could carry. *Fair is fair*, she thought. Before leaving, Peppermint gave her a tiny treasure chest with two words engraved on the lid. Inside, a cupcake. She didn’t understand. “How did you know my name? My *real* name?” Peppermint grinned with a twinkle in her eye. “Merry Christmas, Sweet Frosting.” *** This story was written for the WP Hub's Secret Santa Story Exchange, organized by u/Say_Im_Ugly and u/OldBayJ. They are awesome! The constraints given to me were: - Items: twinkle lights, ornaments, snowglobes, christmas tree, presents. - Location: somewhere tropical.